Let me be tender and kind,
tolerant and wise;
Let me be generous and just,
grateful and forgiving;
Let me be strong
by being compassionate.
Let me show love
Let me give without wanting,
and receive without taking.
Let me be humble.
Let me be sincere.
Let this be my morning grace.
by Jason Weaver, 2017
Original painting, Calla Lily (2017), by Jason Weaver, acrylic on canvas 50x70cm.
+++++++++++++Imagine, if you will this split-minute, still-
frame moment of time,
feel it on the fringe
of your skin,
sense it within +++++++++++++then
reduce it till
it is no more than a breath,
a blink, a beat,
a photon blast
at sunlit speed! +++++++++++++next
slow it down,
spread it out and let
it melt the defining lines
that separate self from the time
of perpetual planetary expanse
+++++++++++++and now return
to the moment we are in,
perceive the flow
without and within, know–
Are we not changed
from an instant ago?
She wanted nothing more,
for there were no things
worth wanting anymore.
And as for wanting itself,
even that had become
a tiresome chore to her
as it grew and swelled, so
she let that go as well,
for it was taking up
too much of her time,
using up precious space
in her mind –space
that she needed
and to be.
“You see,” she will say–
but only if you ask, since
she has no desire to sway or
convince, in fact,
no desire at all does she have
but simply to exist, to live in the moment
to which she’s been offered–
“I am the experience.”
And then she will end
with nothing more proffered for there is nothing more!
as even every day words
which she once
so adored become
To attain presence
one should surrender to form,
as practice, as norm,
one should submit oneself to
the essence of unaffectedly being,
inhabit a habit
of nonexpectantly seeing–
one must plumb the fields
of depths and shallows,
succumb to the yields
of lights and shadows, and
become, solely (soul-ly)
not what one wants or tries
or desires to be, but rather
what one IS
(To hear the Blacksmith Tree Frog please press play)
— The day prior to a New Moon compels total abandonment and complete surrender,
a release from all fears; by becoming an empty vessel, we can be reborn in purity —
The Shaman, dressed in his intricate fine-thread garb, has lit the
sacred flames ensconced within the ornamental shrine, festooned
in floral garlands and feathery plumes, around which they all gather,
chanting mantras and prayers, echoing his verse; later he reads
to them from the ancient texts, his sacramental words.
It is a ceremony of separation — one of death and birth,
of creation and destruction, of mothers and sons, of water and stone.
— And out of the primeval murk he was born, the strands
that once connected them shorn, as man arises from earth —
In attendance is the Seeker, who sways hypnotic to the reverberate
thumps and rings, enchanted at the ritualistic flourishes of his Master’s
lashes of sacred waters, at the intoxicating scents of mystic incense.
He knows that this ceremony is as much for himself as it is for them all,
for tonight, he has shed his doubt, arriving prepared to emerge.
Abruptly, he feels a split, the is a severance, and one by one, like strings
being snipped, the Shaman’s words begin to lose all meaning and sense.
— Bearing down in a grassy field near a passing creek, a mother
delivers her newborn son, cutting the umbilical cord with her teeth —
Opening his eyes he finds that they have all gone. He is alone in a forest clearing,
a passage, surrounded by bog, the sounds he is hearing now like so many drums
are the tympanic mating calls of male blacksmith tree frogs resonating across
the water. Where once was a fire-lit altar, he sees a patch of grassy stalks
jutting from the murk, the scents are of night-blooms, of algae, of damp.
It is done, the cycle is complete. Cleansed and unbound from his corporal and
temporal ties, he must forge a new path of unification. But for now, he must rest.