Meadow Tea

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

The day is warm,
a morning cover of cloud has dissipated by midday
revealing heavens so blue, it’s as though you are
staring straight into the face of god. Perhaps so.

Sunshine spills and splashes unto the landscape
dousing the meadow in a drunken bliss.
But it is the wildflowers that catch the eye
with their golden-orbed, white-petaline radiance,
a grassy universe of perennial sun stars.

In the distance, a mountainous wind gust curls
around the granite peaks, the breath of a giant
that rustles teetering treetops, and like a deep-sea swell
it rolls over the vale with a crescent W-H-O-O-S-H
until it swallows me utterly in one immense gulp.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

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Pearla

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Her eyes,
like glassy black pearls,
are open.
I know now what I
should have done last night–
that and tuck under
her paws, like in sleep
because by morning
the stiffness is making it
quite cumbersome
for her to neatly fit
into the hole we dug,
and now earth
has fallen into her wide eyes.

But it is too late for that now,
so we cut flowers
and fill her grave
with the loose cool dirt,
each handful
an honor to all life,
by serving in death.

By Jason Weaver, 2013

Author’s note: Pearla, a friend’s dog, fell into a heavy sickness that fortunately did not last long and she passed on Sunday night. I was with her in her final moments and helped to bury her the next moring.   I feel it is so important for us to honor life by serving in sickness and death. Whether animal or person, all living beings share the same ultimate experience, cessation of life.  Rest peacefully, Pearla.

Linking up with DVerse Poetry Pub for Tuesday Night Open Link-– stop by, inspire!

The Storyteller

Storyteller

In the natural wild,
as my untethered mind traces
the fiery curves of bounding clouds above,
a primal spirit races past the blackening heavens
and laces my thoughts with memory,
an idea from the earliest of human time,
formed in the rumbling thunder of an approaching storm
as darkness had obscured the blazen sun
wherein our ancestral story of a god was born.

***

Ages ago, on one moonlit eve,
once we had hunted and we had gathered
and all labor for the day complete,
we assembled round a great crackling fire to feast
and told the stories of gods and beasts that we’d imagined
to satisfy our curiosities and pacify the uncertainties
of our early world.

We told of a provisional god
who wept the rains for life,
and of a punishing god
who howled and scowled with winds and thunder and flash;
and of a compassionate god
who filled the sky with warmth and light,
and so on and so on the stories went
until sense could be made of the natural wild.

And year upon year, after every hunt and gather,
the Storyteller who had inspired us best
was asked by all, to tell it all again,
to entertain us in those late hours before sleep,
where our heavy eyes would see shadows leap behind dancing flames,
with the story of a god who made the thunder and the sun
who made the earth and the moon and man,
and soon these words became the dreams and the memories
of a people.

***

As I peer today across the mountain tops
and into the blackening heavens,
as darkness obscures the blazen sun
and thunder rumbles of an approaching storm,
I see what we saw then, and feel what we felt when
the first tales of god were dreamed
and I remember .

by Jason Weaver

Author’s Note: This photo-poem was submitted as part of an open link poetry exposition at D‘verse Poet’s Pub. Come check it out!
Note: After publication, I changed the word “They [told]” to “We [told]”  ~Jason

White Lilies and Grass

Lirios Brancos e Capim--2013 by Jason Weaver

In the ambience of this estival morn
I’d ambled, with eager pleasure,
to a sunlit patch of unshorn greens
cast amid the forested hill
and dewy still from the night just passed,
where capim grass grew as tall as lemon trees
and vines of a floriferous kind had wound themselves
down the length of an overgrown garden path.
Illuminate leafs rolled off the tall Cassia above
falling to the matted floor
like bits of confetti gold.
Though not sultry, the air, warm and humid,
was imbued with a heady bouquet as sweet as honeysuckle,
the ambrosial scent of abundant wild white lilies.
An eurhythmic cadence of mating cicada
undulated afore me and through me
as birds sang gaily of daybreak and
from across the ebulient valley a horseman
who had set his herd to pasture on the mountainside
called in zeal
++++++++ “Hyuh! Hyuh! Hyuh!”
I leaned into a bramble of esculent berries
where I plucked the ripest-reds,
each one pressed to my palette with my tongue and held
as though I were making memory–
–a confluence of touch and taste
of sight and sound
of smell–
that would pass as quickly
as it had come.

By Jason Weaver

Author’s Note: Lírios Brancos e Capim (White Lilies and Grass) –2013 by Jason Weaver, an orignal painting, acrylic on canvas

Also: This photo-poetry post has been submitted to dVerse Poet’s Pub, a great place to share poetry! Check it out!