Steve Weaver

Fantasy Pancakes

I make the grocery list….
sometimes I think it’s to remind me
I’m still alive, the quiet of alone
can be more deafening some days
than the rock in the boom box,
and it would be so easy to disappear,
downshift the gears into a cloud of Coltrane

molecules reorganized into droplets
of saxophone that float through the open
window, over the teal lake where geese might
not even turn their heads as my spirit soars
into the timeless summer air, and that’s the way
I like it, a fly on the wall of imagination….
a voyeur of ancient truths never seen by human eyes

stuck in the apathy of the ad-laden-neo-permaculture,
so I thank Captain Kirk, for his bravery, marvel at what
it must have been like entering the dis-integrator/integrator
that very first time…. I mind-meld with my personal yearning,
that bottomless yen to step inside that machine

1. flour
2. milk
3. butter
4. blueberries

been thinking a lot about pancakes and deliverance

Roll the Dice

Poetry doesn’t always need to be
the grab bag of metaphor
is stuffed full of snippets of life,
puzzle pieces, random piñatas
of all that has ever been dangled
waiting to be struck by a blindfolded
stranger with a club of imagination
so sonnets can mingle in mid-air

come to life in wanderlust confetti

It’s okay to try to force odd shapes
into irregular spaces, sometimes ideas
are jagged, have protuberances, but sometimes
they are bouquets of inventive color, the mums
of literary autumn, so vivid they don’t need
to shout to get your attention, so bear
with me, embrace my gentle side tonight
I hope that’s not too unmanly

I can’t always be that one thing you desire

Do my chosen words always need a car chase
for you to pay attention, would a slashed throat
give more pop to your impatient eyes, I’m sorry…
at heart I’m really more of a teddy bear square. No,
make that a teddy bear cube, so roll the dice, my love
I always have at least six sides to consider, let me
be this, tonight… tomorrow may never come

If Only the Other Lines Had Been As True

I remember those days
like the exquisite curvature of her back
the way it set the mood,
that streamed line of intoxication

I could always depend on
when she stood in front of the mirror,
let her cotton blouse slip off her shoulder
fall to the floor

it never wavered
always curled up from the base of her spine
following the same meridian
disappearing into the chiseled muscles

carved from her days rowing
that blue canoe she loved so much,
that line up her back was the one constant
I could always rely on

if only all the other lines had been as true

© Steve Weaver


Steve Weaver describes himself as follows: “I am an ancient Baltimore carpenter who loves to hike, paint, sculpt, whittle, and play his stand up bass during those moments when I am not daydreaming full time about how to weave words and notions into poetry that hopefully coaxes the reader to see new colors.”


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