Category Archives: Poetry

Loosely Binding

March 19, 2017 By in Poetry Tags: , , , , , , 17 Comments

Hanji

The making of Hanji paper ….

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Mulberry bark

Gather,

skin, boil, wash, pound

In winter

cover with the root mucus … of hibiscus manihot.

Blended together … artfully form.

In a warm room … dry slowly … covered with stones.

I am durable … unpreserved I outlast civilizations

Enter my door … I am cool in summer, warm in winter

Impenetrable … the rain that falls can not dim my light

~

Accompanied by cricket sound in a field of stars

I sit in the soft glow of papered lamp light

it’s ancient tradition a beckoning

all my loved ones resting deep in sleep,

and tonight a great nest of grandchildren

dreaming of mountain tadpoles

and the wild strawberries they picked

as their own sun kissed bodies ripened in the sun

In this moment

I wonder at the naturalness of this great love that binds us

I am dazed by this spiraling life my heart forever flies towards

while still maintaining my own self … full, nurturing, self providing

I sit here like an open field arms held wide for it all

Tonight looking out at the shadows cast in response to our light

the dreaming of this family and the vast silence of living surrounds me

I wrap myself round with the wonder of it all

At the strength and resilience this steady cadence our hearts beat

Seemingly fragile

But oh, so strong

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Hanji paper is a traditional paper made in Korea from the inner bark of the paper mulberry. It is durable with archival properties and can be openly displayed in museums without protection. It is a good ventilator but can also keep a room warm so it is used to cover their wooden framed doors. It is also waterproof. It’s translucent qualities lend well to the artistry of shading lamps.

Hanji Paper Artist: Kitty Jun-Im

Assembling

March 12, 2017 By in Poetry Tags: , , , , , , , , , 19 Comments

ahingas

~

Ahingas at dawn

poised between the viscous and the thinning

drying their wings

~

Algae blooming

convoluted and impatient

now remembering their place

~

A  young man  with dark eyes

continually filling his truck bed

with damaged and forest overgrowth

~

Muscling new piers with humor

immersed in sea water

they’re building the new bridge

~

The many Gods speaking as the roots of Origin

actively assemble

the thaw

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 I sat on the dock overlooking the fresh water lake each day watching the ahingas. They are cousins to the cormorant and pelican, sometimes called “snakebird” as they swim submerged except for their heads above the water. Their feathers aren’t waterproof like ducks, so they open and dry their wings off before being able to take flight. There’s a lot of silent standing, occasional diving, gliding and wing drying….but mostly just standing there facing the light.

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Photo…”Ahingas” Meher Baba Center, North Myrtle Beach, SC

Collage collaboration!

August 12, 2016 By in Poetry 13 Comments

Blue

~

It’s been a steamy tropical summer here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. At odd moments errant cloud bursts are signaled by the booming of thunder and zig-zag flashes of light. Just as suddenly the clouds part and the air radiates with the returning intense heat of the sun and everything changes color. I’ve become accustomed to waiting out the impenetrable sheets of rain. They rarely last long. It’s as if someone is having fun with the on/off switch. Makes me wonder what the birds and bees are doing during these drenching interludes.

And I’ve been traveling a bit…the bath tub waters of the Gulf Coast and a retreat on the southern Atlantic coast with alligators and jellyfish. My most recent trip was a road trip to upstate NY to celebrate with my Father on his 94th birthday!

Upon my return, I was delighted to find a request from fellow blogger, Marcy Erb. She wanted to know if I’d be interested in allowing her to post my poem “I dream of being a weed…” with a collage she was creating inspired by the poem. What a great idea Marcy! Another weed lover…and so much more! If you aren’t familiar with Marcy’s blog,  head right over there. She has begun designing a Major Arcana with birds as the focus. Her alignment of archetypal symbology is so unique, relevant and beautiful, I’ve become completely captivated. The links are below….

“I dream of being a weed…”

The Emperor

The Tower

The Wheel of Fortune   …. and my favorite!

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pastel: j h white

Beauty waits

June 23, 2016 By in Poetry Tags: , , , , , , , 45 Comments

 418c5e593a71678f65e31eae9b152181

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

it fills the spaces left behind

a tenderness that registers the slightest wind

so vulnerable it stops breath from breathing

in sudden recognition of how hard it is

to fill space when empty

waking each day turned inside out

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

That sharp clacking of stone upon stone

leaving a path of shards

the hidden gravity that shades the color blue

Where memory seems more than skin

translucent but barnacled…

a legacy of the light of dead stars

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

it separates the cut edges

opening abrasions with graveled hands

where hearing is more sensitive than sight

as music evokes both acid and balm

and the heaviness of dreaming

is carried in weary flesh

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

I am ever present in its deep grain

comprising the growth rings

through which side branches grow

I have become something other than I was

something less something more

while separated from beauty

~

This seemingly inexhaustible thirst

redeemed in the breath of wildness

each inhalation responding

each exhalation my wordless prayer

In animal distress

I bend low at the stream

Silent, listening…. I drink

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Photo credit: http://amolecularmatter.tumblr.com/

Akimbo

May 15, 2016 By in Art, Poetry Tags: , , , , , , 35 Comments

abstract 6

~

there are no round corners

my imagination is akimbo

jolts of current spark within context

without setting light

What to do?

~

I gather the dexterity needed

and carry it to the scales

only to find

it weighs more than I do

~

my skin is transparent

I employ a magnifying glass

angling towards the sun

the beam passes right through me

blazing and unhindered

~

I bulk up

looking for muscular advantage

and slip easily into the crowd

our words are hot but cool off fast

leaving nuggets between my teeth

~

I turn invisible

and pass easily through the crowd

floating a few inches off the ground

I still stub my toe

while leaving no footprints

~

I want to weep like a child

but worrying about the leak

I put duct tape on my face

covering my mouth

leaving space for my eyes

~

awkward and exploding

my imagination

is no longer rooted

in safe ground

I am uncomfortable

I am vulnerable

profusely sweating

in the slipstream

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painting and poem: Jana H. White

 

Neon nightmare dog

May 6, 2016 By in Poetry 23 Comments
~

Neon nightmare dog frightening a child’s dream

Each curly golden hair aflame with water drops prisming the sun

~

Coyote jaws salivating raw fluids wetting lips held in grimace face

Smiling on my small life. I am alive. I am alive. How long has it been?

~

You appear now as if we are friends old man, for man dog you are

Holding all life’s genders in your jaws, all our unpaid bills

~

Your karmic pinball game has kept me lean with a taste for wine

Too often a static cliche′ tumbling through icons of improbable possibilities

~

Show your real face and prove me wrong

There are no mirrors in this dark place. No broken glass. Only song.

~

Another “form” to tackle. This time an Epistle. I decided to wing it. See what came up through the pipeline without placing “form” anywhere near it accept while writing it down. I woke up this morning and there it was. This is the first draft. The nightmare was real and one I remember having around 3 years old that has stayed with me visually. Made me wary of dogs for years until my father told me dogs need to hold their mouths open to breath. Perhaps they drool. When I was looking for who to write an epistle to, the face of this nightmare coyote showed up. It was thrilling physically to address this nightmare face and I thoroughly enjoyed writing this. I am going to start thinking of writing forms as a “form tango” and learn to hold my own.

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Artist: Doug Lawler

Momma clock

April 25, 2016 By in Poetry Tags: , , , , , , 24 Comments

~

You were never adventurous

insisting on sticking to interaction

proscribed a sure thing

trying to be a “good girl” but always told

you were never good enough…

I spent my days intoxicated by a flower’s breath

building new homes out of cardboard or snow

exhuming pets I was curious about death

and bones and teeth

climbing trees listening to their heart sap

nipping change from Norman’s penny jar

just for the sneak of it

not caring much about showing my girl parts

to the neighbor boys

And there you were pushing me off

unsteady on two bicycle wheels

as if your moods weren’t the day’s bad weather

and me always approaching you with the caution

of the kid held flat out in high winds

and now you were casting me off like a baby bird

as if you yourself knew how to fly

Well…little did I know your strange insistence

was giving me more than wings

your internal Mamma clock was saying

it was time I learned to really fly

even though you knew

I’d take off and keep rolling

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Art by Terry Turrell

Pencil Dust

April 12, 2016 By in Art, Poetry Tags: , , , , , , , , 34 Comments

~

Indomitable as a sovereign species

progress draws its discordant lines

straight through the rhythms of my days

move…

A bucolic bovine sound?

Or a swarm of ooooooo’s

persistent and indicative of shove?

five toothbrushes

pail of sponges

caustic powders

poisonous sprays

My disciples of progress

grooming the delicate interstices of

refrigerator seal

baseboard cracks

faucet edge

I wash the wood and plaster body

My thoughts anointing and releasing

each surface that held the poems, the remnants, the family,

the guests, the conversations, the discipline that twisted time

into sailor’s knots and tied dreams into a body of words

able to float in this deluge of constant progress

This particular move (one of too many to count)

This wood and plaster body

that held me disciplined within panes of glass

where I grew words into lines, into paragraphs, into pages, into life

enclosed in winter and summer solitude behind the glass

Erasing all outward signs of a life

We have nothing in common

this place and I

We have nothing now in common

except the fine pile of pencil dust

intentionally left behind

scrumbled raw into the grains of wood

in the floor of my kitchen

Finished, I set the keys on the counter

leaving progress

behind

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The past few weeks have been a scramble. In mid March my landlady informed me that she is downsizing, selling her house, which she has run as a Bed and Breakfast, and will be moving into my apartment! In a city with a 1% vacancy rate, after 3 years tenancy, she asked that I be out in 34 days. She also holds my last month’s rent and a considerable security deposit. She apparently needs to legalize the fact that she has three units behind the house that she successfully rents by the day, week, or month through Air B&B. This is illegal in this city unless the owner lives on the premises. If caught this may incur a $500 a day fine. I think she still may not be in full compliance because two of the units are unattached, but she’s getting closer to her cash flow.

I beat the deadline she set by ten days. Sanctuary! I am now back in the garden….

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Noh mask: Acrylic and graphite on black paper….  j.h.white

~

osmosis

March 26, 2016 By in Art, Poetry Tags: , , , , , , 20 Comments

~

thought hovers

is this thought mine?

~

I watch the few words

just there

I look askance to see if they move

do they move of their own volition?

no

they hover

simultaneously

we’re moving through walls

what does this mean?

~

I once could hear through walls

I’d lost my skin

rendered immobile

I heard nuclear indifference

red lights green lights

flying metal and a dying jesus

I wet myself

although the bed stayed dry

~

I looked for what was left

at the time

I was empty

much later I understood

this was the right place to start

~

it takes awhile

starting from nothing

to un-know everything

~

we hover

not knowing

we move through walls

~

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    Acrylic on paper….j. h. white