~
my sleeping fingers hear night rain
they sweep wide
opening a window
my waking skin is dampened
smelling wakened soil
~
my blood is pulsing
melting runoff
~
breathing it all in
deep as my lungs will take it
tender buds
unfurl in my brain
without thought
~
full to bursting
~
………………………………………………………………………………………..
photo: nezartdesign
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You were imprinted on my fingertips
written as dim memory
in line and skin
~
I kept your image at arms length
or balled it into a fist
A turning away
from the violence
As if there is no real death in ascending?
~
As a child
it is true
I was taught to expect some relationship
while being impressed into the feverish tribe
of Jesus watching
~
Before me
pale lipped men
created tension
bells ringing
Climaxing
with a tiny chaste taste
~
Who clothed me
in this rag tag skin of living words?
Held hostage
~
Until
I fall pummeled and wading
in the waves of this unexpected birthing
Free now to love you simply as a man
~
A man of flesh and bread and wine
who once lived to turn the world.
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artist: Caravaggio
~
~
Softening their intelligence
transparent as water and air
they meander through the maps of their minds
unraveling the edges of illusion
~
Circumnavigating the solid grid of references
they walk deftly under the ladders of hierarchy
The flight of their passions
entertaining the complexities of insight
~
Their cadence syncopated
by raindrops and bird calls
they resonate as bells ringing
weathering the storms of vulnerability
~
Each of their words
the flesh of their hearts
their ageless spirits
carry loss as kites in the wind
~
While planting bright seeds
in fecund dust
where some may grow
under the radar
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artist: Max Ernst
~
I once took a lover
Substantial as the undertow
He sang…
He sang my pulse a metronome
As mermaids surfaced mesmerized
~
He showed me between his strong legs
Thick hairs, long soaked in the moon
Permeated with his strength and compassion
~
To love and be loved is evermore
His words becoming the flesh of dreams
I moved like seaweed in his tides
Undulate and grounded
Melding with the cello of his landing
~
Compelled, the spirits
Shuffling wistfully in dust
Remembered their names
Became eager for color
Incanted lullabies
Spellbound by our heat
As it rose to claim them
~
Proud, my body animal
Went to ground bearing seed
I became witness and thunder
Rounded and swelling in storms
Unfolding broad wings bearing rain
A haloed tunnel of bone and cusp
~
All forgotten in the first cry of birthing
As in this moment my world split in two
And continued to divide into ocean and land
Both realms indigenous to the lost souls of Man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artist: “Whispers” Monique Passicot
The making of Hanji paper ….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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
~
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Photo…”Ahingas” Meher Baba Center, North Myrtle Beach, SC
~
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….
The Wheel of Fortune …. and my favorite!
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pastel: j h white
~
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/
Suzy Hazelwood does a beautiful job of curating the literary journal “The Writer’s Garden” here on WordPress. I’m honored to be in the current issue. The Writer’s Garden
~
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
painting and poem: Jana H. White
Poetry of Light 