becoming Beauty

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Becoming Beauty

face up floating

in a sea of glass

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Beauty lies below me

 in the elemental caprice of

sunlit patterns reflecting sky

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Beauty circles above me

in clouds collecting salted tears

We all become the ocean when it rains

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Beauty walks behind me

with gravity leaving footprints

Its strength the shifting sands

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The wind of Beauty

blows quietly within me

ever seeking itself without measure

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The source of this gorgeous photo is unknown

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Fragile still

max ernst

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Fragile like smog shadows rifling valleys

the mountain holds its breath

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Fragile like feverish water

the ocean aborts the moon’s children

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Fragile like bees loosing direction

and stamens playing their last hands

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Fragile like children born overwhelmed

by viruses perplexed

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Fragile still

like a flower 

self-sewing in the garden

in blooming will make no mistake

intelligence in its unfolding

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Artist: Max Ernst

Beauty waits

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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/

I dream of being a weed…

 

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I dream of being a weed

traveling in my roots carving deep,

just carving, scraping away

letting go more of the surface

each time I tap deeper

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These are restless nights

waking with soil packed tight

at the corner of eyes picking at

worm castings under fingernails

the scrim wrapped tight round my head

caked with quartz shards and clay

filaments of memory scattered about the floor

the moon an aboriginal instinct

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I’m a veteran miner

more comfortable in the dark

where I can keep an eye on things

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On the surface my tough rosettes

of green continue to vitamin the grassy bank

the untamed sun persisting in its pursuit

until finally … reluctant with abandon

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There is no letting go. Why would I?

There is nothing of worth to carry…

All I can do is bloom

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 drawing and poem …. j.h.white

The Scent of Me

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Dark, my scent the smoke of wood fungus

Hidden, my intimate flesh the sugared amber sap of trees

Returning, my under arms the rotting nurture of fallen leaves

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The fertile air tentacles

leaving traces

of spores and maple and mold.

Some leave quickly and some take hold.

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Poem and painting … j.h.white.

Pencil Noir #8

 

Winter Solstice 2015

Every December for the past few years I’ve curated a storm of snowflakes from white paper. I’ll accumulate a blizzard eventually. Try as I may, because they’re small, I’ve never been able to duplicate the same snowflake twice.

Each year seems to have a certain design theme…a defining scissors Rorschach test of sorts. Some years they’re gracefully hypnotic, one year  like a child cutting with blunt scissors. Last year the flakes looked more like an archaic language waiting to be deciphered. This year I wanted to branch out and so I added glue, a pencil and a little paint.

There’s not enough peace in the world to feel giddy this year making paper snowflakes. Not that there ever has been enough peace in the world, but lately peace seems more fragile. I’m aware of the families sleeping in tents and under trees along the roadside. I think of the children as I draw.

I’ve also been daydreaming about the absolute quiet of snow. I wonder, what would it be like if the entire world experienced a few days of absolute quiet?

 

Drawing collage by j.h. white

Microbial fantasia #2

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fantasia #2_2

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Grazing

our lips meet

in wild fields

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 Before sailing

into

 a jungle

of beastly

delight

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“Passions that quicken your senses, fulfill; quench the thirst of lonesome years! Yet the sun has shadows, learn to control your will; to enjoy life long happiness, not tears! Wait! Rise to the stars above & thrill! Arouse the very flames of life! Sweetheart, kiss me: Hold still, hold still!”….. Excerpt from Dr Bronner’s original rant.

Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soaphttp://www.subgenius.com/updates/5-99news/X0007_BRONNER.txt.html

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“The human microbiome (or human microbiota) is the aggregate of microorganisms, a microbiome that resides on the surface and in deep layers of skin, in the saliva and oral mucosa, in the conjunctiva, and in the gastrointestinal tracts. They include bacteria, fungi, and archaea. One study indicated they outnumber human cells 10 to 1.”

Human microbiome …. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_microbiome

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Drawing and poem … j h white

 

Somewhere

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Balancing, not so delicately,

on the heads of seven pins

I wake in the middle of the night

dazed by the hurrying of the sun and the moon through the sky.

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Somewhere there is an open field

where the seeds of tall grasses live out their days

in dialogue with dew and stars,

Cicada legs thrumming the air

a stillness held in their cadence,

Where fire flies lace the leaves of trees in encircling forests

inscribing their delicate electrical tracings of desire,

a lit calligraphy of … hello, come see me

I am aflame with light

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Somewhere there is an open field within me

amidst the deep woods of words 

the impregnable tall trees of thought

a vast silence of living

wrapt entirely in wonder

 

Emerging

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All around

  the long bones of the trees

raise small green prayer flags

from their roots

of  winter solace

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Signals humming in the first spring wind

“There are so many lost in their own momentum”

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There is an urgency

as the intrepid green shoots

attend to the living word

“With”

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As everything cycles new in the next few months, my activities surround the season. I’ll be lending my hands, my arms, my back, my muscles, my eyes and my ears where needed.  My softer parts and all my bones go along for the ride. …giddy with enthusiasm.

I’ll also be germinating the next set of audio broadcasts. The seeds have been planted. I am immeasurably grateful to everyone who listened and lent their own thoughts … such beauty….you have my heart….

I’m learning trust in so many ways

opening like a flower

in a field of wild light

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Artist: Paul Klee

Three

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Doubt and Belief silently argue

as they sit upon a box

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Trust joins them

adding 3 wheels to the box

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giving mobility

to the debate

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everyone’s muscles still tense

when they pass Hope or Violence

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but they are now meandering

around the countryside

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looking for the exact spot

where their grief is buried

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photo credit: Unknown

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