Lumens

March 15, 2016 By Jana H White in Art, Pencil Noir, Poetry Tags: Art, Clouded mystery, Drawing, Full moon, Jana H White, Manna, Ocean, Perception, poetry, Tides 40 Comments

The push the pull the moon’s sculpting hands

Its broad face spilling transparent

over lunar mountains

Full bright

but veiled by cloud’s chattering

Obscured

yet still felt in the marrow

With a tactile sensing

for the peaks and dark hollows

My blood its own compass

I map the edge of the sea

as the tide recedes

filling the carved pools as it leaves

The clouds drift away in their own mystery

as the moon glides free

in luminous ascending

and I sway as a puppet in a shadow play

bathed in luminous manna

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pencil sketch and poetry: j.h.white

note: a photo attributed to Joshua Black Wilkins was the inspiration for the sketch. ( I was unable to verify the source however)

balance balance

January 28, 2016 By Jana H White in Art, Poetry Tags: Balance, Choice, Feeling Free, Feeling Lost, Flight, j.h.white, Perception, Plants, poetry, startled wings 44 Comments

The swaths of sky above crisscross in a babble of breathy scars

I see more than chemtrails though…

I try to imagine the people up there in the winged bullet

making its way across the sky

their feet dangling in mid air

save for a foot or so of wires and baggage and metal.

From this perspective, looking up, it’s barely comprehensible

that people are really up there at all.

When I think about it,

anxiousness and excitement both feel the same

The same pit of my stomach startled wings

A choice of persuasion then?

My choice what to make of it?

Perhaps ‘being lost’ and ‘being free’ are similar

the same choice of persuasion of this or that.

I’m not talking about real loss

The punch in the stomach that takes my breath away,

but the weightless existential can’t find my shoes

want to sleep all day being lost

translating into the realms of flesh.

Aren’t both ‘being lost’ and ‘being free’

a casting off from the perceived familiar?

Being pushed off or pushing off

from a finely honed routine of nomenclature

that causes a shift in my internal gravity?

Are they so different?

I stand in the middle of either …. lost or found

Even while recognizing the breath of this feeling though,

my feet want to touch the ground

whether covered by moss, or sidewalk, or water.

Pragmatic, I want intimacy to have a face, a hand, a leaf, a claw

and be swayed by ideas or feelings

that have grown from some shared fertile ground.

It’s simpler to pick them up and put them to use

to make something, to hold, to do.

Even if it is simply making dinner, holding my grandson’s hand,

or doing nothing at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Painting and poem by j.h.white

Pencil Noir #7

December 2, 2015 By Jana H White in Art, Pencil Noir, Poetry Tags: Drawing, Head lamps, Insight, Perception, Transformation, Trust 46 Comments

” There is no route out of the maze. The maze shifts as you move through it, because it is alive.” ….Philip K. Dick

hello….hello….hello….

I’ve returned from traveling on the dark side of the mountain. I was never really (completely) lost. It did require entering the mountain to find my way out though, as the mountains began to float away.

While underground I made steps through the dark tunnels trusting a lighted candle. Finally I came upon an immense cavern and there I found a working head lamp, a pencil and a passage to the open air.

The moon’s light cast long shadows as I swam towards shore. Floating on my back, I sent it kisses. Digging in the sand at the shoreline I looked for wave washed shells to tell me their secrets. Before continuing on my way along a phosphorescent passage of singing shells.

Now I am here retrieving my poethead. And finding rhythm in the alchemy of the virtual heart.

Pencil drawing by j.h. white

Weather

December 20, 2013 By Jana H White in Poetry Tags: Deep listening, Perception, Spiritual ecology, Weather, Winter 19 Comments

We’ve never been a good fit

as I’ve skimmed across your surface

scratching at dust

looking for entry

The humus of my life is enough

to sustain each season.

Never enough it seems

to grow roots.

They counseled me,

” Don’t forget to breathe

when the trees

lose their leaves”

I watched those last brazen greens

that were stunned to new growth

by the sun warmth and rain of falling days,

their wildness ignoring immoral reason.

I harvested their leaves for winter teas.

Good medicine for this winter of my life.

The pulse now lies below

retreating

recollected

tucked in for reflection

networks of roots resting,

arms around each other.

When I too was brazen

I would empty myself with nights of hard drinking,

or when resolve quickened for release,

with bouts of high fever

Unaware of the pulse below

and startled by the clacking of human engagement

that other seasons hid from view with warm promises.

Now I have covered that distance between my mind

my heart

and have become a nomad in this civilized wasteland

as I follow the shifts in my perceptions.

My skin is a porous coat

I wear

in all weather

Trees

pray

in all seasons.

””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””

When I went to re-post this poem I discovered that it had originally been published exactly a year ago on the same date. It’s good to listen again, poetry being such an amazing dialogue with self, with Other …