The condition of unrestrained motion

wild garden

~

Is there no place for the heart and eye to rest?

???

fatigued by the unkinder textures of  human engagement

I squeeeeze

into the spaces in between us

!!!!

while the world of substance shifts

& tilts …

a kaleidoscopic mish mash

as it rights itself

Us along with it

with our names and rulers akimbo

all free falling

in the fields of wild light

~

A little spontaneous unedited hello!!!

~

I miss these Sunday mornings together when I don’t get here. Prose has me boggled and busy once again, so this is my space in between….the place my heart rests! And my eye feasts! The photo is from a walk in a local unweeded garden…perfecto!

 

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In my house of open windows

SallyMann

~

“…. for a conditioned love loses its infinity, and in losing its infinity love is no longer love. In short, the highest expression of love as found in Hafiz’s poetry – is for love to create another perfect in its composition, without any bounds or conditions, infinite and completely, eternally free.”

~

her waist

that God

created out

of nothing

is so slender

none created

can embrace it

In response ….

In my house of open windows

When you enter the garden

and sing to me of your sorrows

in harmony with the songs

of the night birds

I weave each sorrowful note

into a carpet of prayer

for us to lie on

praising

our Beloved

~

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

Photo: “Deep South” by Sally Mann

Translation of Hafiz by Peter Booth

“Dante/Hafiz Readings on the Sigh, the Gaze, and Beauty” by

Franco Masciandaro and Peter Booth

Slow Infestation

~

He was a wolf …

a solitary wolf culled from the pack

expertly herding his words

through her undulate terrain.

She welcomed the seduction

amply savoring his patois.

~

Beguiled by his seeming intimacy

she failed to assimilate the slow infestation

of his oblique aural patternings

insinuating edgy consonants

and limbic vowel howls.

It was her stomach at first that resisted the enchantment

with small flutterings of continual distress.

Slowly she became aware

that his words were predictable

acid but effervescent

lying tips of tongues

corroding her silence.

They dangled from her

like wind chimes with little meaning

Their fractured light cascading

from her now weary ears

pummeling the surface.

So she gathered herself

and sent him,

and his errant words,

away

Though at times she could still hear their echoing…

The scent of him having so easily

permeated her skin.

~

To ward off this sonic residue

she bathed daily in lovage root and vervain

and made a tincture of his words,

a verbal potion dissolved in fine brandy

She took one dose timed exactly

as the cusp of the horizon split day into night

Delicately,

Three drops under her tongue,

with a twist…

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

I had fun with this one. Looking over older work I saw a story weaving between a few different poems and so I threaded a needle and sewed them together. The drawing is an old one too. Newer than the poems, it is cut from the same cloth.

~

PoePoem and drawing: jana h white                 Drawing: Pastels on black paper

The Scent of Me

~

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

~

The fertile air tentacles

leaving traces

of spores and maple and mold.

Some leave quickly and some take hold.

~

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

Poem and painting … j.h.white.

Pencil Noir #9

 ~

The city’s crows peck and skewer carrion

selectively choosing between the perennial litter

left sodden and desultory in the winter rains.

I watch their darker shapes swoop about

on mite plagued wings

Curious and feisty feet hopping

through bony limbed trees.

~

I’d like to think we share

a similar response to the litter,

to this common visual insult,

despite our differences

of foot or beak or choice of cuisine.

They caw at me as I toe debris to the street,

summer’s occasional litter bagging I tell myself

improbable now in the drenched and cold.

~

Above me their black wings

posture and flex in raucous recognition.

I know they’re looking at me.

They’re intelligent birds

They own this side of the street

They recognize faces…

Startled I wonder what they see in mine?

Is there a password for this?

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

pencil sketch: j.h.white

Microbial fantasia #2

~

fantasia #2_2

~

Grazing

our lips meet

in wild fields

~

 Before sailing

into

 a jungle

of beastly

delight

~

~

“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

~

“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

~

Drawing and poem … j h white

 

Pencil noir #5

ebola workers~

I want to understand my part is in this tragedy. I see these images every day…..the white suits, the latrine green or bubblegum pink plastic gloves.

I stare at the photo from NBC World News.  I’d googled face masks worn in epidemics after listening to an NPR broadcast about the Liberian aide workers who have taken the job of bringing in the dead. How does one comprehend such a thing?

I decided to draw one of the photos…to find the spaces between the forms…to make this intimate in some way. It becomes a meditation as I concentrate on the crisp plastic suits, the individual postures of the men, the dark slits behind the masks. I breath in, paying attention to the act of drawing what I see.

I breath out. I begin to feel I am breathing for the aide workers who are praying that they remain protected within those suits.

I breath in. I breath out. I feel as if I am breathing now for the ones in the bags. The ones who are no longer breathing. I breath to ease their passage in death. I breath for the loved ones, the children left behind. I keep breathing and concentrating.

I begin mixing the colors for the gloves. Zinc white, phthalo turquoise, a little Jenkins green. I’m almost finished. While applying the paint to the gloves, however,  I am overcome. I watch as all my own sorrows rise to the surface. I realize now that sorrow is simply sorrow.  I am unable to separate one sorrow from another.

But through this experience I have learned one personal way to be with what is happening in the world I live in and am a part of. Each moment as I breath in, as I breath out, life presents itself.  This becomes my prayer….my quiet revolution.

~

Here is the link to the NPR (National Public Radio) episode. It’s one of the more human articles and well worth a look.

http://www.npr.org/blogs/goatsandsoda/2014/08/28/343479917/they-are-the-body-collectors-a-perilous-job-in-the-time-of-ebola

 

Before dawn

I’m pedaling

slowly

It’s a down time

face up floating

a sea of heart’s desire

directed,

as night caresses

and dreams open like books

dissolving their meaning

no longer rigid

 rising to the surface

for light and air

~

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“””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””

Now deep in the hum of an extended writing project, I miss the relationship with my WordPress community. I wondered if I could keep up both directions in expression….the immediacy of day by day reflections and the task of organizing a larger body of work into a cohesive whole.

Still opening to deeper insight in the stillness of the night, nowadays after hours of the chaos of creative effort, I’ve decided to re-post some of the earlier poems, unedited. For me they are like talking with an old friend….calming, encouraging. Where am I today with these thoughts? Do they surface now with new meaning? I treasure the comments made and the friendships that have been nurtured with these seeds that were sown in this fertile ground.