Pencil Noir #7

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



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

Microbial Fantasia #1


How many times will I shed raw and return?


Or is it a stronger current

amorphously assembling and deconstructing

as I unwittingly rally

behind the porosity of thought

the seduction of words


I am a small planet

a symbiotic microbial world


My peripheral orbit

 flings so far in its trajectory

that now

the axis is nearly invisible.


I can only feel it…


this bright nucleus of love

teeming with life…


Tantra involves a very powerful substance, which is buddha-nature, or our enlightened nature, eating us from the inside out rather than being reached by stripping away layers from the outside.

 Crazy Wisdom by Chögyam Trungpa


“If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life.”
― Charles Bukowski


Poem and sketch by j.h.white. …..I am aware that microbes are single cell organisms.  In representing my relationship with them in this series though,  I prefer immersion without thought, surrendering to the imaginative, perceptual and sensate possibilities.   Symbiotic microcosmic navigation amongst my tribes….xxoo



After the fire

fire dreaming 2Fire dreaming . June 2013


Imagining sparks from earth’s stones

I envisioned the extension

of light


Coalescing with heat

I opened like a flower

once again

to the erogenous

seduction of words


After the fire

the waiting


are poised

as I gaze into the unknown

placing my trust

in the river






I don’t fear melting into this earth.

 Each morning

I wake into the air

I do not rise      I do not move

I do not open my eyes

until my nose has sensed persuasion

my tongue has tasted sweetness

and my ears have heard the world


I was a child with dreams of becoming

Now I am older with dreams of being



Nothing and everything is changing.

I am like a snake shedding its skin


biting its tail


erasing  the lines

of time


Over the skies of East London



drifting sleepless


many things unknown

a restless moon sonfonia for

cello and viola


Here you are old man!

come on in

the war is warm in you

 a symphonic humming note

too vibrant with life

to carry with you,

too bold with memory

to leave behind

perched in between but

your moments are slender, Sir

shall we dig a hole

in North African soil


return these vibrant seeds

of your youth?


Troubled still, I see, by

the pestilence of

 a virulent union

still yielding the stubbornness

of stone upon stone.

 Here’s the shovel to

bury the house

that joined you in flesh

and may I advise you to

 forgive yourself now

since you’ll not forgive

your trouble and strife?

It may unwind the same clock

for your passage


(a last kiss on each cheek of the moon)


What a wonder !

spirited fireworks

over the skies of East London


May your spirit rest in peace A.L.W.  1918- 2013…that’s 95 years!

Cockney rhyming slang for “wife”…. “trouble and strife”



photo credit: <a href=””>Christopher Chan</a> via <a href=””>photopin</a&gt; <a href=””>cc</a&gt;




Down on my knees crawling through the blanket flap cervix

 the intimate waves of heat are in transition but I am ready

even though I’m ignorant and forgetful of this raw intricate birthing

Sweat rides my body in rivulets a waterfall’s surrender

I’m tense, but with senses trusting,

I watch the cindering stones as they concentrate


 with love and arrogance

I circle the entrance to myself

and follow them in


The speed of the stones passage to dust

 unravels my retread knowing

as their elegant sacrifice eclipses the barriers of skin

 and feverish memories collide zig-zag

unable to escape my hollowed mind’s eye


I am everyone pouring through my clearing eyes of perceiving

long occluded by the fallout of the human conceit

where even nature forgets her balance

when time has a mind


Vapors are rising from holy herbs full of grace

  Still, the undead congregate here like moths to our pain

every one, I’m learning, has a place in line

and I am naked and grateful on my knees and finally present

almost touching heaven

in the wasteland.



A little autobiographical note….While living intimately on 14 acres situated in the poorest county of NY State during the last decade of the past century, I had the opportunity to participate in monthly sweat lodge ceremonies.  The first was on a cold February Sunday…18 degrees outside. I began this relationship with the sweat lodge ceremony after hearing about a local man of Seneca lineage facilitating the sweats, who was being trained by a MicMac Elder from Canada.

During the course of this relationship, through my personal experiences of the sweat lodge and fasting with the Elder, I explored my own personal healing from trauma and our relationship with Divine Nature.  These sweats, and all I learned during this time, were only the beginning of this journey.

I’m grateful for the safety made possible and the care taken by the lodge keepers and most specially to Divinity  for answering my questions and challenging me to ask more.