The unbearable awkwardness of 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 much needed mobility

to their ping-pong debate

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everyone’s muscles still tense

when they pass Hope or Violence

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as they meander

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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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

~

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

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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/

Momma clock

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You were never adventurous

insisting on sticking to interaction

proscribed a sure thing

trying to be a “good girl” but always told

you were never good enough…

I spent my days intoxicated by a flower’s breath

building new homes out of cardboard or snow

exhuming pets I was curious about death

and bones and teeth

climbing trees listening to their heart sap

nipping change from Norman’s penny jar

just for the sneak of it

not caring much about showing my girl parts

to the neighbor boys

And there you were pushing me off

unsteady on two bicycle wheels

as if your moods weren’t the day’s bad weather

and me always approaching you with the caution

of the kid held flat out in high winds

and now you were casting me off like a baby bird

as if you yourself knew how to fly

Well…little did I know your strange insistence

was giving me more than wings

your internal Mamma clock was saying

it was time I learned to really fly

even though you knew

I’d take off and keep rolling

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Art by Terry Turrell

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

~

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

~

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

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

 

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

TELEGRAM

 

START …. Hello! …. STOP …. I am away scouting on the dark side of the mountain …. STOP …. It is very crowded …. STOP …. The temptation initially was to blend in …. STOP…. Thought I was traveling light but immediately became snagged in my own underbrush …. STOP …. Continuing on now but have had to leave my pack and all supplies behind …. STOP …. Night and day do not divide here …. STOP …. So far dreaming has been easier than trying to see in the dark …. STOP …. Something I wrote once has become useful …. STOP ….. “I don’t need eyes to hear light”…. STOP…. Listening now for sonic blooms  of  light …. STOP …. I can see I’ll be offline for awhile …. STOP …. It is good to know you beautiful people are all here being creative …. STOP….. Sending my love, Jana  …. FULL STOP

 

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.

~

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

 

Pilgrim

Scan

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Traveling solo … back,  forth, sideways across the country

coast to coast scouting but cautious I was

winding snakes with wheels

I carried only an old Post Office bag

empty but for a toothbrush, a sewing needle and some colored thread

preferring the company of an ocean front cave that leaked with morning  tides

a mountain stream in heat that slowly dried

Everywhere my tongue tasted the air, flavor there was

I grew a belly of  lightening and substance

pregnant with the road

~

40 odd years and I’m still a pilgrim. I look left. I look right. There’s a cliff on both sides. One is seductive  … the other a freefall …. staying in the middle  promises promises but is cluttered and empty. The world is held in consensus agreement … each day … which side am I on?

When my grand daughter Bella tries to touch the moon and says ” jump Nana!”  ….   I smile … and jump

 

 

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”

~

~

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

~

~

Artist: Paul Klee

Singing shells

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Dark glasses in the sun hiding blindness

 I’ve been running ahead while looking back

until

collecting silent clues

I’m becoming a butterfly amongst the bees

winging it

as I find my way

down the dark passage

of singing shells

 ~

Finding a winter rhythm this year is a bit like being in a jerky elevator…..best laid plans, just get to the floor and open the door. The words coming slow in a weathered  suspension, collecting clues from poems becoming puzzles….meaning pivoting on just one word … the rhythm finding me in a slow molasses changing well- engrained routines, unsettling boundaries used to the intimacies of osmosis.