Finger prints



You were imprinted on my fingertips

written as dim memory

in line and skin


I kept your image at arms length

or balled it into a fist

A turning away

from the violence

As if there is no real death in ascending?


As a child

it is true

I was taught to expect some relationship

while being impressed into the feverish tribe

of Jesus watching


Before me

pale lipped men

created tension

bells ringing


with a tiny chaste taste


Who clothed me

in this rag tag skin of living words?

Held hostage



I fall pummeled and wading

in the waves of this unexpected birthing

Free now to love you simply as a man


A man of flesh and bread and wine

who once lived to turn the world.



Artist: Caravaggio


Hear me #2

youthful abstraction


scraped rust from my tongue

older than before I was born for nothin

score the initiations of death

my gaming sport

rough and blunt points

for taken the hoes down

I’m not even tired yet

just getting started

gimme gimme


To call out my anger. To give voice to all sides in this massive and long holding violence so I can see touch be whole at least in myself. I’m not asking for some peaceful distancing. Some mental balancing. Somewhere in there lies compassion…somewhere. I will find this flower

© J.H. White