Riding the currents

sleeping through storms

treading water in the dark


sparks of harmonics

fly from my pen


my hand

the sentient animal

of my heart



An older poem …. words float and land. improvisational rhythms. their own kind of precision. different relationship each time. they’re just there….perhaps have always been


Artist: Turner


Blog Tour


I was double dared to join in the Blog Tour by my friend, and fellow blogger, John Clinock over at Art Rat Cafe.  If you haven’t been over there, make haste and partake in some of John’s artful, sublimely  intimate and open armed hospitality.

The rules of the Blog Tour are to cite the person who asked you to join, answer a few questions about your own creative process, and to invite three (or so) bloggers to the tour.

Why do I write what I write?

I began writing seriously about a year and a half ago.  I needed to explain, also to myself,  an experience I had that changed the way I view my life and the world.

I started this blog, knowing that I didn’t want to work in a vacuum. At the time, my identity, that I considered once stable and solid, shimmed across the surface intangible as a heat wave. Uprooted from everything I’d known for decades, I was gravel in a hot dryer. It was a perfect time to begin something new. So I intuitively jumped in with enthusiasm if not vigor.

Within a few posts my word count distilled into a poetic language. I abandoned prose, for the most part, and embraced poetry encouraged by the fact I could say exactly what I meant without having to use so many words.

I’ve gone through many phases as they lead me along. Words are both holy and often an aphrodisiac. They are alive in me, as well as surrounding me. They provoke and prod, undermining my resistance and enlivening my humanness. They continue to puzzle me. Always intimate.

What is my writing process?

Poetry gave me the confidence, and the community, to consider tackling prose again. I prefer the way my life feels when I’m in the space for poetry though.

Writing poetry is always spontaneous and intuitive. The words just arrive … sometimes like a sneeze… short, succinct and full bodied. I know exactly what I want to say, understand it perfectly and then the words flicker and I lose it. These are the puzzles to unravel.

Some well up from the ground of my being … and release into a chest gripping harmony… old wounds healing.

In some I feel I’m treading water … way over my head. I put my swim fins on and dream through them for meaning.

Some are just romps through my day.

Prose on the other hand demands a method. I’m very disciplined in this regard. I usually start working straight out of sleep and begin writing the first draft, having a general idea. I continue to intuitively wade my way through all my thoughts on the subject. At this point I cannot attend to sequence or order. I arrive at a more cohesive sense of the subject by writing freely.

Then for however long it takes, I search for the rhythm. Now I can jump in at any time to work and I am able to work for long hours at a time. I write on scraps of paper, in various size notebooks but primarily on the screen and I quit when my eyes give out. When I have a reasonable draft, I used to read what I’d written out loud, but now I’ve switched to recording … over and over, listening for a genuine voice, possible repetition, awkward sentencing, lazy language and for sequence. This is generally how I find the ending of the post I’m working on and often times the beginning of the next one.

How does my work differ from other genres?

I haven’t a clue but I know each demands commitment. I’ve witnessed here on Word Press how combining different art forms compliment each other, giving a fuller experience. I’d like to have the momentum in writing to begin exploring a more visual language.

What am I working on at this moment?

I’m involved with an ongoing project attempting to artistically translate the work of a surreal, magic-realism flavored three-year mystical tour through the collective unconscious. In order to clarify my own understanding, I wrote a six-page text. Everyone who has read it, however, unanimously finds my initial text unreadable and incoherent.

So I’m learning to communicate. At this point, I am about half way through the text.

Right now I prefer the immediacy of this virtual community. I’m continually inspired and it makes a difference that I know who I’m talking and sharing with. There’s energy in this that moves me forward and compliments the work, which is still very much in process…and maybe this is what it’s all about.


Of all the luscious in word writers I have the great good fortune of following, and of being in community with here, I had to consider my leanings toward the storytellers.

Bonnie spins the most curiously mindful, quirky rhythm-ed, uncannily insightful stories….a master Mistress Spider.    Maxada Mandala

Stacy … oh Stacy. What it is to be woman.When I see Stacy has posted…I know we are getting down to it. Her poetry is simply food.   the language we speak

Mark doesn’t so much as weave his stories, as immerse you in each word of his short fiction. His stories are verbal film noir….  each nuance palpable in black and white. Chris is a quick, spontaneous eyed photographer.  Each of her photos are captioned and worlds open up. Together they have begun working out a collaborative comic ….Mark writing and Chris drawing.  The Brokedown Pamphlet  and Spartan Eye


Sketch: Self-portrait     “Start at the beginning and work towards the end?” 











All around

  the long bones of the trees

raise small green prayer flags

from their roots

of  winter solace


Signals humming in the first spring wind

“There are so many lost in their own momentum”


There is an urgency

as the intrepid green shoots

attend to the living word




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





We’ve grown tired of being pinched by small rusted tacks

holding tight     meant to toughen our skin

plastered like pictures cut from a magazine pinned to

our bellies   our faces   our sins


Listen you old schemers

we’re not looking for saviors

nor suckling blind messengers peddling  your news


We seek grounding instead

in the wild fecund darkness

deeply cocooned in a memory unbound

Listening to choirs of winged ones spinning

from the silk of our own lightened stories now loosened

and taking flight from the sound



Photo credit: felixinclusis.tumblr.com



The Weaver’s Edge


Honing the edge of fragility

we bend and still bend

gracefully bending and weaving

settling turbulence


Becoming tuning forks

we chose our words with care

They are the air

we breathe



Artist: John Franzen



A poetic dose


She made a tincture of his words

dissolved in fine brandy.

Timed exactly

as the cusp of the horizon

split day into night

She took one dose


Three drops under her tongue

with a twist



Artist: Zhang Xiaogang

(I write my poems first and then have great fun finding a picture to enhance the poem visually. I fell in love with the expression in this painting by Zhang X., even though it’s probably a painting of a young boy.  The expression  is just perfect so I’m using artistic license. Look, it even has the twist! Click on Zhang X. above for further info on this brilliant, soulful artist )






cutting through space


but still good looking



lying tips of tongues

acid but effervescent

corroding silence



dangling before sightless eyes

wind chimes without meaning



cascading from errant ears

pummeling the surface



artist: Guim Tio Zarraluki




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





crows reading~

 words are stirring


no longer flattened

 laid down in a line

left right left right












photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/h-k-d/6021327208/



images flicker    On / Other    fading away

behind aural gesturing

waking me

   this new dreaming   

populated by redolent wording


oddly melodious phrasings




© J.H. White