Sunday, July 28, 2019

paper cutting glass: Poem From & to An Kim 1977

paper cutting glass: Poem From & to An Kim 1977: A Poem from An Kim & A Poem for An Kim,   circa 1977 epistle to st. james the largo from xerxes I has been performed...

Poem From & to An Kim 1977

A Poem from An Kim & A Poem for An Kim,  circa 1977

epistle to st. james

the largo from xerxes I
has been performed
again, admirably, by symphony
where are those ducks?

water ducklings meet
themselves crossing
a john hancock sky

don’t let yr heart
crouched close to the liver
(as we know) lose heart.

don’t forget you are made
a little lower than

not my words, kid
but the movies
bought the book.

and probable.  don’t forget the ducks
wh had no babies
this summer anywhere in the green.

remember the park.
remember the largo caught
on the time zone radio

before your next final
exam.  you have to do
something else now.

keep both oars
in the water.  hate your fingers
for a few months.
and adore your hands.
                                                                             --An Kim

Poem of the Waxing Summer
                                for An Kim

We speak of nacre nights
w/moon no higher than the nape of the neck
the city imposed upon herself
violent water in closed jar

the outer  hovelling of fire
warmth positing herself
complete, upon a shelf
a gold & blue globe

                                                I am a bellows
full with blowing
winds that ne'er crept across the floor
to flute the child’s naked brown lashes

the busting of vessels
& the clothing of hawks
the shatter of her laugh
against wood aimlessly light

the sky pale & taunt
moves a blue persimmon.
                                                                jmf-w  30 mar 77

Thursday, July 25, 2019

No Longer Here

"No!" watercolor j.m.frase-white 1973

No Longer Here

Grief festers
Bites at moments unexpected
Aches on the breeze
on a day without wind
Befuddles, rides
on the back
a rodeo of pain, longing

Memory dances
on a day with a gentle airs
Kissing of their presence
their aura fills the room
music of the mind
of the heart
inside closed eyes

Grief is the dream of
mortal wishes for eternity
loss, with hope on the edge
waves rippling on the shore
of consciousness

(With thoughts of John Robert Peters, Jr.
And so many more, this hot stilted July Sunday, the 21st  in 2019 )

 "Farewell"  watercolor, j.m. frase-white 1973

Sunday, July 21, 2019

Not Yellow Brick

A poem, left behind, from last year, a little Sunday School prayer

Mary Cassatt  The Boating Party

Paving the Way

The admonition echoed
in footsteps leading astray
walking through the hell of segregated piety
of the garden, picking  grapes with god
the forbidden fruit just that
needed and heartfelt

Another mother, casting anchor close to home
Assailed her darling doting daughter
With a wind of words, a chanty
“I don’t want to take the wind out of your sails.”

Oh, Hades road was paved
with bloods and colors not like ours
from faraway lands, exotic
or local, convenient right next door
Not hidden in the deep dark woods,
a witch, a wolf
to seduce our basket of goodies

All you/we needed was a nudge,
A hug, affection strong
A simple “I love you”
Admonition seized the day
The devil of the lord
Keeping your angel far, far away

9/5/18, revised 7/20/2019 ©James M. Frase White

Friday, June 21, 2019


A note flies on my wall, a reminder daily.  It was written by my friend, the poet Ann Kim, after she had caught a feather floating down the stairwell, as she walked the five flights up to my South Russell Street apartment.  In my studio I was at the easel, working on this painting.  Entering, Ann quipped, holding the feather, "Did your model just leave?"

St. Russell St. Angel, circa 1974

The note sent a few days later & typed below:

Dear James,
     The intangibles, the tangibles
 are not separate things but
manifestations of the same light.

     Friendship is why the angels,
who have no bodies or earthly
goals continue to concern
themselves with us.

I'd had a dream this morning of two artists vying for attention, one was a seagull upon a sandy shore, the other a vulture, with its graceful wingspan soaring high above the sand, looking, searching.  I'm presently working on a 2 party exhibit, and it seems there is a communication going on (both are positive, read not ire into the revelry).  Here us the influential wall to my right as I lie in bed:

On that note, Sing, Sing, Sing the international day of Song & Our Summer in the Northern Hemisphere begins today!

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Marmoset Revisits the Seaside

    On Saturday past I recalled the joy of watching a Marmoset frolicing about the foliage at  a jungle river, complete with manatee so graceful in the water  beneath a little bridge in a special animal house at the zoo in Pittsburgh, PA.  Words came bouncing out and I began to write a poem.  They blending into memory of a work by Dorian McGowan of Edward Lear's poem (see below).

It resulted in a card including the poem I wrote, with a marmoset, flashing paint brushes for Dorian who is recovering from a broken hip, a nasty trick of hidden ice of that deceptive season of Winter).  The Poem follows in a a more readable form.  Do know that as in all fantasy, you can be me,  a monkey, a tree, where today is tomorrow & tomorrow is yesterday . . .

A diddly poem for the artist owl, a graceful angel and a sacred yellow cat

O dear dear cuddly marmoset
So fun to watch your merman dance
Tumbling rumbling in the sea
Holding, boiling, roiling laughter back
to keep the fish at bay

Spitting suds and bubbles
Jumping upon the cockleshells
Angry barnacles breathed back
Sticking out their feathery tongues
Begging, yelling with watery spleen
“N’er err to dare come back!”
seething seashell venom
in twisted greenly crackly wrack

They sailed off in briny oyster shell
With oar of runcible spoon
An owl and cat in primate gowns
Pretending dreams of silvery moons
Laughing gulls and crooning loons

A day, a night a wild cold tale
A chocolate bar of joy to share
in champagne bath of glee
Invincible we think all hope
Forever and a day

For Dorian, © j.m.frase-white 5/2019

A Rift on Edward's Lear's the Owl & the Pussycat
by Dorian McGowan
from the exhibit Poetry Made Visible,  which I curated, Feb-March 2016
Northeast Kingdom Artisans Guild

Tuesday, March 26, 2019

This is the Woman

Joan R., Baltimore, 1967

This is the woman who
drained her toilet dry
 painting butterflies in enamel
spiraling ‘round the bowl
to dance in every flush

This is the woman who
pushed all her bedroom furniture
together to create
a bower tower  bird nest
beneath the deep blue ceiling
she’d painted and covered
with luminescent stars

this is the woman who
was driven to paint wildly
a strange abstract work
she brought for us to see:

black zigzagging, sliding
scaring the blood  red ground
halted by a  grand orange X

We gazed bedazzled
Colors, lines screaming  out to us
and Joan,  as if waking with a cry
“of god, this is where . . .
he died”

This is the woman
Who drove the VW bug
that skidded and killed
the man we all called Angel
The perfect blue-eyed hippie
All in love, but not lovers like Joan

Brazenly mapped before us
the pain scarring scaring her mind

(middle of the night meditation/poem)
 3/26/19  jmf-w