THE SENDING AWAY OF NEGATIVE ENERGIES
One, two, three.
The thrush in the ash:
Vast mantra of space,
His bell voice and dorje bill.
Phurba crow
Struts alert amongst the dreaming sheep.
He stabs the ground
With a pure vision.
Silence as the clouds build to rain.
Taiko in the hills.
Lorry dungchens drone
On the valley road.
My ears are pierced with golden words.
Golden dust is in my eyes.
Golden smoke arises from horizon altar.
The Will of Heaven, unfathomable
As ever.
Some say there are stories to tell,
Some say stories to disprove.
In every hedge a blackbird rattles alarm,
Though there is nothing to fear.
Who has the shell as blue as sky?
The robin, I think.
Its white eternal arc
Is the world turned inside out.
Lying unnoticed, fallen from the chapel hawthorn.
A ruse to escape death.
Like shinto priests
The magpies strut with care the chapel roof.
They enunciate name and place
And the desires of each supplicant.
Hop and bow, hop and bow,
And call aloud to the spirits
Who will listen.
Whilst the domed mountain
Rests in Wang-Wei
And Wang-Wei rests in the mountain.
The ghosts of words stretched thin,
Their lips unsure whether to cry or smile,
But that is the nature of prayer and praise.
The whines of the psalmist irritating the gods
To distraction.
Give a little thought to the little things,
The wriggling life stepped upon unseen.
The unconcerned hosts, the vast inconsequential
Upon whom you rest.
The threads wear thin,
The seed unhurried.
A syllable breath forms
In the river’s mouth.
Never quite uttered.
Never quite understood.
We have not enough silence,
Not enough pause to continue here long.
From the dimpled, starry horizons
The Protectors gather.
What shall they deem worthy,
And what destroyed?
It is not a trick question.
But there is no answer.
—
simonhlilly 
Well, Mr Lilly, I do believe you are that phurba crow with pen in place of beak! This is the first thing I read when I got up this morning and I’ve read it several times since. I will be thinking on it a good while longer. Thank you for sharing, my day is transformed.
Thanks, Jenny. It just happened in a trice after my glance fell on the title words in a practice text. Nice when it bubbles up without much effort!
“He stabs the ground with a pure vision.” Yes, you do once again.
I am no crow, I stab in darkness, tentative, hopeful.
And I see your sure sense of place.
Taa-ly!
Just received today’s post, which included “Thr taste of bees in honey”. Wonderful good! Always better are words on paper. I like the space, the font, the size.
Just read a few, flicking through, as I do sometimes in the poetry shelves of bookshops- there, to usual irritation and frustration at the mediocre; here – to utter satisfaction and delight at word and image.
Having your poems under the fingertips I see how they so often revolve around colour, and that the image/memories then gather to them all the senses, like a drop of paint tendrils out into the water, like a poem melts its colours into each mind it enters.
Blessed man, thank you. In most poems, no matter what its mood, I reach for … “Oh, dear reader, let me take you there.” I learn from the masters, of which you are one. Smiles …