CONJURATION
He sits by the window letting the landscape go.
A little incense will stretch and curl in the moving airs.
There is welcome rain on pale, misted hills:
The meadows and their trees will green.
The shoals will flicker beneath thin surfaces,
And there is skill in waiting and skill in catching up the glimmer.
Sometimes it is enough to hold one wriggling thing.
Sometimes a light touch will tease a line,
A bright twist into this world, a hopeful humming reel.
There is the holding and the letting go.
A whisper wish to Gwyn ap Nydd
Who hunts these lost ghosts and churns them upwards.
To mark a path only, or to push down into it,
Or to be pulled willynilly in mad rush and see,
See where it leads, traipsing forgetful, curious.
Or but to float above serene and light as hawk bones,
To not become distracted by maybes,
To contain all, to exclude nothing, to lose track of no slither,
To allow a subtle sedimentation – to be that patient,
To become equanimity, geological.
It will be the touch of madness that marks it out,
The touch of madness they shall not forget.
The discomfort of impossible resurrection:
Light that is not there, a bubbling up of echoed sounds,
A mystery of conjured voices, a song of ghosts.
This, the slow and certain engraving of our vanishing lives
Upon your smoothed and cooling brows; etched, hatched and nested within
Your twigged and tumbledown minds.
A thimble of the past to dull each ache of uncertain stitch.
That impossible race to reach each sunsetting horizon.
Between the moment and the madness
Is where the bright shoals swim.
—
simonhlilly 
Conversations: Invisible Friends at a Year’s Ending
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, asides, comment, commentary, friends, gold leaf, ideas, inspiration, Poetry, Ryokan's Mind Moon Circle, wall relief, wood relief carving on December 26, 2016| 2 Comments »
this dreaming breath
named from a confluence
long streams tumbled for a while
on the meticulous dance of sun and moon
clothed in scars and mystery, veiled, draped about.
shaped by a host, a singing constellation of unnamed stars.
—
Having been in the woods
One may never come out.
Though scrupulous,
A whisper breath will still
remain, like the memory
Of mulch in the nostril,
The coolness of the skin,
The crack of twig, a cobwed brush.
We become inhabited-
The same as we ghost
Forgotten places.
Murmur.
Reverie interupted.
—
Leonard
This poet’s voice.
Like honey,
Like an earthquake.
A gentle mountain
With thunder.
Sun and rain,
we smile, we cry.
All vistors
With return tickets.
—
Heart’s warmth, the only sustaining fire.
We are huddled beings, backs to the night,
glorious in our strangeness, bred for our dreams.
Peculiar are the haunted songs echoing,
peculiar the views we insist upon, peculiar the words,
peculiar the moments.
revivified by the lightest touch,
ignited by the slightest breath,
flowered and flowering,
the thinnest web of cells strung together,
pushing outwards,
holding back,
translating silence.
—
This one breath
Is ours.
Then than
Too,
Is gone.
This stream
Of word
Caught in a
Flashlight
Moment
Then
Lost.
Remembering
What is
No longer.
A wonder!
—
Her shell-like,
Bending low to this little earth.
She will turn away
In sorrow and disbelief
Fall and fade
And become dark
And empty
Once more.
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