Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, empty skies, Haiku-ish, landscape, landscape photography, light, most sapphire deep, Mynyddoedd Cambrian Mountains, nature, plague, Poetry, sky, spring on May 20, 2020| Leave a Comment »
THE HEALED SKY
The healed sky
Blue as the calm gaze
Of the Medicine Buddha.
May all beings find peace.
—
The healed sky.
Wherever we go
The chanting of honey bees.
—
The healed sky.
A deeper peace creeps in,
Silence no longer a threat.
—
The healed sky.
Eternal mind
Ever returning to life.
–
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awareness, continuance, coronavirus, deep ecology, lockdown, mortality, new paradigms, plague, Poetry, time on April 18, 2020| 1 Comment »
1
YOU WILL STOP
Green veins
Of sunlight
Take you to
The silent abiding light.
Within the within
Where voices
Are breezes
And waves, and
Scratched starlight
Arcs.
The smoke
Tells you
Who you are,
And from whence
And from where.
—
2
THE MESSENGER
What did it whisper?
That you were never going to live forever.
That this breath now,
Is your only road, in and out
Of this world.
That fears are seeds of infinite patience
And will push through the neatest pavements.
That time is all you have,
And you have no more time.
That we do not begin, nor end,
At our skin.
That all barriers and boundaries
are children’s games, lines of chalk.
That when you take,
You take from yourself.
That when you talk,
Silence would often have more honesty.
That you stand upon
A web of silence.
That you come and go
Like a breeze between dawn and evening.
That your footprints wash away
And the stars shine brightly.
—
3
SAPPHIRE SKIES
We contemplate more sapphire skies,
Breathe in and watch for pain.
Whether we will last or not
Is not the question
We should be asking.
–
4
UNSTITCHED
These most sapphire skies
shall see us stitch by stitch
become unstitched
and standing naked,
wondering how it was,
and why, becoming
took so strange
a gentle slope.
Tides and waves,
a change in the weather,
a blackbird’s rain song.
How could we have forgotten
so easily?
All is absorbed
becoming benign,
a honey sustenance
for new sunlight.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change of state., consciousness, lullaby, mortality, perception, plague, Poetry, reality on March 29, 2020| 4 Comments »
A LULLABY AGAINST FEARS
Do you not see the doors swinging open, swinging shut?
With each breath in and out, the breeze of their coming and going.
.
Cold is the mountain and the white snow will wake you, will wake you.
There is only a moment to know more,
Only a moment to remember and forget.
Until we know what it is to dream it,
We shall never waken.
.
We thought we had removed from ourselves
The scent of death that followed us down
Through all the long centuries.
.
We thought the posy of politeness had done more
Than mask the fear.
As always, it is the smallest of things
Breaks open the delusion
Of genteel comfort.
.
Every room, every landscape, every moment,
Has a door that, should we walk through,
Would take us into other places, never to return.
They swing to and fro with our in and out of breath.
.
A door of leaves, a door of grasses,
A door of breezes, a door of riverbanks,
A door of whispers, a door of praise,
A door of sorrow, a door of breath.
These doors coming and going
Between the world you know
And the worlds you do not yet know.
How many have changed you beyond recognition,
Forgetting the song you were singing
To get lost in a tune unfamiliar,
That better becomes you?
So many doors, remembering and forgetting.
A door of small things, a slight imperceptible door,
And you have gone to be elsewhere,
In sunlight unsullied, in radiance of starlight.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged consciousness, plague, Poetry, quarantine, silence, the world on March 24, 2020| 1 Comment »
PLAGUE DAYS
The silence grows with the lengthening days.
We may yet learn how to breath in
And how to breath out with simple joy.
We may yet sit still and listen to birdsong,
Settling into the world we almost lost,
And now have the chance to find within us,
As it has always been, as it has always been.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ancestors, bardic, choices, desolation, dream, druidic, ecocide, guardians, landscape, plague, Poetry, spirits, top hats, vision on March 3, 2014| 8 Comments »
STONE LORDS
Our tall hats, sky scraping, cloud stirring,
Raking, forming, our tall hats.
Our black hats, cliff-crag dark,
Storm dark, night full.
Our black hats.
Given by the lords of years,
These moving towers, rocking.
These watchtowers,
These habitations of watchers.
Given us.
Watchers, sky-full of silence.
Hawk-bright shaded eyes,
Biding behind dark brows,
We bide,
Dark browed.
We need not hands to raise against.
Need not fingers to point.
Nor voice to accuse,
Nor clever, subtle speech,
No invective.
Poise, presence,
Inscrutibility fledged beneath
The stern circle of dark rim.
Tall hats, dark hats, bestowing gravity,
Beacons of authority.
Rock dreaming,
Injected, a bolus of catastrophe.
We, the chorus,
Mocking your wriggled evacuations.
We shall never, as you will, now
Pass distraught, hand-wringing,
Rote excuse for skin.
We shall never squirm nor flutter,
Racing thither on dismal errand,
Bending brightness to aggrandise vapour,
Bending sense, roping goodness,
Making slave-chains to chafe the free.
Oh, we see clear.
We see your oily wishes,
Your sly agreements.
How you stain the day.
How you stain.
Our tall hats
Shall follow your ways.
Watch us on the heights.
Watch us circle dark valleys.
Unencumbered vigilence,
Patient for judgement,
Implacable,
Undeceived.
May your tiny,
Malevolent souls,
Naked and revealed,
Shrivel.
May your rights
Recycle to the innocent.
May the wheeling carrion birds
Revolve and clamour
Til you no more sully
This earth, this sky.
May you relinquish your folly
Before it plagues and howls,
Extirpating your breathing memory.
—-
Born from a recounted dream of handless beings guarding the clifftops from the perennial parastic politicians who wore tall black top hats. Reminded me of the crags of the Preseli hills, the watchers of Easter Island, the tall astronomically accurate solid gold hats of the Neolithic,
Of the cairns and tombstones of the quiet places, of the attentive wariness of those without voice…….
the image is from an Iron Age Celtic coin that seems to show a storm or mountain deity
simonhlilly 