1.
The nature of these ancient lines
is akin to convergence,
those brackish coastal transitions at the source of the stream.
I see them go down the way the unconscious empties into sleep,
revealing through the overlapping currents of dreams
reflections in a dark pool
a spool for the moon in the muliwai,
like a glimmering fish on the end of a line,
a texture in the undulating sky.
It is sustained through dawn
and her capricious rays
of insight in this variable space
absorbing the heaviest of thoughts
like the shore and the assault of the waves.
2.
Descending grooves at twilight,
the edges of streams yield to the unseen.
Blurring the line between the material and the spirit,
a surfacing replicated on the known,
releasing faces trapped in stone.
On the inverse of trees
the ripples of rain are received
like information from an alternate place.
The energy of a chant transforms water
and through alchemy
gives breath to long dormant entities.
Pulled through the roots to re-emerge
somewhere in the back of the valley,
a fissure in time, the essence of nature.
3.
Ancestral voices speak without water
in the quiet places, the dark haired recesses
accessed by stream beds
like ancient thruways
for the imagination to invent
“What’s back there?”
Pondering from the periphery,
so black there in the distance,
like a portal, an instance of mist
is a meandering medicine on the tips of the ridge.
Pulled by the wind through the fan palms
imprinted in clouds
bloodied by sunsets and tossed
to the landslides of green moss
over primordial rock.
From a certain perspective,
you see that the light writes its history
in petroglyphs and myths on the surfaces.
It reveals the bird man to the blind,
the dog guardian in grail,
the snake that swallows its own tail.
There is the realization that in modern times
the ancient can still prevail,
can still lie here in parallel
in a world disguised by a thin veil
with symbols to decipher the enigma of their presence.
yakskinpocketnotes 