You have known him from what does not rhyme, you have sensed him running down your spine, in the mirror, at the traffic light, tasting dinner when he’s out of sight. There’s a story about a Sephirotic crook, bringing strangers from the fields of blight, what’s a story when he’s walked it through, seen that seraph, and he knows it’s true. There’s a price spun for what’s good and right, from beginning in the world’s insight, now he’s crying because he’s cried before, felt emotion, it’s what love dies for. Spinning circles in the lives of now, creation ever, and the soul knows how. He’s the stranger standing on the street, hearing and seeing what his lives do speak.
Is it receiving of a strange known sin, backwards masking, from Qabalah within, perfect faith in things known of now, from his lineage of who knows how. Is it tidings of a wayward sea, recognition of where he’ll be, placed upon him when he’s terrified, G_D’s own vision, or inward eye. Ten of Rabbi’s that die at night, quite the killing by Hadrian’s sight, David’s seed from before his sin, ten brothers who sold their kin. So it’s reckoned of all of one, generations for the holy one, David Asher knows all he sees, come he striding from a time filled sea. So it’s reckoned, of balance too, not all sadness for joy comes through, evidenced by glowing skies, you will see them and you’ll know of why.
David Asher walks and heals inside, knowing someday soon he’ll finally die, but before he meets the sky and sea, he will fill you with pure belief. Take and move about your room at night, feel and touch the switch that turns the light, did you know, that it would turn out right, don’t you seek the same when you have died. Deep to deep calls out unto the sky’s, birth of lineage into the night, David Asher by three thousand years, sings his fortune for his day is near.
You have known him from what does not rhyme, now you feel him, he’s you inside! – 11.07.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל
Daniel Swearingen 
I’m not sure who David Asher is, but this is a powerful piece Daniel.
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Hi Jenny, thanks for the like. David is the name I gave my muse. 😉 I am happy you liked this. Shabbat Shalom.
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Perhaps I should have seen that with your closing, sometimes I misinterpret, just fair warning 😃 and you are welcome.
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Half the time I do the same….we make a fine team! 🙂
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Lovely prose poetry Daniel. I spent some time with my brother today, and he asked me if I had heard of Kabbalah. I only have a vague knowledge of it, but your post reminded me of section 2 of my poem “Untitled 96 Lines”:
II: Light-Blue Light Staircase Down
I used to want to wear the keter-crown
I used to call heads as I thought of tails
I used to want to become the Sephiroth
I used to call Ivory towers King’s castles
I used to want to be another know-it-all
I used to call definitions out as up-to-me
I used to want to fall up and never down
I used to call it after I had hit the ground
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Thank you for your compliment. I really enjoyed you sharing a section of your piece “II: Light-Blue Light Staircase Down” with me, I will be over to check section 1 out soon! Shabbat Shalom!
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You are welcome! I’ll make it easy for you, and just copy/paste the whole poem into this comment, so you don’t have to search for it!
“Untitled 96 Lines (Part 1 of 2)”
by Ry Hakari
I: Beneath Every Canvas Promise
The ley lines were laid out before time
and we live them out before our eyes,
failing to recognize what we have seen
because we are all born with dey minds
claiming our expired titles as birthrights
not knowing our souls are predesigned
before time and no matter how you try
you can’t swap your spot’s assigned lot
II: Light-Blue Light Staircase Down
I used to want to wear the keter-crown
I used to call heads as I thought of tails
I used to want to become the Sephiroth
I used to call Ivory towers King’s castles
I used to want to be another know-it-all
I used to call definitions out as up-to-me
I used to want to fall up and never down
I used to call it after I had hit the ground
III: A Wayward Troubador
“cannot be” you may cry in unbelief
unable to see “preassigned: already
a floating ghost, a soldier of sorts”
and “hope” hovering over “death”
and underneath it all, underlined
is “for life: sign here” signed with
a name that is not your own, for
your name is not yours to write
IV: Minuteman Music
At the watchtower a beacon’s fire
polishes off a glossary of modernity
“The baseborn” rises from the ranks
tottered until fallen in, harness broken
Alienation exists with all lands foreign
but a turn of the tides while drifting
was forecast for settling preliminaries
and halcoyn birds as signs of the times
V: Broken Past, I’ve Broken Past
I felt inspired, and like I had a fire
I needed to send across the wires
I saw the silhouettes of these lines
Like foreboding shadows cast from
Light like sentences inside my mind
Like Edison’s lightbulb, an invention
Recommissioned with a pull-string
Ideas burn out before their betters
VI: Vindicate My Soul-Fire’s Blue Ballad
The prosaic posturing of
that mosaic mouthpiece
Her lips like luring in liss
instead of out the abyss
Halcyon of the Morning
When will you wake up,
speaking like a Phoenix?
We’re birds-of-a-feather
VII: Cold-Blooded Denials
In a nutshell, ignorance is bliss
A clean-bill of health, soft-soap
Crossing bridges as they come
On the roads to hell paved with
Good intentions, Mr. Nice Guy
Cool hand Luke, he’s lukewarm
Letting those sleeping dogs lie
as they roll over “playing dead”
VIII: Prove My Allegory Story Definite: Swan Ein Gedi (Swan Kid Spring)
Seagulls’ jubilant squawking descends into murmuring
In a stir of jealous echoes of black swans’ battle songs
Paradoxical seagulls stereotyped gullible, yet tricksters
Black swans, as other blackfeathers, foreshadow doom
Eagle-eyed, seeing birds-of-a-feather not flock together
Holding the ley line in battle, odds twice his size defied
For nesting wife, I saw him defend Black Swan Ein Gedi
Knowing my true color is black, as it absorbs all others
IX: Three Months Of Mostly Erasing, But Still Retracing Shit That’s Happened
My rage is a sewerage
complex of my getting pissed off
by all the shit-treatment,
from “good” “Christian” “friends”
three unfit descriptions
for people who like to talk crap,
sling it on good names
as royalty on porcelain thrones
X: No Flight-of-Ideas Here to Hear, Agent Double-O Heaven/Double-Agent ‘O Heaven
Know-it-all who ought to know,
he don’t know aught
Corrupted vulture conjecture,
a mad doctrinarian
Discernment from the Head,
with Bond severed
Got your degrees in bullying,
and blind-leading
XI: My Winter Was Once Cancerous & Answerless, But Now She’s A Crown & Talkative
An ax that daily grinds, the nose to the stone
Cut off to spite my face, to throw off the trace
Seeing pink elephants, spiders, some snakes
The latter of these fled, I escaped the wolves
Out of education books, no eyes’d ever spied
Only read instinctively, doggedly til dogeared
I turned a corner in life, into this Timberwolf’s
Hunting huntress love, to raise up some pups
XII: I’ve Paid Penance With This Pen Long Enough (True Story)
I just flipped webster’s dictionary open randomly
Picked a random place on the page for inspiration
And I immediately saw the “crow”, between the
“crowd” and the “crouton” and I thought “whoa!”
As the crow flies above the crowd into the sky
He’s lifting that crouton up, becoming a “croupier”
But he has “croup”… haha! I hope he coughs…!
Ah, he did—see his “crown” trampled by the “crowd”?
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Beautiful prose, Daniel.
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Thank you my spiritual sister. Hope all is going well in the northwest. We are expecting winter this week, not sure I’m ready for it yet! 🙂
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Enjoyed the imagery in your prose. I wish this piece was twice as long so I could have lingered even more!
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Thank you, I think that is one of the greatest compliments I have ever received! 🙂
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