Did I not peel myself from the soft ground where you lay, did not my eyes turn to a softer glow? Did you not an apostle come, like a dragon, grey eyed “Le Fay”? And did not the summer sun become we one, for breath, under that forage, something there did we not find, and did I wake up?
She created a hundred poems, she hung her treasure a golden song, and I slept with them all. Across the pitch, like winter, a blanket of snow, each breathe, alone, alone, alone, and they go passing by, in the hay-field. Equate my life, with days relined, under trees with no skyline. I feel your body, thinking out loud, for what’s coming out, giving into my words, taking me into rhyme, these days of my time. My archer, oh my memory, it’s just this ache where I resign. A weariness is upon me, living inside myself so long. Hay-fields, epistles, dreams, intrigues of sky, all by design. My birth beside the archer, the high flying bird, Polaroid in my mind. For there we have lived, for such a long time. We have fallen, and it brings the same, after all these days, after all these days, and did I wake up?
Summoned, winter breath upon those fields, those scars left crusted by the cold. That place so far inside that the archer has traced at last. A magic that will not refract, the past, like lips pressed, tasting liquid under sky. The dye is cast, for it brings these things the same, after all of these days, after all these days, and did I wake up?
I have created a thousand situations, lines left consuming the things that bring us to this phase. It could be I’m older, or maybe just colder, and the craft is disguised, yet here in our restrained sight it realigns. Somewhere, in a hay-field I left this story that has no end. What is a million, those that name the summer stars above, and even they can’t catch these feelings, that bare my soul, the ones that bring this heat filled fall. I will not see this moon the same, you will not wish upon it again, for your bird has fallen, like a Daemon from that place of cold. For we have lived, we have fallen, and it brings the same, after all these days, after all these days, and did I wake up?
Did I not peel myself from the soft ground where you lay, did not my eyes turn to a softer glow? Did you not an apostle come, like a dragon, grey eyed “Le Fay”? And did not the summer sun burn us to become one, for breath, under that forage, somewhere here, after all these days, and did I wake up? – 02.21.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל
High Flying Bird – John/Taupin
Until I Wake Up – Dishwalla
Daniel Swearingen 
I love this Daniel particularly the last verse.
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Thank you Jenny. I am always happy when you read and like my work. 🙂
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You are most welcome. ☺️
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Gorgeous, Daniel. So sumptious. Dreamy.
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Thanks Anne Marie, it just all flowed together, didn’t even make sense to me on a conscious level, but may be somewhere deep inside it did. 😉
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I’ve had some like that. They always go down a treat. Maybe something deep inside of us appeals to something deep inside of someone else and we just get it. Amazing brains and soul power. Great combo when they click.
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Oh I forgot to ask if you listened to the song, at the bottom of the post, what a wonderful tune! 🙂
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I did. I read the post first then played while reading again. I have to do that. I like to get the feel of the tempo before maybe having to make adjustments while listening. I actually deleted part of my comment. It kinda went. ‘Good tune too. But not a patch on your words’. Then I thought that might sound a bit cheeky. So I deleted. Now I’m telling you. That might be worse! It was good. (but not a patch…..) 😉
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Not cheeky at all and it sort of is a great way you and I do similar things when we read or write with music. 🙂
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It is cool, isn’t it. One blogger I follow writes to music with headphones on all the time. Swears by it. I do it sometimes but it runs out of me a like a stream of consciousness thing which might be ok if I want to analyse myself but doesn’t always help with writing. It has to be a background music for me so it’s there but not disrupting my thought. So many processes that I’ve never given much thought to until WP and people make comparisons and share theirs. As for reading the poem first and then listening to the music, I also don’t have the patience to wait while the music does its thing and I’m dying to see what happens next. If it’s a slow piece then I’m going, hurry up, I want to read. Like it’s stopping me. By the time I’ve satisfied my own curiosity then I can listen and slow down if needs be. Win, win. 🙂
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Yes, yes, and yup. Couldn’t agree more.
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Yeah! Twins!
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Oh heard a great Scottish tune by the lead singer of Diswalla will email the you tube link to you. A good one for you independent sorts! 🙂
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Dishwalla good Lord if I could spell I might be a writer.
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