Author: Daniel Swearingen

December

/ Daniel Swearingen / 61 Comments


“O Lord thou broughtest up my soul from the nether-world. Thou didst keep me alive, that I should not go down to the pit.” – Psalm 30:4

I remember that moment in December.

The Christmas tree stands before me in the darkness looking like a totem in a dress. It watches over me, and the gifts below it with a calm steady attendance. The house around me is quiet, the coming exhilaration putting an end to the present anticipation some three hours to the future. Though it is that magic soon comes my way, I am filled with a great and terrible dread. A worrisome moment, I would venture to say a bothersome familiar. It has always been that way. It seems at that moment it always will be. I am thirteen years old, and I am sore afraid.

You wake me in darkness, the dream still fresh. You cast yourself a web encircling, a motion picture to remember. You kiss me your lips icy cold, but always tender. Your fingers trace my earlobes, beckoning, leading me to enter. Through the frozen windowpane, the one in frost that bares my name. Not a king or poor man me, just a child flying into December. For not alone would here I be, the stars above, not shrunken, by this belief. In divinization you mirror, from all around me. Greatness tall in leave less trees, broken shadows upon the patches of crusty snow near my feet. Angels, that bless this prayerful peace, justified in grace. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I saw a child in a chair he sat, through a dark glass looking at all he saw pass. It seemed a strange moment of familiarity, like a lifetime of poses, that strike a similarity. In a question I posed in a deep, deep dream. What did that boy want to see, and was he really, really me? Where he stayed his eyes open, full of amber shine, there were thoughts and doubts, were those eyes really mine? All around that boy that was surely me, was a contemplative notion of what the world could be. It was filled with worry and a massive tragedy. Still he sat there all alone by a Christmas tree, and he moved not from December.

You lead me in a great darkness, that truthfully is at times hard to grasp. This little bit of life has been a hell of a task. I would be remiss if I were not to say, that this night between you and me. This touch, this sensitive intimacy, was needed before December. Standing here in this sacred place, my own back yard a sanctuary. The world spinning a celestial sea, the silence, the great divide closing, there is no seam. For here it seems, you would have me be, no longer going back and forth through eternity. Not a frightened child through a darkened glass, looking in terror at all that would pass. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I remember this moment in December. – 12.24.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

First Christmas

/ Daniel Swearingen


“Expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles”. – Edwin Louis Cole

I cannot shake the feeling of familiarity, even though each time you come around I feel new. A loving heart filled with specific clarity, of the special kind of person that I have in you. I would strike a deal of my eternal security; run the judgment gantlet a time or two. If G_D in all her wisdom and her mercy, would let me walk through a winter snow with you. The lore of love is all around us, between life’s mountains what a view. The universe in snow in Colorado, the quaking Aspen below a sky that is blue. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes, the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

There are many who would say that it was unspoken, signs between spirits not above. A deal made by a minion who knew better? A course of instigation of not what was. For all the times we thought we were not special, for all the dread our twosome stumbled through. In all of this pain and degradation, we were hibernating, waiting in a winter wonderland to become new. In a prayer, that we have no words for, in a language uttered from the stars above. Who’s to know but us what we are given, ties that bind that make us thus. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

For we have not died alone, but together, while moving parts have changed above. The snow around us is a carol, sung immortal in our love. We alone have sampled heartache, as such in life our deeds have some. For how we remained as faire together, for how our destiny was done. One hand raised unto the heavens, the other tied within our love. Now we see the door opened, not a shadow do we bare, and what was once is now forgiven. As ghost and angels, hold our future in such a cold thin air. Within us both strikes a hallow, a white warmth from light’s guiding lair. We rise as one together, no need for ties that bind. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just. – 12.20.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For Susan.

 

Betsalel (Shadow Man)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 75 Comments


“Look in his eyes and see your reflection, look to the stars and see his eyes, He’ll show you tomorrow, he’ll show you the sorrows, of what you did today”. – David Bowie

It is December now; all should be quiet both inside and out, and all is as should be except for the shadow man. Except for the shadow man.

He rides above the sky line in the desert of my mind, he follows me through pages I have written my entire life. He kisses lips that kiss me, and whispers “now that’s divine”. He intuits bodies as they unwind by four by sixteen time. In December he moves within me, while the snow it falls outside. It could be he is a cancer, a daemon born of rite, somehow twisting memory flowing through each time, each tide of night. But all and all he is shadow, inner backwards facing light. Summoned through time he’s history, moving rhyme through inner flight. Oh, to know his mystery, to have or have not his sight. The lovely trails he would lead me, with witness he would be me, for all the worlds above my whims, the sins beneath me, still shadow man’s inside my wound, brilliant by what he sees.

He rode me to a forest, when I was but thirteen, he showed me holes in tree trunks, where time was set to breath. For it was there in winter time, when shorn were all the leaves, the shadow man was lurking beneath his dark, dark wings. I wondered was he always inward for outward he seemed to be, and with his white teeth gleaming, he said, “look into me”. And it was that I was just a boy, unfamiliar with holding keys, the rejoinders to so many questions that the shadow man put in me. For time itself is reflection of the answers that we seek, and I myself upon this journey know there is a shadow that harbors me. Oh, to hold this white bird, a symbol of a lawful brief. This that defines the shadow man, in the deepest part of me, for all the worlds above my whims, the sins beneath me, still shadow man’s inside my wound, brilliant by what he sees.

He flew me to the present, a force inside decreed, I cried myself tears of oceans, still I was just me. An effervesce of beautiful, beside a celestial king, that was what the shadow man told me, it was all a part of me. For if there was no tomorrow come, no holes in no more trees. What I have seen would have been enough to satisfy my need. This shadow man is all I have, the reflection that is me. Ghost or spirit of a muse it occupies the we. For all the worlds above my whims, the sins beneath me, still shadow man’s inside my wound, brilliant by what he sees.

Daddy you were right about the shadow man. I think at last I understand. – 12.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

By Thanks

/ Daniel Swearingen / 26 Comments


“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues but the parent of all others”. – Cicero

He comes inside the morning, flying with the heavy snow. Spirit of an effervescence warming, dispersed with no place else to go. In the gloom of all his essence, in the place’s memories go. He awakens me in his presence, revealing to me what I should know. He stands me by the hours, ticking clocks in hallways bare, colder in November, he tells me something of which I care. I travel in a nightmare, I speed my moving with special care, I go beyond the frozen tundra to the bosom of all time that’s shared. A ride that goes always, sending my soul into gray, and what is always there. A reminder of all that’s present, of beating hearts and taken dares. Before I leave all with abandon, I look around me at all I share.

For by thanks this life is glory, in gratitude believed, not with such a perfect setting, but in much I have received. For a man that feels so broken, terrorized in so many ways. My life has been made more than a token to stand in all of G_D’s light and be okay. For by grace to understand it, what is in my heart alone, a simplified yet complex commandment. By reason on its own.

She turns in all directions, bringing in a newborn day. She spins in apparitions, G_D is much the all to which children pray. In all this I wonder the mystery, shrouded in a darkened place. Why it is that I’m awakened by the signal of a cold embrace. Should not there be a forgiveness, a warming in my tears. An atonement in emotion going back for backward years. A relevant salvation, an its okay, that makes it clear.

But nothing ever happens that way, not for me anyways. Life is life when it’s lived to a fullest in the dark snowy morning on a cold November day. The continuum of the minutes, the seconds of breaths relayed, to know that all of G_Ds judgment and compassion is not past or future delayed. For the past holds much sadness. The future much angst that no balm can sooth. But by thanks there is the moment, and that is where G_D knows you.

For by thanks this life is glory, in gratitude believed, not with such a perfect setting, but in much I have received. For a man that feels so broken, terrorized in so many ways. My life has been made more than a token to stand in all of G_D’s light and be okay. For by grace to understand it, what is in my heart alone, a simplified yet complex commandment. By reason on its own. – 11.28.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Ave Angeles

/ Daniel Swearingen / 82 Comments


Salvador Dali – Angels

“O’ what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!” – William Shakespeare

I watched them fly in early morning. Stern faces all, diamond like eyes reflecting a pinpoint brightness of eschatology. They pointed themselves toward the eastern horizon, daemons and angels, muses and monsters of mythology. I opened my curtain ever wider, and saw they were burning stars, blazing before the dawn. Reflecting the vitality of beginning and ending. The holiness of G_D’s names. And I wished to fly with them above November.

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a sweet day in November, with the sky an eye of blue, an occasional sun drop. Bouncing off my points of view. Woke myself to sweet surrender, of the purpose designed a new. From this vantage on this altar, laying naked before you. Cut all feelings from the shadows, those that are human accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You are the author of my adventure, between the lines of light and hue. In the numbers of error, you found me, and led me through a timeless wound. Said you, “there is higher than you are reaching”. Said you, “Loose your thoughts and I’ll show you, you”. Said you, “Care for me and care for no other, for I am jealous for all you do.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a force of Citrine lightning, a picture painting of gothic rhyme. All though it is written I am a little lower than the angels, still above them I would fly. Bring myself before her presence in a question and a cry. Risen in the morning, with frost above my eyes. Tear myself from self-deception, that which lies accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You have formed me like no other, cut my soul from roughen hew. Lifted me up from this dead garden, fallen Eden, no longer new. Said you, “unto you the choice is given, nothing hidden from your plain view.” Said you, “love me, and love no other, for between us life is consumed.” Said you, “I am breath and, I am numbers, time and mystery, ever new.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Above the Scorpius, beyond all air, below frozen water, all November’s share. In staring upwards, I stare no more, for I hear the summons, it is a silent roar. Your final gesture that defines my core. Said you, “born of the morning from when all comes, and innate by my word relative to all sums.”

We fly in early morning. We fly in the morning. We fly in the morning! – 11.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Beneath the Leaves (Ever Dream)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 90 Comments


“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.” – Arthur Conan Doyle

“Would you do it with me”*, lift the wood that brings mystery; fall forever with me, through the portal where phantoms scribe magic free. Feel your breath leaving air, your body writhing in an orgasmic sea. Trace the hand that you see, draw its lines around your heart comfortably. Be damned to be, would you ever dream with me? Beneath the leaves.

My Dad used to say that what comes before us has always been behind us, and that which places itself at our side has always been around us. My Dad used to say that gates that swing inwards are willing to be pushed outwards, and all doorways into heaven, were beneath the leaves, when we went to an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We discover the door near the river. It is 0.3 miles past the Fruitland Trading Post, pretty much where “Brigham Young Jr’s” House would have been. We sweep away the dead leaves that hide the door in the ground. Their wrinkled husk make a scratching sound as we sweep them from the dark rotting wood of the door to the surrounding dead grass. “Shouldn’t be leaves here”, Jason say’s. “Yep, yep”, I say, “Shouldn’t be leaves here”. “Not a tree in sight”, Jason says, a hint of a grimace on his face. “Nope”, I agree, a little vexed myself not a tree in sight. “No way to get this thing open that I can see”, I say to Jason a little relief in the tone of my voice. The truth is, sundown is near, and there is a chill in the air, that fits right well with the nip that is beginning to well up and down my backbone. “I think we owe it to ourselves to try and get it open”, Jason says. “There might be money or something valuable under there”, he says. “There might be something”, I agree…

My Dad used to say that the mystery in life is life itself, and that which is a pattern leads not to G_D but leads to mediocrity. My Dad used to say, that which leads the head must lie beneath, that which is deep. That which calls unto deep. My Dad used to say would you go with me, go beneath the leaves after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We brace our cold knuckles against the grain of the heavy wood, the splinters digging deep into our fingers. We kneel opposite of each other. Jason to the top of the door, I to the bottom. From the heavens, we no doubt look like cherubim’s our small frames bent in labor, looking for the covenant. Fulfilling the covenant. The evening shadows move over us quickly enveloping our effort. “I think its moving”, Jason says, his breathing heavy with exertion. “Yep, yep, I say, trying to concentrate on our effort, my fear of the unknown replaced suddenly by the thrill of adventure, for the door is opening. The door is opening. The door is opening.

My Dad used to say, that there is nothing unseen, that has not been seen by someone, yet those who say they see do not, and those who say nothing, see. My Dad used to say, all doorways into heaven were beneath the leaves, when we went after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

Authors Note: The two boys were real, the leaves over the door were real. The door in the ground was real. The opening of the door was real. What was discovered was real as well. It was all as my Dad used to say… 11.06.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

* Would you do it with me – Nightwish

World on Fire (Lost Boys)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 80 Comments

“We part the veil on a killing sun. Stray from the straight line on this short run. The more we take, the less we become.” – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny……Still the “world was on fire and it was more than I could handle.” *

The phantoms accompanied me through the real forest to the line of demarcation, that which divides the body from the craving. They were muses, if not daemons, and at times they settled upon my skin as if to travel there.  They thought my soul a rest from the long smoke-filled pathway. We walked on to find the shroud. That veil which separates life from the world on fire, and hurls the soul into the blue forest. They whispered that they had been “Lost Boys” too. Unbound in other creations, their worlds scorched by the burdens of fallen men. So, I listened to them, as we passed by the seared headstones near the trail. Those graves of grandfathers, and pioneers, missionaries filled with evil and good will alike. Males of authority, bastards without a story of where or when. Rich and poor men. Those men known to a world on fire, without their boyhood name. Cut in two by lack of identity. A timidity of soul before the vale. Afraid to jump, or believe, and I walked hurriedly by, for I did not wish to know them, or be as them.

The apparitions with me, poked me with memories, as I stumbled through the ash filled undergrowth, reminding me that the delineation boundary was hidden at times, as if G_D wears a mask. I felt myself humbled, bruised, and I did not wish to be hurt or lost anymore. I quickened my pace, as if in doing so I might eliminate those questions that look for hidden responses, when the answers reside in the question itself. As the burning trees consumed the oxygen around me, and in a state of desperation I begged the specters which gave me haunt to know their names. I wished to know them, and with that acquaintance, I alluded myself to think that there was magic. A quickened as it might be. A mirror with a reflection to know whom I was supposed to be. It was then that I stumbled upon an uplifted root and found myself falling. And, as I fell, I heard ten thousand whispers repeating, “We are Legion“, and I knew they did not know their names, as I did not know mine. For I had become them.

I was dropping, falling as the morning star. A burning orb within me, plummeting within and without the world on fire. Plunging as David after the fall. Moving through lives and beyond burning shadows. Failed dreams, and an eternity of futile desire for knowing not my name, or what it meant. For the world was on fire, and every something appeared in a negative sum. A dwindling cool spot under an uncontrollable flame. A crisis that goes without repent. For the night had become the day, and the day the night.

……And I cried out to G_D to judge me, to know me as I am, to amplify my reasons for living under the calmness of her hand. To kiss me, to fill my soul and feel my face. To become me. To believe in me, as I bless the treasure, the mystery that is his hand. To be like Moses, and know it face to face. To be it face to face. For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny, to be one with the sum.

……And above me was the sound of pleasure, the movement of airborne wings, and what was separated from me, was in me once more. Kissing me in shadows, knowing me in light. For it was eternity beyond the curtain, and I was a child unbroken. I was in the calling, summoned out of a world on fire. I was a man. I was a man. – 10.15.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

* World on Fire lyrics – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand