Portals (The End of Days)


“The irrevocable hand That opes the year’s fair gate, doth ope and shut the portals of our earthly destinies; We walk through blindfolded, and the noiseless doors close after us, forever. Pause, my soul, on these strange words for ever whose large sound breaks flood-like, drowning all the petty noise our human moans make on the shores of time. O Thou that openest, and no man shuts; That shut’st, and no man opens Thee we wait!” – Dinah Maria Mulack

“It is a bad time to think about wanting baby’s”, he said. “So much happening”. “So much darkness”, “so much hate”. “Still” she says, smiling, her lips drawing back to show her teeth. Still…

And the sun hid its face…

In the end of days, the sky fell forward, rolling toward us as summer set. For the fires from California, made our breathes so hard to get. In the cities along the front range, homeless came from not the west, brought their needles, sold their spirits, laid on concrete, the only place to find their rest. Dead was color, that of aura, that which circles an Eagles nest. No one spoke language, that word of people, all was transmitted in sign or texts. For what was summoned from those that ruled us an old man, whose mind forgets. A dangerous daemon of centuries stolen. Empires fallen on rich made bets. A turn of fortune, a once held glory, in darkened churches, those once used temples, where Jesus, forgot his wept. The end of days now, a turning seraph, a plague worth noting, in our minds kept. All thine the glory, in earth forgotten, a soul of total, is judged not worthy, not on a gross but on a net.

And the moon reddened its eye…

For all who tremble looking skyward, for those who hide their dry eyes in sand. That day has long been passed. Deemed completed, to sharpen weapons to cry reset. And oh, the vale is wide indeed, barren of spirit and growth of seed, one-wheel stops, while another one turns in need. The clock no longer measures the seasons, the long grass has turned into weeds. Flags of nations wave, while Rome burns on a pirate’s creed.

And the portal was ready to receive…

In the end of days, I hold out my hand through darkness and touch you where your legs recede. The whole world is silent, as into each other our soul’s weave. A cosmic duration, that conjures meaning. Then, now, and forever, I love you. For we conceive portals, the kind each lover needs, an answer to the question, of how to believe. And the world explodes around us, the old and what was new. For the door is falling open the signs upspoken, our souls a turquoise blue.

And the day was made of lightning for the night had been so long…

“It is a bad time to think about wanting baby’s”, he said. “So much happening”. “So much darkness”, “so much hate”. “Still” she says, smiling, her lips drawing back to show her teeth. Still… – 09.08.21 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

The Turquoise Soul (Dreaming)


“You’ve got to always go back in time if you want to move forward.” – Snoop Dogg

“You have a turquoise iiʼ sizíinii“, Grandma Blackhorse says. She is looking deep into the campfire. The flames reflect in her aged eyes and make them look like they are glowing. “Don’t scare the boy”, Ms. Woods says. She is to my back; I can hear the sound of the dough, flipping back and forth slapping her hands. “He’s not scared “, Grandma says, opening her mouth to show a toothless smile, “he is soon to dream”. “Stop it mother, it is not their way”, Ms. Woods says, her voice lower, sounding concentrated. She is no doubt worried about the consistency of the fry bread and hoping it does not burn. “May be not their way”, Grandma, laughs, “but it is his way”. “It is his way”.

A lighter blue just before sunrise, still it is dark at 4:00 AM. Falling deep into a slumber, as the chants begin and end. Three-sixteenths a time a sliver, into a higher desert wind, high above this firmament, this journey, into your ways do I descend. Not of this world, but of this people, between four mountains that ascend. Night has fallen on the Black Yeii; let the light of holy boy begin again. Round and round the worlds bend.

So it is that I am dreaming, of the beginning and the end. Of a soul that learns from mercy, born for water in the San Juan’s
end. Star gaze I into the heavens of a universe where life begins, five billion light years of glory, while right here now I am ten again. Black, yellow, white rotates again, while the turquoise eats my sin.

A safer place has never happened, why oh why can it not be. That every grey hair on this planet should be a child with me. Spinning it would seem in a turquoise destiny. Seeing this stone ship, that which flew, with fires and ash from a deep cold blue. Now it brings me here, from time immortal, cast down by a dream so clear. Everything happens in time, a constant in movement by design. Forwards, backwards, jumping over rhymes. The answer to the riddle is those who seek will find. Floating in a dream three-sixteenths at a time. In a desert near, may be like a child the answer comes so clear. Never fear, be free, dream with me.

“Come boy, come here”. Grandma Blackhorse is motioning me over to her side of the fire, using her nose to beckon. I look to see if Ms. Woods is paying attention, but she is busy hustling pots and pans over to the house to clean. “Boy I said come here”, Grandma has raised her tone. I shuffle over to her, hesitant but not afraid for Grandma is smiling again. Grandma is holding out something in her hand, and as I reach her side, she motions for me to take it. I look for just a moment into her eyes, those eyes that have seen time, and perhaps traveled it too. When I look down, my hand is holding a piece of rough-hewn turquoise. “You have a turquoise iiʼ sizíinii”, Grandma Blackhorse says. -08.27.21- דָנִיֵּאל

Authors Note: Grandma Blackhorse’s piece of Turquoise resides with this author’s soul and rock collection, as it will until the stars fall from the sky and I fly the Shiprock home.

Never Never Land


“So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!” – James M. Barrie

Nothing had ever forbade me to dream of that home I searched for, that place in childhood where I felt safe. Still it seemed to elude me in my nightly visions, for to go there would require a balance. A threading of the needle between lack of, and want to. The summoning of the spirit of will. A belief in divination. The conquering of great adversities to find “Never Never Land” and to own within my own nature, that I was “The Pan”.

3:00 AM August 7, 2021

Left alone it would seem in ferocious weather on a roughhewn stone, in a violent sea. Dreams in phases am I young man, or am I in want, an old man deceived. What would I say has brought me this mystery, brought me this sword that cuts flesh from bone. Sold me naked in a world not my own. What would I say surrounds me in darkness, comforts me more than a warm bed at home. Standing still, I feel so disabled, lightning comes and I am alone. I am so alone.

The dragons have risen to lighten my darkness, come to demand a payment a toll. Deals made in ignorance, while I was younger, have put a strain on my inward soul. Questions unanswered, one and another, why do we search to find what stories have told. Too many thoughts lost in reflection, time owes no man what he cannot hold. Still I say it bold, a legend of fancy, a legacy behold. I am The Pan.

For what is the discomfort here? In my own thoughts, a judgment made clear. Flaws ingrained by my own instigated fear. Aged frowning daemons attack. To what I would not wish for myself to go back. To find my comfort in what I do lack. Wrapped in darkness within my soul. Not to see this storm in phantoms unfold. Not to see the rocks that I must climb, lines on my face, say I am out of my time. Tick tock, tick tock, I should have ran. Still my better ghost remind me in this late hour. I am The Pan.

So on to my hunt, with old bones creaking, tame the dragon my childhood is seeking. To find the tunnels, to enter the arch, know the secret that carries the ark. A covenant of mystery I see, an ancient rite brought to me. Count the numbers ahead, they fall from the skies and enter my head. Enter the sea the spirits forbade. The sky is spinning, my best plans unmade. Enter the doorways ahead. The seal is broken and time is unwed. For I will go on, straight to the castle, the light just ahead. To find the final truth, in G_D’s plan. An old man young in “Never Never Land”. I am The Pan. I am The Pan. – 08.12.2021- דָּנִיֵּאל‎ 

The Thin Wire


“Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it”. – Hunter S. Thompson

It took place by a dark bayou, the war in her mind. It raged both within and without her. It happened with hardly a sound, say that gasp she heard before she gave up the ghost and simply went away. Simply went away.

The Daemon’s eyes were lightning, seizing the warm June air about his glare, making it smell of Sulphur and musty faire. He spoke in a voice of judgment taught to him by his father the deceiver. It was his only weapon. His words formed circles around the head of the brown haired maiden, and with each syllable that was twisted; she jerked her body as if she was receiving pain. For indeed she appeared bereaved, and sadly enough her image itself began to change. It was with a ghastly sigh, a sorrow untold, a difference between the fantasy and the lie, the keeper of breath and the devil that defies. The war of the mind between judgment and the divine. The thin wire that separates the divide.

Still, lay still my faire maiden, rest thy torn, and shattered mind, gentle here by this dark water, a bottle by thy side. Gone is guile of some temptation that is to try a greater high. No more days of emulation, loss of weight the candy’s eye. Now we see you in death’s slumber, form so small beneath humid skies. Shadows summoned, wrap around you, a smaller form, have not seen I. Ere the cries of those who love you, those to whom there was no bye. Read they now of your alienation, in “The Catcher and the Rye“, and how the thin wire breaks inside. For when it breaks, it breaks inside.

Cast her spirit on the water; let her soul find comfort there. Watch it fly then into thin wonder air. There is no judgment there. Had she not some good within her, that extinguished by a rain. That of falsehood and addiction that fell upon her by disdain. Gather here, you grounded muses, those who taunt and flame. Look at her form still before you know she fell in war, that conflict in your name. For her thin wire is stretched among you, from one to each your much the same. Is it not true one less among you, and yet you feel no shame. Not one or two will ever change. For though she dies just barely, her thin wire cut in two. Something that has compassion nearby will welcome her completely and new. For wars are fought in many battles, in this world to stars beyond our own. This now still faire maiden, has moved on to take a future home.

Still, lay still my faire maiden, rest thy torn, and shattered mind…

For the faire maiden (for there on the other side you now know who you are) and the many more out there, whom embrace a battle inside all their own. It is not too late, wait but just a little while. – 06.30.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Lost Book of Shadows


“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” – Roald Dahl

“How many pages do you think we have”, he says his blue eyes wide with interest. “More than enough to make this kind of a Bible”, I smile, holding up the three ring black binder to the star filled sky. “It’s a book of secrets alright”, he says nodding his head furiously up and down, his taped black framed glasses sliding down his nose. “We need to hide it where we both know where it is”, I say my smile disappearing, as the night air around us seems to chill. Much too cold for the end of May, I am thinking. “Yeah”, he says. “We need to make sure we don’t forget where we put it”.

What is done here upon this night, by this stream, my boyhood rite. What is done here beneath these bluffs, shape-shifting shadows, on midnight’s cusp. What is done here while stars fall fast, turning the moon from full to the past. Time travelers move beyond my dreams, splitting the heavens and all their seams. For what do I see this vision faire, something found relieved from its lair, a secret lost upon life’s whim, buried beneath and now I know when. Tousled hair on two boy’s blue, who buried a book of all they knew. Down the Coolidge Arroyo, and then a swim, in muddy cold water, that sucks you in. Twelve steps ahead on an island mound, and then another swim, with a prayer not to drown. Seven steps forward and nine to the right, to the dark overhang, where we stand with our book and two penlights.

What do we own but our own minds, what makes us ghost, when we do die? The answers to what lies within, the secret handshake, the hidden grin. Who killed Bobby, and who shot Jack, the answers might stay in this book so black. Does time hold us, or do we hold time? Are we here as a glimpse, or a reflection of our mind? And what of dragons, and what of arks, are both really hidden in our friendship in this dark. For in this book lies craft and Zen, love and character, spells and sin. For dreams have told us, visions we have had, that the past is our future, in a circle it will last. And the doomsday clock that we have numbers circled within, will end all time, when a new age says begin.

“Do you think we will remember where we hid that thing”? My teeth are chattering, I am cold and I smell like muddy river water. “You won’t”, he says his voice sounding more distant and light. “But I do”, he whispers, almost quietly, almost gone, almost a ray of early morning light, for it is a dream. It is a dream. – 05.24.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Call to Prayer

“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” – Meister Eckhart

Heed me, need me, call me please me, oh holy.

The call to prayer is my writing. A story not based in my pride. A part of me of which I am revealing, for which in fact, I know not how or know why. It is like a question that was raised to me this morning, as I saw the Colorado Mountains that reached to the sky. The words they came from compassion born from inside me, “If they glorify me above their stature, can you do not the same in word and in rhyme”.

The call to prayer rest inside me. In a place battered by hell. Deep in the valley of spirit and bone, a link to the divine that lives to tell. The story of letters and numbers, of seals and mystical grails. Sometimes uttered as sounds and music, sometimes screams and wails. It is true I have been not a temple, a prophet, or seer of worlds. Still when I pray something happens, the shadows inside me unfurl. Orbital echoes of summoning, that form beyond a divide, that whose names goes unspoken, becomes one with my creature inside. A feeling of fullness eternal, what is cannot be denied, for G_D as she most perpetual, has made me sane while the world goes crazy outside. To pray to bless my creator, the coals of her mercy inside, hallowed be thy creation, your footprint of breath carries my life. Your footprint of breath carries my life.

So here, I am a part of a missive, a call to prayer, let me praise, let me praise. The seals holding the eternal bond within me break when I open to pray. This a part of my union, between she and my life day to day. The call to prayer from the start of the cosmos, on to on goes it on to each day. How does it help to sustain me in the here and the now of this day? The answer is found in a mystery, a word from the ancient of days. “Know me to know you intensely; I am, so you are each day, spoken and born so intimately, am I not worthy of praise. Am I not worthy of praise?”

The call to prayer is my writing. A story not based in my pride. A part of me of which I am revealing, for which in fact, I know not how or know why. It is like a question that was raised to me this morning, as I saw the Colorado Mountains that reached to the sky. The words they came from compassion born from inside me, “If they glorify me above their stature, can you do not the same in word and in rhyme”.

Heed me, need me, call me please me, oh holy. – דָנִיֵּאל – 05.05.2021

The Jerusalem Theory


“We contain the shapes of trees and the movement of rivers and stars within us.” – Patrick Jasper Lee

His screams awaken me again. “You saw the holy city again”? The question slips from my just awakened mouth. I instantly regret the sound my question carries. “No daddy”, he says, his eyes filling with tears, “I am the holy city”. “I am the holy city”.

He awakes within his battles, turns an inward eye to see and it rolls an observation, of intuition around the holy city, which he conceived. For his mind, it is a treasure, built from time on eternity. An eschatology that confounds a modern world immersed in academic degrees.

He awakes within his battles, and fashions safe high walls. Thick in stone and drying mortar, higher towers to see it all. He circles round and round his sanctuary, placing angels four fathoms tall. His altar deeply buried in the center of the great all. He hums his body is the temple, he grasp the illusion of a call, an obtrusive whispering dragon woman, who says the time is his to call. For his mind is the eternal city, that withstands all carrion calls, underneath a canopy of G_Ds great favor, he watches dark large figures fall. Now center to this theory, of time, and what he sees, is the notion that his mind is a city in the Judean Mountains between the Mediterranean and deep Dead Sea. It’s a notion built in neurons and synapses we cannot believe, that the senses of an individual is in a world we just cannot see.

His nightmares are built in Babylon, by guile and snakes out of trees. The touching sounds of withered fingers scraping across a skin he cannot see. They want to hold him captive in a darkness ruled by grief, a unipolar world of chaos, the one inhabited by you and me. They want to tear down the walls of his Jerusalem to discover what it is he sees. They come as warriors clothed in confusion, not the peacemakers or helpers they claim to be. For in Babylon they do not understand the thoughts so different, or the visions they cannot see.

So, war comes against his city. In a rolling raging sea, armed with all of life’s armchair seers from the science of life that is brief. They call upon their allies from the Euphrates; bring your archers to shoot the breech. Let us understand this city’s weakness. Let it fall beneath our feet. Call down our god’s of human frailty, of science of no degree, let this be that, and that a lesson, not forgotten for all to see. Let us learn this place of mystery, let us in by self-decree. What we know from our own learning is what we worship as our deity.

In the end as all in final, in the end that comes so brief, there stands the ruins of Babylon, while Jerusalem can still be seen. In the end is still the mystery, the blessing of his thoughts to be, for the magic of his inward motion, is a city that holds its keep. Is a city that holds its keep.

He awakes within his battles, turns an inward eye to see and it rolls an observation of intuition around the holy city, which he conceived. For his mind, it is a treasure, built from time on eternity. An eschatology that confounds a modern world immersed in academic degrees. – 03.21.21 – דָנִיֵּאל

For the millions who fall on the spectrum in this alien world.

Ivanhoe (An Addendum)

“Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last final awakening.” – Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe

For Ivanhoe sailed on a blue cold sea, ever present from what could be, to be a knight of war no more, to embrace his final score. No more dust and blood of war, just better passions on heavens shores.

Hold still thy Eastern windows, those upon the North Sea, facing toward Jerusalem, where there I will soon be free. Breaking now my spirit that, which is a loom, weaved by darkened feelings, comes the witch before the moon. What was my father’s fortune, tithes and land and silk, lay I now before thee, thy daemons and their ilk. Forge the steel of Canaan a double-sided seal, who knows if it is really, really real. Here now I pray, between the stones from another day. Standing still, I cry as all men cry, “will G_D let me stay”? Whom is now upon me? Darkness or the light by day? What is its fashion, poet or warrior fallen by a blade? So, this night, this starless, soulless night, filled by shadows, great with evil’s plight. Is it mine to reckon, to stiffen with my arm? By these shores of England in a calm or storm. Still I hear thee bade me, come unto my breast. Oh my G_D you know me, in this you know me best.

I thought upon this hardly, when first a sword I sheathed, to carry death upon my hip, better to give unto than receive. For all the years of battle when my mind saw blood red, I never thought that demise could come peaceful for men once bled. For what the passion of all true things, those men of oath can often decree. Their minds lacking character in the power of control they deceive. Their laws held high on banners, held to heaven’s doors. From love and savage battle, they are laws that never bind to us subsequently once we are no more. For here, it makes no difference, this crusade now described, in final breathing moments, to a black angel. Oh her eyes.

Names, names, names I would be remiss, not to say my true love’s name, in death I truly miss. Daughter of the misty lake, Saxon queen whose sweet lips I often taste. She who leaves before me, now by a flowered filled lake. For all the swords and lances, have I thrust, to give unto this dark angel all my trust? To view Rowena in a land so faire. Very different over there. For ever Loxley perhaps I shall miss, its stone and thatch and heavy mist. For what has come in what I see in these boiling eyes nonmoving before me. Just a calm within a storm, in a circle that feels so warm. In a circle that feels so warm.

For Ivanhoe sailed on a blue cold sea, ever present from what could be, to be a knight of war no more, to embrace his final score. No more dust and blood of war, just better passions on heavens shores. – 02.20.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Night of Things (Mayhem)


“There are methods to creating a mayhem that sounds different from your usual mayhem. Because mayhem and a heavy drum backbeat end up sounding like Green Day or something. But if you put a different beat within it to create some air and lightness, the chaos comes through better.” – Nick Cave

It was mayhem to drive up the mountain at midnight, to visit my father’s grave. A night of things, both describable, and some not, that guided me up the sliver of a winding road to find my better angels. Perhaps daddy spoke to me, perhaps he did not, but something did. Something deep and dark, that deals with mayhem in the most effective way.

Whisper’s whisper all around me, from the mountains, crags and high plains. Whisper’s whisper ere, thy name. Blessings to this night of things, ere mayhem love is still the same.

Ere these feelings, ere these symptoms on this highway, underneath your heavens a spinning shell. Ere I am dying, awhile I am driving, ere I am dying, silence around me I die so well. For mayhem finds me upon your starlight headed toward highlands, beneath crosswinds, nothing happens, when something happens near well. It has been a long while since I came here. To your graveyard, here upon this highest vale, oh daddy you brought me, to speak of mystery of shine that blinds the heart when mayhem the truth will not tell. What a fortune, what a beauty here near your buried ashes, the book of secrets the night does tell. In the snow shining by car light night of things save me from the tides of hell. Ere I go up on this mountain, sing a night song my troubles fail, in the gloom of skyward shadows of timeless winter trees so pale.

Ere oh purpose, why I cry out, begging mercy from those who sleep. Laying snowbound in all their ashes so frozen here beneath my feet. Ere the circle turning faster stealing secrets from this a keep, just standing before Ezekiel’s wheels all I can do is weep. Ere the mayhem of the signal. Ere, what is hidden beneath cross beams? What comes from all around me before one A.M.?

Whisper’s whisper all around me, from the mountains, crags and high plains. Whisper’s whisper ere, thy name. Blessings to this night of things, ere mayhem love is still the same.

For something here is me, something comes on this night of things, and through all nature, begs me bind, thoughts of treasures beneath frozen vines, I think I finally see. That for all mayhem that stays inside, it reveals the signs of life indeed. For where there is death there must be life to see. – 01.23.21-
דָנִיֵּאל

Victoria


” Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”. – Tecumseh

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face. Moving G-d like before me while angels wait.

In and out of minutes, heartbeats slowing, I see her dancing upon a dawn filled sea. Planting footsteps that are visible to only those who would see. And it seems that she would kiss me nicely. And it seems she would fly with me. For she is of the beginning. The beginning of my eternity.

If I should hear her if I should go to play. If my shoes should not fit and stay unlaid. If voices should become a second place. On a present morning before the sun has thought to raise. If change should happen, music and light replace my pleasant grace. If G_D should find me willing to ride the wind on her beckon of faith. My heart broken, my breath that can longer taste. My taste for earth fainter than my fading face. Oh, then Victoria I will ascend in numbers across this water so chaste. While there are seconds moving, time that I no longer make, my soul moving, into spirit beyond the tides that break.

If moving morning shadows should bring me angels. If their high notes should barriers break. If I should find myself willing, to touch her face. A distant journey, now a present place. No longer a question, indecision, or an unintelligible race. If I should no longer suffer, descend to a stoic held together by man’s science or medical case. Know that I am moving upon that water, my eyes wider, no terror left to shake. If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me while angels wait. In death I trip, but so quickly I reach and touch your blessed lace. That which makes you in me. That which you let me take.

If I should walk in mystery, into thy ark with such an airless ease. If their would-be Seraphim that fold their wings when I, upon my journey make. Touching syllables, that only immortals make, crying holy, while she dances for me. If I am growing lighter, closer than, closer than my G_D to thee. For here there would be no lessor freedoms than what she has made in me. If she would make an equation, a variable to a prophesy, it would be that I am with Victoria, for in Victoria I have come to be.

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me.

Jovine DeMarcus’s daughter carries his thoughts and blood deep within her. I am married to her. Jovine taught me how to pull wire, hammer a nail, and put together the most intricate electrical wiring equations. I taught him about the mountains. He wanted me to call him dad and I fought it. I fight it no longer. Jovine went to his Victoria, his woman of the water and mountain on December 23rd, 2020 at 4:15 AM in the morning. Sweet travels Dad. Sweet travels. Miss you much more than I ever thought I would. 12.31.20- דָּנִיֵּאל