First Christmas

“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.


The Invictus 1896

“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul”. – William Ernest Henley – Invictus

“At Christmas, all roads lead home”. – Marjorie Holmes

The specter came upon them that Christmas morn, dressed as the ancient, her eyes weary and worn. And it was when each looked to see, they saw only the reflection of themselves set free. And each favored lady took it to mind, what did it mean, to know the beginning of time. So, they all gathered where all ladies wait, in the main quarters of their mysterious estate. For something had happened, that they needed to know, what was their bloodline, and from where did it flow.

The needles of pine stopped falling precisely, the minute the clock in the great hallway rang one. The darkened hearth came too so suddenly, as if awakened by some ethereally song. The aroma of secrets of soft cloth and bedding, the richness of kisses, and spells done till dawn. The veil is closing, from those so blinded. For centuries, they thirsted, for now what is won. Come dresses of linen of silk, on rose skin scented, the candles are burning, so tapered so thin. The snowflakes fall, from windows in heaven. Tongues twist to catch them to mix with hot gin. The tale the sum, the time of investment, the thousand years must stretch to no end. Time is sewn into gowns and vestments. The Invictus has come and the coven is ready for the tale to spin.

“Gather this midnight; come near my mind”, whispers sweet Mina, she whispers in rhyme, “Come ladies of mine”.

I will tell you a story, with night as its start, a legend, a secret, held deep in my heart. A dream of a talon that scratched a skin bare, in December’s wonder, a woman so faire. She bled only one drop of blood in the snow, and from it rose daemons, in beauty they glowed. What came out of Streoneshalh, from that ancient day, the birth of a witch from an Abbess that strayed? Upon such ground so formed by the ice, came manners of beings that conjure by night. And here by a summons of that woman so faire, rose a loft manor, the rooms of our lair. Oh, dreamers dream dreams, sweet ladies you are melding, dancing in spirit, your hearts all aglow. I beg you by name; bring forth the “Invictus”, come winter spirit, and in Whitby unfold.

By term, they arise, to dance in the essence, of the forboden. Past particle present, of where they began. In twos and threes, they summon the abbess, spirit that is chambered immortal within. Amazing grace, the music is playing, the manor shakes so warm from within, the half-moon falls from its place in the heavens, sweet witches pleasured by familiars of sin.

Words with no sound they come from sweet Mina, with names and stories from what has been.

The half-moon strikes the ruins of the abbey; the snow on its arches highlights shadows from in. Deep underground lies an ocean of spirits, minus one abbess who has risen again. Across winter skies comes a dark dragon, a flying red leviathan from before time began. An icy gale moves throughout Lucy’s garden, breeching dead petals, and hedgerows thick limbs. Inside the manor the festive are dancing, the ball of the “Invictus” begins! Gather your hearts, and feast from this table, the call from dead fables spins round again. Each witch’s soul has been searched by an angel, that which is ever is planted within.

“It’s the beginning,” thinks Mina, as lights cross the sky. The embers reflected like sparks in her eyes. “The beginning of ever, beyond never end”!

A very happy holiday to all and a special kiss under the mistletoe for my Whitby Ladies, Lucy, Mina, Madison Poe, Elisheba, Resa, Carlotta and Evangeline, you have certainly made the year interesting. – 12.24.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Angelica (Candelabrums)

I watched the candle burn, the wax it melted, and dropped without a sound, similar to the memories dyeing inside what used to be the Christian part of me. I lie in leaves of snow by a dead barren tree, the frozen Poudre trickles so lightly near me. It is another holiday, a bed of luminescent passing beyond my conscious so brief. The candle I have brought burns into the cold night seeking the phantom, the spirit of a common flame, so uncommonly. My eyes they close, by design to quicken the shadow of the flame the shape of unformed ghost my destiny internally. And I have come undone, Angelica, she descends the tongues of G_D, the candle burns my soul so incessantly. Far above me the dark sky, lights with candle flames a massive futuristic sea.

Above the ground a song is heard, in triple chords, in six held notes, it freezes like a rhyme in me. Elijah comes, Elijah goes, the cold dark night in the candle glow, still his mantle he will not fold, and warm me. And I think about these things, as the candle burns, what makes a gift, can it be traced, is it spirit, or is it love, are we light, or all the darkness that seems too much. And I have come undone, Angelica, hovers to my loins and breaks my soul, to let my true self through. For in those days she led my people, she led them on through. This holiday, while the candles burning she will guide me too.

I drive the canyon, thinking of lessons, curves and boulders, looming in shadows, the flame of my candles through. I left the candle out by the river, the wax melted to some residue. The old me, there by the river, the light extinguished, another year consumed. If memory bares, a replica of the candle, a truthful deliverance, will lead me through. For now, possessed, an essence inside me I have come undone. I have come undone.

I watched the candle burn, the wax it melted, and dropped without a sound, similar to the memories dyeing inside what used to be the Christian part of me. – 12.21.2-16 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Avant-garde Nicholas

In winter nights when fires had died out near Ypsilon mountain, with star strung skies hung soft about, gathered he the children, the ones who see, unto his keep, in new deep conscious, a new belief. No tale of shepherds, or wise men here, just old religion, that takes one fears, and dances fury, in yuletide faire, unto the heavens in winters air. The dusk, the night, it sweeps away, the pain of years, one thought would stay, an interest bearing of no defeat, comes his white skin glowing like ice in sheets. Gathered and huddled, and now dispersed, sweet children of ages of all the earth, a boy a Pan, a midnight birth, the gift in the mind of all stages.

Has there ever been word that he has been birthed, by woman of flesh, or womb of the earth? Are signs in his eyes, that speak happiness, or is it all fable, the legend that is. Does it not come in gifts without sin, a standard of giving, the friend that’s within? Dare say that eyes see him, on cold winters night, the spirit that’s watching the ghost that is bright. For he has come calling from that holy site, out near that mountain, with star strung skies. And just like that piper who ask you to try, he’s flying tonight through your mind.

So many have traced him, and thought they’d found fame, through their view of history, or what lore would say, and fun in the winter, oh fun in his name, it’s not what he’s wished them to say. The whispers round starlight of what he has done, the truth came from heartache of when he’d lost one, and learned from the spirit, the hope when he had none, to give all his love away. So children look forward, and turn not around, take all of his gift, and forward it on, and watch morning come, oh watch it come on, a gift, a new day. A gift a new day.

In winter nights when fires had died out, near Ypsilon mountain, with star strung skies hung soft about, gathered he the children, the ones who see, unto his keep, in new deep conscious, a new belief.

May this season bring you a new day. – 12.24.2015 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

This December You Should Eat Candy

Candy Canes_0

For the first time, I am sensing a pox on the land.  Mind you not your ordinary lactose intolerant funk.  This pasty pale that has settled over the globe appears built of greater sinister quality.  My thoughts at first settled around a blame game kind of thing.  After all it’s that Holiday time of year.  Something about the Yule log, Hanukkah and frenzied Christians insisting that Jesus is the reason just loops people.  Dark feelings over take and well you know bring out the anti-depressants and Sigmund Freud.  This year though, this year!  How do I wrap my words into description?  That’s it I think, this year has silence.  A strange void has settled upon the populous.  A desert has leaked into the fruited fields of spirit; a great unwashed has been scrubbed clean.  That I would venture frustrates me, and yes my imaginative readers it might should bug you too.

So what we have here on my part is a bit of theological musings.  Kind of a basic eschatology of wit, that will defy most of what, my compadres slumping through this codex of mysticism believe.  Many of these wonderful folks will probably hasten to find their old VHS copy of “The Exorcist” to shake their fingers at their blurry screen when Linda twirls and say “aha, aha”.  That’s okay.  A fair season ago I hypothesized that there are more than enough thinking bigots to each build their own tower of Bable.  I just figured I would love them enough to rent them the building tools it takes.  Leasing suggestive guidance can be a lucrative business, so I have heard from many a television evangelist.  I would be remiss if I didn’t offer a little mortar to all those towers.

Have you seen many lights and decorations going up around you this year?  I did a little informal survey in our hamlet, an anecdotal investigation if you will.  It had occurred to me that after living in this neighborhood for the past four Holiday seasons, things were looking just somewhat gloomier this year.  I spread my sleuthing out to include other neighborhoods.  Low and behold, the lightless homes began to flood my imaginary list.  The lack of Santa and Rudolph, and the baby Jesus on lawns far and wide was noticeable.  The dreariness was unspeakable.  Homes seemed desolate and hollow.  Indeed it was as if a pestilence had invaded the land.

It occurred to me, as you might already be thinking that this whole rag of mine might have its basis in the meager economic times countless are facing.  The modern era of December has usually been linked closely with materialism.  Some very spiritual like language has been addressed in accordance to what little Johnnie or Helga received under the Pagan tree.  Words like blessed, joy, loved, have all been linked carefully with given and spent and the latest shiniest digital what not.  It could be true that finances play a roll here, but I don’t think so.  We have history to look to as our guide to disprove that one.  Many a homemade gift was given during the World’s great depression from 1930 to 1939.  People were living in boxes, and they still found a way to carve a manger set out of a few pieces of lye soap to display.  Millions of Jews found a way to celebrate Hanukkah while being marched to the gas chambers during the holocaust.  The survival instinct of the human race has always been stronger than having a few gold coins to call your own.

The negated today finds itself at home in the opposite of G-D.  There I wrote it.  I even gritted my teeth when I put the words down.  There had to be something there.  What I am about to write is going to illicit howls from many of my brethren.  That’s good.  You’re alive and not nullified.  The reverse of good is not evil.  The opposite of salvation is not sin.  The conflict of judgment is not compassion.  There is no conflict for they are one.  True opposition is not when the structure is destroyed to be replaced with another building.  When trepidation is replaced with apprehension you still have fear, and therefore you live, your spirit resides.  No is not opposite of yes, as any good sales representative will tell you, the cash register will not ring the sale when the prospective client says nothing.  We have acquired ground zero my crew, and the enemy of life and the goodness we all seek is nothing.  In nothing is where real abandoned of Sheol reside.  It is the eye of the soul that has been at long vanquished by our civilization, and we are witness to one another of the emptiness we see.  The holiday from nothing has retreated.  The Mid Winter Solstice finds itself changing clothes under the stealth gaze of electronic ghost and weapons, for they see only, but they are nothing in the performance of logic, in the death of the living that they seek.  Nothing has sought to cleanse the law of something.

This December you should eat candy.  This holiday you should sing to your G-D in a minor key.  In the night of the twenty-first you should burn incense and dance naked like perhaps the Druids did before the North Sea.  You should carve your manger out of pieces of lye soap, and celebrate what a wonderful nativity you see.  Hanukkah sweet Hanukkah, it is the Assembly of Yisrael’s time to turn and harvest the tree.  It is an end of time it is a beginning of time.  While we celebrate, the real eternal will change the laws, and that candy you taste will harmonize your being with a glow in your soul that is something free. – DS – 12/12/2013