The Reincarnation of David Asher (Le Fey)


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

Poe’s World (Before Light)


They stood outside William Burke, the snow starting to fall, Bobby’s chill just beginning, a sneeze, perhaps the start of the sniffles. “Hey Poe”, he whispered to his taller friend, the shadows from the barren trees scattering the landscape around them. “What happens after Halloween”? Edgar, studied his discolored leather boots for a few seconds. Finally his delicate hand found its way upward, shading his grey eyes, the departing sun turning them into late night embers…………..

“When Halloween’s over, and the streets have shut down, and all is past midnight, at three there’s a sound. The point of a boot that tenders one’s ear, and makes hope wonder if grace has drawn near, and all saints are willing to rise from lost mist, to break bread with Jesus and see what they missed. Upon stolen scion from some witches tree, that wood of all centuries, that cursed and diseased. What shadow does roll, antithesis of flame, that’s colder and darker, on Lucifer’s bane. Hath reason a wonder to seek dawn so clear, when motive is austere to keep pain and fear. The heel of the boot now in middle it strikes, the night is not over, the suns not in sight.

Whispering sentences, long tailing words, of tokens lost innocence, a slice of two thirds. The wearer of boots now, his name can’t be heard, he comes howling silence for the final third. A mystery of puzzles, of black feathered birds, to come for the soulless to gather the herd. What now a shutter that breaks against glass, that disturbs this silence in darkness at last, a wink from one dark eye, a bending of lid, the board disappears where the shutter did live. There will not be covers, for those who our lost, the bond has been broken, the line has been crossed. The heel of the boot in middle it strikes, the night is not over, the suns not in sight. What Nephilim worship, that spent half the night it draws nigh its quarter a cost for what’s right.

Ah, children sweet children, adults in your bed, tarry your promise, a soul in its stead. The promise you promise, your oath of strong drink, the boots standing silent before your odd keep, an apple a plenty, the sweetest perfume, mask you from haunting while painting strange doom. A nightmare of kisses, a third before sun, silent oh silence, when destiny’s done. The heel of the boot now in middle it strikes, the night is not over, the suns not in sight”. -11.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Curious (The Path Home)

A liege now, here he sits by my gate, his looks disheveled, his fingers long as stakes. He is devolved now, from his kingdom and his throne, a wild beast driven, unraveled and alone. What king come down, why did you seek, describe your thoughts, on what you’ve seen, and you still grazing by my gate, what have you learned from your fate? If I turn round and peer through you, what diadem of fortune did you choose, and low you speak unto my sake and tell me truth of treasures made. In turn he moves without his bounds, and brings me closer within his sound, and walls and writing our eyes once seen, and with an effort he does forth speak, and I am curious.

A seat perched higher than all the world, sat I from memory with gold made curls, and there from beginning I made king, did call down thunder for all my needs. In blood filled Nephilim’s from the deep I strode in Babylon from my keep, there rode I steeds that moved with speed, and all in all I still voiced need, so envious. A move of thought and empires died, I smote illusionists with my eyes, and my force of labor built on high, my ever need, for the envious. In hanging gardens from sky wells, I reached for heavens with my spells, and I told you as I never fail, I’m not curious.

Across the earth before this time, you called from ashes from this rhyme, and then before this gate appeared, a path awakened with your tears, and I’m curious. In all the world you shook at awe, in rites rebellion did you call, and burned before him with your cries, and you were envious. Here we are now, beast and time, in all within you that you find, have you come now before Adonai and your curious.

A path upon you oh my lord, for I was bound to serve you fore, and in instruction have you brought the key, and it does hold no jealousy. For all divine has called you, spoke you free, it places time in energy, and creates emotion harmony, a blend of love and curiosity.

Have you not wondered why you cry, been found wanting, when you sigh, have you been envious of days gone, are you curious. Do you ask questions of your life, remand your reasons you do not die, are you a victim passed from strife, and are you curious? The search eternal from a sprite who once ruled fortune from his site, he loosed his boundary with his plight he was curious. I am curious! – 10.12.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 Hello my old friend we meet again! – 😉

The Recipe

Clap your hands, ding a ling, look the other way, Texas crew is coming, the Packard’s on its way. Daddy brings you sunshine, like, he’s done before, pack your bags for heaven, we eat with G-D at four!

Woody first thought of the road trip, the trip in 54. The day his Daddy mentioned were headed to the North. The family filled the Packard, their eight voices sang, they left their Lubbock, homestead for what their Daddy craved. It had to be the end times, the sedentary crew, fit in seats like hoboes, monkeys in a zoo. Daddy had a mission, a cook with quiet a plan, in Santa Fe there’s chili that fills a hungry man. What Woody dared to wonder, as his dad drove that day, what is chili made of, that’s green upon a plate, his father told the family, start your dreams and pray, today we feast with angels, we eat in Santa Fe.

Clap your hands, ding a ling, look the other way, Texas crew is coming, the Packard’s on its way. Daddy brings you sunshine, like, he’s done before, pack your bags for heaven, we eat with G-D at four!

They crossed the line at Farwell, driving 84, somewhere it turned to desert, the heat made tempers soar. Mother said to Daddy, why did you bring us here, we are not like the Hebrews, I wish I had a beer. A cloud of feet were rising as children fought and played, the station wagon hovered between hell and heavens gaze. Woody’s mind was clear then of what his dad would say, I believe a recipe waits us in Santa Fe. My dear it is of chilies, green, I’ve heard some say, it brings your tongue to places, words I can’t relay, I’ve only heard its born North, there in Santa Fe.

Clap your hands, ding a ling, look the other way, Texas crew is coming, the Packard’s on its way. Daddy brings you sunshine, like, he’s done before, pack your bags for heaven, we eat with G-D at four!

Somewhere, around the Moon Ranch, upon road 66, there came from heaven thunder, apocalyptic sent. The Packard hit a deluge sent from angry skies, Mother screamed at Daddy you’ve brought us here to die. Woody and his siblings to their benefit, prayed to idols many, to bind the elements. Daddy drove on tight lipped his face awash in gray, the family knew at some point, he’d look at them and say. Up ahead is chili, born upon by man, I know it’s for the willing, the ones who drive this land. A recipe for taking, ahead in Santa Fe, no rain or storm can stop me, or cause us such delay.

Clap your hands, ding a ling, look the other way, Texas crew is coming, the Packard’s on its way. Daddy brings you sunshine, like, he’s done before, pack your bags for heaven, we eat with G-D at four!

The Packard rolled down Canyon down through Santa Fe, Daddy’s watch was ticking ten to four that day. There upon the plaza, the Packard came to rest, a Texas family followed their father to his test. Inside a small cantina, the type there is no more, a recipe was waiting like food not know before. A promised land of chili born by Juan’s own hand, it rested green and willing a journey found its end. Daddy turned his grey eyes, filled with tears that day, what’s born from this man’s warm stove, will rest my soul always.

Clap your hands, ding a ling, look the other way, Texas crew is coming, the Packard’s on its way. Daddy brings you sunshine, like, he’s done before, pack your bags for heaven, we eat with G-D at four!

 

Woody told me his daddy a fry cook out of Lubbock Texas had a penchant for loading the family of eight up in the 1954 Packard Station Wagon and cruising the dusty roads of the southwest in his eternal hunt to find the Green Chili recipe of the immortals. This is one such tale of their journeys. 😉 09.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Emory’s Barn

We watched him for hours as summer roamed on, a young boy devoured by legend of old, we led him on purpose to Emory’s barn to detail a wonder and fulfill his hours. A young man may venture and find a wild home, through doorways where hay stands, and omens do roam, and find leather saddles and tack that smells old, a medicine cabinet with salve, nails and comb. Look further young spirit toward rafters above with spiders and sparrows and may be a dove. The wooden floor opens towards shadows of old, his mind all a wonder a secret unfolds. We watched his gaze falter right there by the chair, is it really rocking, is some ghost still there. What now his eye’s flashing, ablaze with gay light, he’s seen the shell casing, so large with its might, from World War glory and Argonne blight, the smell of dark powder, his Papa’s barn this day will bring him new sight.

We are like a council, a grey flock in black, that tenders a young mind to always look back, but it not about us, so quietly defined, it’s more what this young boy in summer did find. We possessed him to wander in Emory’s barn to find a large bullet to hear such a yarn, but there his mind rambled and it did see more, we lost him in Verdun where he did see war, with trench’s and bayonets and blood flowing gore, in Marne we are ready, to fight all the more. What then he moved quicker across the barn floor and there he did find it a blade for a sword. What claymore of Scotland with blood on its rack that spoke of a time entered a Bosch to his back. A edge that saw action near Somme on a bank, when Rawlinson did order attack with the tanks, and one million perished on Ancre soil, their blood spilling over as G-d did recoil.

In Emory’s barn we hosted control, we lost it in summertime, from what he did sow, a young man with vision that entered a ditch,in faraway journeys with freedoms intent. We watched something happen as vision did whirl, a young boy found greatness as image unfurled. Come down now dark Eden, we’ve watched you birth boy, alone in his kingdom while summertime broils, we’ve watched him look distant and see us enflamed, the warriors of Mon’s, retreat with disdain, and yes those light footprints that start from the hay are worlds from lost shadows, now anchoring this boys new day. – 08.24.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Many a happy summer did find me investigating my Papa Emory’s barn which rested itself in the Arkansas Ozarks. Among the many beautiful trophy’s I did investigate and find were shell casings, a claymore blade, and many other spoils of war that my grandfather had gathered in France as he served with Pershing’s “Dogs of War” that had returned to favor Lafayette in payment of war debt for his kind service toward America some one hundred and forty five years previously. There in that barn on the upper level alone in the Arkansas heat, my mind did see many things. J