The Gospel of Darkness (Passover 2020)


And we sing…

The law of the Lord is perfect, in its purpose and what it finds. In darkness it fills us, and allows us no cover from the judgment of what G_D finds. Hallelujah, it is time…

It is Passover…

The sun has set, its glow traveling near you, moving near me, perhaps it moves by request for the final time. Perhaps it determines the final key. It moves across an April snow here in Colorado, bringing judgement at Passover. Exposing a false spring, exposing skin. And yes, there is a question, (darkness) there is an incantation of rhyme, it comes not in light by sight so incandescent, but before the throne of darkness, here now in the end of G_D’s spare time. While Ezekiel’s wheels move across my wandering mind. Spending, removing distance, from what this Passover comes to find.

I’m listening to “Jane Siberry” sing “The Gospel According to Darkness” for the eleventh time as I write. Jane is a new discovery for me, a pleasing discovery. Her words invade my physical body, they stalk my soul, and they invite me to write truth’s I might at most times keep hidden. (Get thee above me) Here in darkness, here in shadow, here before any light. I feel homeless, I feel blind, and it could be that I am kept hidden from that which would take this my first-born life. For here in the shallow, here in the value of a snow drifting flight. Here below, that flicker, so many, many people that are good are held by fright. For I know it’s Passover, (darkness) I know its faith by night. For it comes in the dimness, it comes to the blind, for G_D is here among us as we watch the snow fly.

And we sing…

“The law of the Lord is perfect, the pleasure of her inner sight. The question of are you worthy, we will find the answer here, without any light. For we are not G_D’s paroles, indentured in bright light, bound by some dogma, Easter’s sunrise hides the blight.

It is Passover…

There is a place named “alone” (darkness). Angels unclothed, angels parting, to death all dies that we have ever known. In changing shadows, shifting by purpose, planning all that by a millennia she has designed. We are delivered, you and I are born by all we are resigned.

And we sing…

The law of the Lord is perfect, in its purpose and what it finds. In darkness it fills us, and allows us no cover from the judgment of what G_D finds. Hallelujah, it is time… -04.15.20 – דָּנִיֵּאל

She and Ordinary Men


“I was not a messiah, but an ordinary man who had become a leader because of extraordinary circumstances.” – Nelson Mandela

The angel came…

The homeless guy had a slight English accent, maybe from Worcester I’m not really certain though. He had been drinking for three days straight he said, still his accent was fairly firm, and his thoughts spoken plain. “I saw an angel of the Lord“, he said. “He looked right through me and said he was interested in ordinary men”. “The angel told me great things come from ordinary men”, he said. When he said that, I noticed his eyes lost color. Watered down almost. Supernatural almost, and yet quite ordinary. In that moment I wished to be the most ordinary, the most common, for there was the heat. There was G_D

The angel came…

Saw a boy through a thin glass, saw a boy dancing near Tupelo, saw a bright spot, a big bird sailing high above. In the indigo sang a child, under the moon, dancing near the moss oak that holds the old coon. The questions came as questions can. Is he a shimmer in the dark, is he a twist that makes you want to twist too? Possessed by thoughts of what he can’t say. Does he sing to the stars, does he move in you, is he chosen by all sides? Is he fame, or is he shy just lost now as a typical man? For it could be we are all her, exploding in all we could say, chosen by her to be alive, gifts unopened, a dream, an unbearable ordinary man.

The angel came…

Saw a stutterer, a man who needed tamed, saw him leaving through puzzles in the dark, lost inside, for want of purpose, lacking spark. And a big bird flying high, to a burning bush, a symbol, that can haunt you. Words in syllables and flames, G_D of shadows, fire and rain. G_D who chooses losers known by any other name. Is he fame or trying to hide, gone tomorrow, here today, archetypal by test of man? Commandments given; nothing hides. For it could be we are all her, exploding in all we could say, chosen by her to be alive, gifts unopened, a dream, an unbearable ordinary man.

The angel came…

Saw an answer in a dream, walking deserts, moving through streams. Moved through time, watched my children born, what does it mean. Watched a big bird flying close to me, and wondered why. In the open, under star lit sky’s, followed by the G_D of need, seeking answers in what I see. I ask above, I ask again, let me go for nothing ends. Still she sends the bird of prey, holding me until it’s day. Then I understand the art, understand from where I start. For it could be we are all her, exploding in all we could say, chosen by her to be alive, gifts unopened, a dream, an unbearable ordinary man.

The angel came… – 02.21.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

Songbird (OCD)


“My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened” – Michel de Montaigne

I tell him he’s a songbird when he’s terrified, not a simple canary, no not that. Rather he’s a Hawk, a screaming raptor, that hunts symphony, that looks through the patterns of confused stanzas, and bad timing, and finds perfection. For he, this son of mine is perfection. He has flown to great heights, and yes, he has skimmed the valley floors. Tasted clay, envisioned horror. It is there we begin.

First it comes when he’s dreaming, and it takes the dream away. In its moves insidious it turns water into clay. It wraps the things up he loves to do and binds them first with string. Layer upon layer it then becomes rope and finally barb wire that stings. It tests the singing of his angels, until their sound becomes such pain. Night after night they come until, he holds his head screaming as if he’s insane. It blocks off every open space to make a puzzle of dark disdain. “For everything there is an answer”, It whispers, “it’s a fire to a flame”. “Turn the lock just one more time to drive that itch away”. He has heard there are many troubles and diagnosis of mental ache, but nothing beats the worn-out torture of neon thoughts of personal pain.

Sometimes he mourns the private artist that person who rode his silent range. A wild boy inside chasing rainbows so playful in his games. Then it came and brought its people, the nightmares of made up shame. Twisted turned, and bound his anger made his pathway narrow and strained.

I tell him he’s a songbird, in a deep, dark mine, finding the right, tracing invisible paths of oxygen until he breaks into the light of day. Then he’s a raptor, a bird who seeks prey, and he rescues that which was long ago taken away.

I know for now he looks at trouble, at daemons night and day, those thoughts of dripping blood and agony, he wishes would just go away. I wish it too as his Dad, I wish I could take them away, but damn it G_D expects him to fly and challenge what’s in his way. For there is no amount of medicine or therapy that can heal what is a shade. That, is the road of what was chosen by another lord of judgement gray.

For now, I tell him he’s a songbird, that sings a note that’s unheard in the fray, a melody that will soon turn into lightning, and strike the fright to day. When all the world has stopped to listen, his mind storms arranged and stayed.  This thing that takes his pleasure will  bend to his vision, and he will be okay.  My songbird will be okay . – 04.02.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Clouds


“The pillar of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, departed not from me.” – Exodus 13:22 (Paraphrased DS)

“There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me’.” – Virginia Woolf

It is a wee voice, a small murmur like that gift of calling to Father Samuel, the end of a whisper as it falls to reprieve. It is a hum, a syllable or two not known by any tongue. An undertow that pulls with its sound. For it is a question, and everywhere the sky is painted, with colors and clouds. It is a wee voice, and it comes from many clouds.

The boy stands at the canyon, the one that lures him in. The curious art he sees in the obscurities, the mysteries without end. He ask himself a question, a personal thought within. Where does the course carved by this river have a source to begin? Am I to be like this canyon, carved and butchered below a skyward facing rim?

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

The young man stands near the ocean, the one that dares him swim. The twisted patterns he sees in its never-ending currents. The dark water appears so dim. Greater than the tempest, an octave of torrents. The face of Lilith looking up from a vast and pale vale. A moment or two of indecision, a fear of drowning in depths that have never seen the stars. He ask himself a question, of which not a word begins with when. Who calls to me? Who calls to me? Am I to be within this water? Dead and plummeting without breath.

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

The gray haired man stands on a mountain, above and below some clouds, he sees. It appears just a moment or a prospect to close his eyes and disappear for eternity. The wind has the sound of spirit voices, the eagle it swoops in vain. Somewhere close just nigh of heaven up here, the rocks echo a name. He ask himself a question. Is my destiny still the same? Is my destiny still the same? Am I to fly home into these heavens, finally to be consumed by your flame?

A cloud moves slowly throwing shadows, a humming voice in wind. All my life a cloud just behind me. A small cloud known to move many rivers, and bring them home again.

It is a wee voice, and it comes from many clouds. – 02.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Pathways of Faith are Never Free


“…someday…, we’ll medicate human experience right out of the human experience.” – Dennis Lehane

“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” – Carl Gustav Jung

He writes a story in me, humming in words as he steps around our Christmas tree. Nothing of logic is key, though he answers the question of what it takes to be free. He builds a lion in me, hunting through the puzzles of his mind decisively, turning instantly, moving from mood to mood, nothing is broken if you can finally see. The picture of his sweet mind, the character of the essence that makes him love me undefined. For if, he should ever go away, I would weep without stopping and there I would die that day, my heart in darkness, blind. For he cannot go, while he stays, oh no he cannot go while he stays. He gathers from a different world he sees. Breaking down a fourth wall, dividing black out of white decisively. Fomenting conversation that draws mystery, he means everything to me. Oh, my son you mean everything to me.

The orbs of his eyes create a sea, a brown warm emotion that stops the worlds freeze. The mystic how it forms, layer upon layer over history it swarms, taking our discussions to the how or ever when. This world has many doorways let us open them from within. My son you are a fortress that no one ever sees, a stronghold of magic that forms a mighty keep. Weaving in and out of love like it is on a time release. The ways of G_D are strange to me. You whisper in my ear, “The pathways of faith are never free”. You say it while I sleep, “the pathways of faith are never free”.

He spins such ominous ghost, according to our dialogue they have established in his mind a host. Words a Psychiatrist plays, let us try this little pill just to get him through each day. For what is an interest to him, the opening of a beautiful mind, or the compartments we define them in. The days are passing quicker; before you know it, time will lose its way. So on the eve of winter when there is snow upon the ground. The sign of mankind’s judgment a line of demarcation all around. My son he rises holy and he points up to the winter stars, he swears upon his body, and he loosens his minds scars. He writes a story in me, and it will not go away, for in his own belief he seizes what is day. For nothing is of logic for in that is the key, to answer the one question that it takes to be free. Who is me? Who is me? For as we know, Faith is never free.

For my wife, daughter and especially my son, who has over paid the price of faith to gain the light. – 12.21.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

  • Over 80 million Americans took a Psychotropic medication in 2018

Round Mountain (Passover 2018)


What do you want from me? Here near this late hour over by this tree, in the dark, with no moon above, the sky winks in a cold frown, the silence has a sound, and it’s you, nearby, I know, I see. So, what do you want from me? Have the altars I have built not exacted to your need? Has heaven not come down, why should it when there’s rancor all around, and unbelief, I know, dear Adonai to me, and what do you want from me? Here we are the western sky in sheets, stars that cannot shine, they look like their painted all the time. You say the sunrise is reprieve, it could be that or the last day that I breathe. It’s you nearby a familiar in majesty, so silent in all your mystery, a phalanx, that’s blood on three by three to three. The darkness like a cracked old creed, a blackness fly’s in design, non-Chee, like “Marilyn Manson’s” sad song disease, the dead, it passes on, it goes flying on over me. What do you want from me?

Round Mountain hangs over me. It’s not so round in a diameter one can read. A poor schematic from the USDA! I suppose it’s like this night for me, in our relationship it is definition written in form free. Perhaps I say to no one listening, at least that’s what’s perceived. It’s only a question from all time, but what do you want from me? The coldness seeps in me, making my high blood pressure, a little uneasy, for those things I can’t see like a razor edged dark wing dipping through the trees. What is the answer, what is the need, from question to question, it swings beyond belief?

Round mountain seems to weave, a dear old story here in me, all my doubts come in three’s. I look the canyon down, the Big Thompson roars without a sound. The highways closed, but still I’m up here, no one knows, except the sound of wings. They come swooping down, big dark wings. The sound of mettle, carrion bones, somewhere cherubim’s weep. But not for me, oh Adonai not for me!

For here on Round Mountain with the deer, a simple little place solitude in my tears, I look to see the better part of you. You turn, most holy G_D you demand I bless you! And as the pass comes over me, here in symphony upon my knees, I am so simple in my needs, my G_D, my G_D, Ruach, Elohim, Chayim, Ruach mi Ruach, Myim mi Ruach, esh mi Myim, Ruach Elohim Chayim! It is what you want from me, all that you want from me! – 04.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Adeste Melancholia


Through the last year, I thought myself many things.  Often lost, too much a crazy prophet, and often broken, without a schematic in front of me on how to heal.  Somewhere around Christmas or perhaps a little bit afterwards, I took the time to just sit in one place still, and there in the most extraordinary way I found myself home. – דָּנִיֵּאל

The mirrors are placed upon each side, one so deep in the winter snow, tall dark firs, and a candle that glows. The other goes forward to what, who knows. The year ahead in a stranger’s clothes. But here in the silence of what is warm, Augustus Santa, and a Christ child, would you think stillborn.  So many shadows in lessons of things untried. Still here by this tree side, with lights and ribbons now untied. What is forward or back, I cannot decide. So many times, lost after Christmas, in winter tide, changing what used to be, reaching for the child inside. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

I have seen angels at Christmas time, they are like witches, and both can fly. They leave their charms by my bedside, and when I awake there’s snow outside. Still all this magic, in Yuletide, when it’s December, my mind is right. So, these reflections of one past night, an instant forward, and both are right. To be caught inside the light, of past and future sight, I cannot begin, to cry enough, to end what is held in. O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide!

Adeste Melancholia is a dragon that eats your soul, it comes when you are not ready, and you feel so old. Your temples are not built, and your gospels just fold. Faith can’t treat the daemons of that Christmas so old. Still there’s something I will tell you if you want to be told, hiding in your winter snow. Deeper than any secret you can hold.

Time is a present not forward or past; it is built of instant treasure in the footing you possess. And when you cross the breech from Christmas to the brand new year, torn between Adeste Melancholia and the premise you think clear. Close your eyes an instant and join the note. Hear of a thousand languages of stillness that time bespoke. And to yourself make clear, one moment ever clear. Call down the heavens and say I AM here, this way, I AM here, always. I AM here!

O come melancholia rest by myside, come down sweet angel so dark inside. So dark inside. The stillness where G_D does abide! – 12.30.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Morning Sun (1989)


I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun!

She came over Burlington, over that plains township on she rode, and pointed beams like the crown of the French lady in the New York Harbor, there upon the Colorado plain she strode. And I stood there in my bare feet on the back porch of my keep, and on Mother’s Day I watched the sun tread heavy over all who still would sleep. It could be I thought about the world turning, each soul reaching for what would not make it weep, but no not me, not me. I rated this the best day, watching something this way come. A day star raging magic spinning, oh life, in age we are, how far in age we are! Adonai, my love Adonai!

A barren testimony, a fire that seals the heat, upon this morning riding, the virtue, the seeds of earth do reap. A G_D that rides a chariot, oh angels staggered leap, by count of six and two they come, summoned by this fervor fashioned so deep. Upon the South Fork River with waves that wait to hold spring’s tide, the morning retribution of something born in wayward skies, Adonai, my love Adonai! The snow it piles behind me, much higher than the earth, the rage of all the heavens, the judgement of all the earth. Upon Long’s Peak, a thunder, a sound in May it flows, face your cold for battle, for upon the western wind the sun flows, upon my sunken cheeks the light it glows.

A circled revolution, a night has come to end, upon the plains, their rides a ghost of springs heat, and winters end. A witch of convocation, a word of mornings din, and there and here before my life, a fire it comes within. Like David before his last rites, a younger olden whim, the rotating earth has brought the sun to begin. Adonai, my love Adonai!

I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun! – 05.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


On the Morning of the 16th


From the summit:

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.”

You love me, you created me so, to spin what’s difficult in my soul, to crush the shame in all its despair, Adonai, my Adonai you have brought me home. The judgment, that self-judgment that, wants my name, it wants my freedom, all my breath, these things you will not allow it to have. My G_D I do not cry out, as some have done, for here above lightning, in thin air, you change me, you bring me home.

I rest like a homeless man against a skyward overpass. An afterthought of the world that has asked for payment past. The lines upon my forehead match the different paths I cast, and just like a long-lost dream, the angel comes at last in spells the angel comes a craft it comes, and takes me home. We climb through the years of life, some good and some with taste, the after bitter lingering it’s not too much to take. I look back through this journey, my power is lost in stress. And I see the gauntlet just ahead, no Jesus, just the light, and love is taking me home.

Their rest upon the spring flow, just on Deadman’s pass, looking down at Red Feather, the place where my daddy rest. Their breaks a sudden trouble, with wind and lights and all G_D’s ways, with music that makes the dead play, and brings me home.

A moment for a wayward child, turning questions, with thoughts gone wild, is this Easter Sunday, or just a game? A breath of air a simple sigh, a homeward journey, in linear skies, an April blessing shoots in colors across the Colorado sky. Just us here, a spirit claims, just us here now with no religious games, there is no easter, there is no pain, just you and Adonai. Just me and Adonai.

It could be g minor, in four time, a drum kit playing, maybe it’s all in G_Ds game, maybe a lack of oxygen so far up here above. My Adonai at last you have come. And here I rest and touch the timberline, the place of high thin air. A genuine place of lullaby, where witches and darkness, turn to bare, all that is not modest from worlds below, and open place where what is ancient, says this is your place.

And here at home above skyline, my soul is shared between loose lines, and what is heaven is his flame, burned beyond recognition, blessed be, in more than seventy-two names. I rest like a homeless man, against a skyward overpass, that holds my name, and there in my Adonai is home.

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was Easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.” – 04.16.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Night & Light Strings (Summer Snow)


(A tragic victory written in the key of life.)

Bet din she came in form free, a savage night symphony, and with me wayward, a song has she played. The night strings came to my door, from Sheol, by stanzas three divided by a score, a part of judgment, that half that forms the major of my name. My Adonai, in seams of darkness you have let me cry, still in your balance did I behold and become your name. I asked in dark, the night sky, it burned with stars, and some dirge did daemons their strings did they play. Perhaps a dangerous game, to play with such things, as with the verdict that rules one’s name. And as the years roll by, I can’t say or deny, that I wish the macabre it did not play.

(A wondrous catastrophe played in an immortal psalm.)

For the summer snow, it strikes a cold heated blow, such a paradox from G-D’s own spirit when now I pray. For is EL light or dark, is he in or out of this ark, this human body, that’s already in decay. I’m old and then I’m new, and in my spirit so confused, sometimes believing that fate owns me over, how Hashem would rule my day. But then again it seems, the darkness can sometimes gleam, with sudden stars, that can light my way. A composition made for strings, in night and light extremes, oh mortal mind, the change of seasons, makes faith your journey, like the universe as it spins in rings.

(A note to kingship uttered before my G_D)

Some notes came to play, they danced lightly my way, unexpected like snow on a summer day. They came not in light at days’ morn, but before darkness in judgments storms. A great awakening, in life’s simple, twisted way. I thought it true to form, the yin and yang of pitch perfect forms, the way it should be, the reason I was brought forward, in shadows was I born. But still you give me light, deliberately while songs they play my night, and mixed together, nothing matters, as my breath immortal, it disappears and takes flight.

(A sound of gratitude given before judgment and delight!)– 11.25.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל