Nails


“The light was what brought the wheat, it looked like little Mary Lou, I’m convinced of that, it’s what I saw, I know what I saw”!

RF (Nails) Swearingen

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

Nails walks along Horsetooth headed for the West, all around him vibrations coming from the wheat at rest. It could be there is a savior embedded in these sheaves, or maybe just a rattlesnake, reaching to strike where he can’t breathe. Sometimes when spring comes, and Nails walks his land, he hears the flicker of Henry David, say, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see“. Well yes in fact, Nails see’s frustration, sees a door that’s turning black. His crops and soul are in dispensation, with the L_rd in favor does he lack. It could be no one will come down.

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

The child is up ahead, the little girl, “Mary Lou” is deceased, it matters not on a sun-drenched day. Hell, has no fury, like a dead child at play. Still she blocks him anyway, too young to say Daddy, though her lips move that way. Nails spins around, and he turns once more, matters not his vision is interred with loss. For what he has seen is a sign from his self, the raising of the spirit, it comes from one’s own hell. Suddenly Nails believes, that just like Henry David, it’s what he can see. If the dead can rise so can his wheat. Nails takes his shoulders to his knees, he thinks just like David, he’ll build an altar to what’s his need. And if there is grace, and truth, justified, for in the mind of Nails, in his soul’s own eye. Life in the ground will be.

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

1942, and the worlds at war, Nails walks Horsetooth road, and looks at the floor. The ground of Colorado waves in oceans believed. Under sunny skies an altar of a good omen received. And a little girl is giggling, a tinkle to the ear, the light is resting easy, upon the fields of gold, and Nails might be seeing, something Henry David foretold.

RF (Nails) Swearingen was my grandfather, he always saw what he saw! – 11.12-2016-
דָּנִיֵּאל

7500 (The Property)

At 7500 hundred feet, you learn it’s okay to hunt out your neighbor, and understand their ways, and teach and learn from them what life has to say. To grow and make unto you the man you ought to be, to live together as Pappy said, and learn to love free. For some time soon the snow will fall and a bitter wind will fly, and together with your neighbor you will turn and face the great divide.

And I turn and see his clear liquid eyes, a pattern of deliverance handed down, and my heart says, oh my.

At 7500 hundred feet above, the old man he stops and throws down his glove, and just like a ghost from a different time, he turns around slowly, even that’s in rhyme. He laughs a belly full of a time that’s no more, a hard life of depression so far above an ocean floor, and in the deep crevices that lean to the sky, he turns with eyes blue and he sighs. “You could build on further for just your home you could leave these foothills, and go farther alone, but just here below where there’s timber and rock, you can still build mystery and learn a lot”. I think it’s just my Pappy from another time, the one who passed from life, and left me mountains to climb, and still a little bubbling brook on the property seems to say, “Nick’s got something further to say”.

A dream I always thought about in summertime, his spirit, seems to shimmer than it disappears in shine, was,” Danny boy when you build a home on mountain land, make sure you bring the world to you and help them understand”. “To live together is not truth unless it’s understood, that all must grow together in single-hood”. “For up here where the air begins to thin into clear, all your valleys turn to G_D as ever clear”.

And I turn and see his clear liquid eyes, a pattern of deliverance handed down, and my heart says, oh my.

At 7500 hundred feet, above my lessons are dear, a place to live together, to grow into a seer, to love and ask a hurting heart to join me and roam, upwards on a path, never to return to the valley below. The aspen without their leaves just lean in reply, and signal to a heaven which seems so much closer than the sky. It could be the old man has something more to say, but just this moment now he sleeps into the day, I think maybe he drifted away.  Pine and Rocky Mountain Juniper they bend and turn, into an ark, and tell me it’s a beautiful day.

And I turn and see his clear liquid eyes, a pattern of deliverance handed down, and my heart says, oh my.

At 7500 hundred feet, you learn it’s okay to hunt out your neighbor, and understand their ways, and teach and learn from them what life has to say. To grow and make unto you the man you ought to be, to live together as Pappy said, and learn to love free. For some time soon the snow will fall and a bitter wind will fly, and together with your neighbor you will turn and face the great divide.

And I turn and see his clear liquid eyes, a pattern of deliverance handed down, and my heart says, oh my.

Susan and I recently bought an acre and a half of land in Glacier View Meadows, Colorado exactly at 7500 feet up in elevation. There we intend to build a home; all who enter in, will be welcome. I think my Pappy who farmed the high country of Colorado would approve! Shalom – 11.15.2015 – 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


Red Clover (Pappy’s Psalm)

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Pappy said closure comes rolling in clover, its red healing power relieves heat from a wound. Never you listen to crazy physicians when earth’s medicine lies at your feet. Danny my Danny the Front Range in clover is calling from Denver, toward Boulder so sweet. Thin air, red clover, infections are over, elixir of angels for free. Have you seen, taken, lost, sought or abandoned on high country highways or streets, what children are hungry or dirty for laundry when our fields are blessed and complete. The tide of depression it cleansed dirt and sand land, and taught us the use of our hands. History be given the reign which we lived in has brought a great soothing relief.

My grandfather’s eyes, like spirits in skies danced, as he further would speak. In thirty four, I could take it no more, so I fell on my knees on this land. I reached to the sky it was blue open wide and I called down the force of G-D’s hand. From clover, he answered with red to fight cancer, a tea for the living, rich nitrogen for sand. Medicinal healing, a tea, while you’re dealing with bread that you’re kneading, with red clover honey, the manna of land. It’s pure of the nature like soul’s lacking danger, a common occurrence the better to stand. We learn from another on how they seek cover, for me Danny boy, I rather just stand.

In Pappy was clover, no gloss or switch over, the pure tide of nature, the root of a man. His kisses of wisdom, the plants of his kingdom, red clover his savior, in love did he stand. He smiles and I see him, right through him, I need him, the prophet receding, in glorious perfume. My Pappy his clover its seeds never closer, a lesson for living has finally bloomed. – 07.09.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל