Midnight


“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.” – Edgar Allan Poe

A voice cries before midnight, and he hears it as a “Hermit Thrush“, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still before midnight. This is mystery.

The weaver comes to finish work, that is of his own hand, in the darkness from near Boat Mountain the seraphim walks so fast. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He bathes before midnight, in a dream that’s of falling sand, like a curtain from lost ages, that last barrier to the promised land. With the whispers of angels that ask for his hand, bloodless in their quiet talk, they shimmer where they stand. They whisper with lyrics from the “Hurdy Gurdy Man“, derived now, while praying six stars to Neverland. He murmurs, he whispers, “I do think of fathoms of distances without end, sometimes before midnight, it scares me if I Am.” “How far up Jacob’s tree, to the mother that sews, the end of purpose, from my life of promise, here in the gardens of G_D’s shadowland. This rocky earth soothed by the blade in a farmer’s hand.”

The weaver moves like a danseur, counting a six-pronged display, the seal moves around the bowing angels, their inner eyes on display. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He thinks of time like a battlefield, in life’s journey from end to end, all day breathing blood and fury, until the dusk arrives on wind. All his thought from his first day of wonder has been, a catalyst, a catalyst to this very end. All around his valley moves, his valley moves within. Sulfur Springs rising evening vapors, near Boat Mountain where life began. The soil cries out unto its maker, I cannot produce again. Minutes leading him from faith’s beginning toward midnight to turn again. Demarcation in a weakened body in a movement by a hand, pocket watch stopped at midnight in the crossing with no bends. Turning in his bed clothes, to begin all life again. Turning in his bed clothe, to begin all life again.

A voice cries after midnight. He does not hear it. It is a “Hermit Thrush”, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still after midnight. This is mystery. – 10.10.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Red Cliffs (Absentia)

“The end of life is like a stage under red cliffs, except I’m absent”, he said, his words a mere gasp, his watery blue eyes staring nowhere.  “Who’s the cowboy”, I asked?  I was curious about the reference.  “Just some clown”, he whispered, and then repeated, “just some clown”.

I saw a mirror of my heart, it lay in a basket, underneath the red cliffs above the arid floor.  While all around me flew the dust of time, and I thought what was this meme meant for?  Far above on the ridge there was a cowboy, and he rode like a concrete stick toward the dawn.  And when he glanced beyond the red cliffs, he smiled, like he knew the devil owned the door.

There are times in this life when I feel absent, and those times it seems to me come more and more.  While I long for more attraction, that place of being, I knew before.  I know it seems like this is one big paradox, forever clinging to aloneness like it’s a shore.

For all around me minutes are passing, racing through my empty soul to reach its core.  And the red cliffs up above they seem cerebral, like a dying brain, can’t crumble anymore.

And absentia whirls around me, while I’m still breathing, and it curses anyone, who laughs or is a bore.  While the red cliffs shudder above my skinny frame, till I can’t remember how to breathe no more.  And those ridges up above, where that cowboy rides with no love, turn too steep to attempt to climb anymore.

For my mind births desolation, in it, prions come to feed, and when they jump for the last time, my contractions give pause to disaffect.  Under these red cliffs I see no reason, such bitterness, no content, and when I look upon that ridge one more time, no cowboy rides, just emptiness.

And then here I go, in a sunset glow, just laughter everywhere, red cliffs they disappear, and up and down, my lungs so full of oxygen, my breath, and absentia here I go, over the ridge to find my soul.

This is written for the absent, with minds consumed by Alzheimer’s, Dementia, or like my own dear father, with the watery blue eyes, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.  May they find their soul over that last ridge. – 08.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Integrity (Orlando)

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might, for integrity.

Integrity it finds a soul in not what is new or bold. Across the electrical currents of media, it’s not bound up and sold. And if you think that it is found in left or right your political goals, your deluded in your ideology stop reading go back to your soul. I ask myself a question, when I pray at night, do I say please protect me, from my enemies I think aren’t right. Or is a better prayer said, Oh HaShem you are as is, from back beyond primordial to the time of future tense. Would now as all the world swims round me everything so tense, where there is both good and bad, and there is ego spent. Will you come down to this desert, life that’s ever spent. Will you fall like reigning fire and right the spirit bent? Will now oh legend all who worships, dark and light, crescent. Arced upon the grave and life the world that we pervade. Will you in all the storms of tatters, liars, norms and depths, in deathly faces.  Will you for those who think wrong and right, stifle their mad matter, let them think with insight, in integrity.

A warrior, you said, a warrior makes right, here in hard deserts where the wind blows with right, and all around me caters to wolves and the sheep, all around me fortresses of thought and deceit. And G_d of many ancients, Adonai oh Ruach of leads, Shekinah of  my dreams, you who with your breath makes Orion and the seven stars, come so still, bring them now still.  Come unto the willing, those in pain without creed, those who here tonight, care not of ideology. Make now a potion, of your right and left, send now a matter to those with no heart left. Fill now a prayer not against enemies, take this spell higher to integrity. When this all is over, make death even less, make no one with thought, think their right or left.

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might for integrity.

Psalms 25:21 – 06.13.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Horsetooth (04.20.2000)


For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

There was a shudder felt last night, around the windows the wind so light. Came an apprehensive sort of feeling when things aren’t right. Said one spirit to the next, can we fly inward at 6:00 take his soul, no one is watching, they’ll just think he went. Though one might think that this is done, that a gentle man died under sun, that’s not true, that’s not the way he went on through. For according to us on site, his family that watched that night, from all of us at 12:31 came a different view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

So it was around the appointed time, the skies did open where a star refused to shine, for it was a pathway for wings of ancient blue. And they flew enamored with him, knowing his vestige was with them true, came they through the passage of the rocks they knew. For Horsetooth opened to them, gave them rock burns on their lack of foreskins, brought them down to escort a gentle fellow through.

And we watched him sail away of angels, through that portal new, Horsetooth split Precambrian waiting for these angels to come through. Of angels, without cause of death or torture, he lived life no one knew, and it could be such a gentleman reached G_D without a clue, for she liked him for his spirit that harbored love only Jack knew.

For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

My Dad passed away on April 20, 2000 at 12:31. When he left, it was of angels, trees scraping the side of house with complaint, and the wind rolled down from Horsetooth rock, and simply took his spirit away. – 04.20.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

When Children Sleep (Stairs)


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When children sleep, be they ninety or forty-five, a staircase descends from hereafter. And oft they go to the places where hearts sow, seeds of pictures of real that last forever. When weary eyes close, after years that come and go, and the bells do toll for what we’re after. Just a piece of morning sky, maybe slurping apple pie, while the flagship asks us to surrender. Give it all on up aw shucks, such a pleasant form of luck, to be a child again, and know such laughter. For twinkling lights oh how, they cast the night aloud, and its time oh my mate, to pull the lever. When the staircase comes, releasing one by one for fun, for the cause, for the flight, oh what a shiver. Do re me fa so led, up the scale, while wrinkles fell, to cast it all away what endeavor.

When children sleep, and take a peek before they wink, and their eyelids close, how clever. For what they see are the treats, permission oh how neat, climbing up into the rafters with no effort. And though they may be fifteen, twenty-two, or eighty-three, suddenly their slack lining through the Neverland, of their best dreamed of, neighborhood. It would not really surprise me to find that some who’ve gone, and climbed one at a time, wish that they would return to try… it one more time. For yes you see its grand, to see the secrets where angels stand, while music played you can be what you’re after.

When children sleep, requiem it sounds unique, not at all so sad or so dreary. And sometimes drums do play, to lead the parade away, and up the stairs they go, Jacobs ladder opens so, like a womb of a kind and pretty mother. Would it ever be any other way, could it be planned with a different… none will know until they go to sleep, then in surprise and what a treat…sandman says go to sleep, it’s time to know no need…

When children sleep. – 03.31.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

At 3:00 AM (On Death)


At 3:00 A.M. there’s whispers there, such secrets crawling some unseen stair, and when I awake and look outside, fully expecting to see dreads eye, and it’s not there, no it’s not there. At 3:00 A.M. I watch her sleep my sweetest angel, of love’s known keep, and sometimes not to be rude or weird I touch the small lobe of her ear. I breath with her, while rhythm’s sleep, in an unconscious keep, I whisper rare, my voice so deep, I’m going to that window there, the one with glass that often stares, I’m going to look outside and then in spirit I’m going to leap.  It’s time to fly.

At 3:00 A.M. I’ve heard it said that witches dance and Satan winks, it’s that time when sages say the whole world has gone to sleep. I would not know if this is true, I’d dare to think it might be could. Oh well, oh well, whatever comes I’m awake well before the dawn. My skin so cool to touch the glass to look upwards and see the pass, to see footprints of daemons past, those good ones too, but oh those bad. Those sprites that chase the star known charts that bring my body into the dark, at 3:00 A.M. to know such joy, of dreams that come to pass, not forward and not past. Just here, all around this shiny sphere. I don’t want to go back, no, I don’t want to go back.

At 3:00 A.M. for nights on end, it’s like a passage that never ends, my eyes outward so old and black but inward sailing my soul does last. And on to thus fairy land of dust, an original place where G-D brings us, and in the prayer at 3:00 A.M. right out of my clothes, and all of my skin, I fly to places filled with love, imagine all of this for us, a wonder land when first we jump, when no one’s looking, and there’s no fuss.

At 3:00 A.M. there’s whispers there, such secrets crawling some unseen stair, and when I awake and look outside, fully expecting to see dreads eye, and it’s not there, no it’s not there, then at 3:00 A.M. my breath will stop and I’ll learn to fly. – 0315.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Bobby


“Giardia”, he laughs, like it’s a proverb discovered. A simple word, description, hell even an action word that should be not only defined but lived. “You had it”, I say, knowing the answer already, knowing the full story to come, the psalm of life, that music, coming from a man about to die.

Spill me a sample of life in your tears, sometimes in laughter, overt without fear. Bobby do tell me of all those old times, I’ll just listen and not know why. It doesn’t matter, what you’ve done before, a silent film critic, with pain you ignore, it really is something these times that we sit, and keep your attention astray. I’ll let you ignore, that shadows are asking you to play, outside this door.

Momma you think she’s keeping you down, the truth of the matter is she wishing you found, no longer lost but heavenly bound, it’s okay, she’s wishing her son would stay.

Tell me of Pickford, of that old great train, it’s robbery in silence, the cinema of gray, those sounds not spoken, and maybe it’s just like your AIDS, a Potemkin treasure while the theatre organ plays. You’re quite a Chaplin today, funny man looking for stories while your breath goes away, Bobby in silence it goes far away.

“You’ll always write great things”, Bobby’s eyes are snapping, looking bluer than the gulf, on fire perhaps with some ancient star. “Why ruin a good conversation with flattery”, I say. He’s actually made me smile, with the flamboyancy of his announcement, delivered with the flourish of his weakened hands. Those hands, that have been typing for days, typing the old fashion way. “The truth is a fire”, he snaps, looking at me intensely, his gaze that of goodbye. “You’ll write of this someday, promise me”, he says, well really he demands.

Bobby, let’s talk of things that are old, immortal pictures, Faust, and what you know, Bobby don’t leave me without saying why, a silent majority has to die. He’s moving and talking his lips that don’t speak, and telling his friend, secrets that, I’ll always keep. You better believe, I’ll always keep.

“Giardia”, he laughs, like it’s a proverb discovered. A simple word, description, hell even an action word that should be not only defined but lived. “You had it”, I say, knowing the answer already, knowing the full story to come, the psalm of life, that music, coming from a man about to die.

Bobby Klepper passed away on February 2, 2000. As promised him, this is goodbye. 08.02.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל



Murmur of Angels


He heard the murmur of angels, as the shot entered his head, from predestination, from the order we all dread, and what with all our questions of why, we enter dead, perhaps the murmur of angels, is all that need be said. A thousand boots they echo on a dark forest floor, with swords and certain weapons, a reason for war. A question of the ages what’s worth dying for, a life in some short cycle, and then breath, breathes no more. A diamond or a woman, a dollar or a crown, some die throwing proverbs, some succumb without a sound, yet the murmur of angels lays constant in four by two. In parsec by league circumference, someday they speak to you. The dead or the living, they know which to choose, for the righteous of a calling, they sing and murmur too.

A baby with a tumor, a man without a clue, a body filled with heroin, just surviving to buzz on through. A ghost he stands on winter grounds frozen beyond blue, in envy of all he sees the angels flying through. A claim they come from upper worlds, in truth its lower too. Eschatological words of time, cannot stop them when they fly, falling spinning, just to dive, to enter worlds they most despise, just to sing a murmured song to you. Summon ye of innocence, claim you of a power, but the deed of death it comes to most when G_D ward takes the power. The list of all you worship here in thought word and deed, cannot detour the murmur chant, when that G_D decrees. And when it falls, like the same, of rain a tide most gentle or in flame, know it now or know the same a murmur comes indeed.

She heard the murmur of angels, as her cells they flamed, as a witch she heard her accusations, as the song eternal came. A cry a scream for most unseen, an inner humming in self esteemed.  For such a time from past before, to time we now can see, the murmur of angels is bonded destiny. And if we hold our heads to sky the killer we won’t see. For flash and sighs and gentleness a rush like love when it is blessed, a way, a light, a song known best, it murmurs to us free, it murmurs to us free.

Eschatological words of time, cannot stop them when they fly, falling spinning, just to dive, to enter worlds they most despise, just to sing a murmured song to you. – 06.18.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For the families of the dead in Charleston, South Carolina tonight.– 06.18.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Regina (Angelspeak)


She said I did a lot of thinking as I drove down 25, and the thing that you were claiming what you saw as your dad died. Seems to me it is a pickle of what you should say or do, I’m thinking deep inside you my friend, he saw the better side of you. For that she was a wonder only twenty-one and rare, from Alaska this soft angel, kept my mind from desperate terror. The curves of this Regina, she was sexual like the heights, of McKinley on a cold spring day, she blossomed all out right. But she never bode me go there for she knew, my promises, said baby in the next life, you’ll take my body there. She kept her figure distant, and she gave of her insight what a friend I had in Gina when my world was not upright.

So it was I cried a cold tear on an early May morn light, and I told her of my father, who had been a greater right. When the wind it came down sweeping, from Cheyenne it rode a plain, and she tucked me in her small still place and in her grace she sang. Yes it’s true you’re like an older friend that for a while, will cry, but listen to your little Gina, and loosen your disguise. For I am not here to kiss you, and I’m not here to take your heart, for it is unto another, where there is that faithful spark. So I tell you, your daddy, knew you better than you are, you are like a chosen sparkler, an apostle of the stars. I can tell you how I know this, I can tell you how it comes, but you listen to your Regina, you are brighter than the sun.

She said I did a lot of thinking as I drove down 25, and the thing that you were claiming what you saw as your dad died. Oh I think he knew you were magic, and from your words you would someday rise. What a lesson she was to me, as we sat and talked that May, and it turned me into something, I would need for coming days. It is true I wonder many times where that young girl went, for I would just like to thank her, she was a friend, when life was spent. For it could be she was vapor, brought on by a risen flame, from my tears for my daddy, may be for that thought she came. So it is now that I write to her, and pray this special word, may you know more than your happiness, for indeed you sowed its worth. – 3.16.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Silversmith (1969)

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Well, good thoughts aren’t miracles, and prayers not an art, belief’s for the living, who live in the dark. In silver’s a dross that falls into waste, on a sunny September the 9th, the stripes came.  With medals shiny, and grim faces wrought, they spoke of the timing his sweet Jimmy fought.  A flag they left folded, a flag he did not want, a silversmith crying, his future blocked.

It’s all about smithing with silver and heat, a raising hammer, the fire and the glow, the night time upon him, his inner soul.  A small set of tweezers, a soldering poke, rough hands bright eyesight, a scriber in tote.  His Tripoli Polish stands worn by its wear, seen many a scratch now worn without wear.  A wind from the high bluff that whispers and moans, and moves his old Hogan without any hope, his hope his main action his time to see clear, he’s finished inscribing what name he holds dear.  A light above cloud line the mesa away, the one he saw Jimmy riding that day.  His uniform dancing, his stripes so in play, from halls of the Aztecs to an African bay.  A sigh of strong memory, that swoops and it smokes, by now it’s a Chindi gone up in black smoke.  He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

In 1950 his smithing a prayer, a gift to the blessing of harmony’s care, a child of the river his Jimmy did cry, he built the wood Hogan, under blue sky.  By the San Juan, he worked and he played, his artisan silver, he sold every day, and when he was finished his son he would take, young Jimmy Nakai, in the river they played.  You should see the log hut, the hut of belief, the one on an island, near rapids and snares.  Their poles catching rainbow and brown to share.  There by moonlight a fire, trout to taste.  Albert Nakai, would teach his boy to place, a sliver of turquoise in silver lace, a line from the heaven in shiny grace, first man and first woman in times embrace.

What ways of a nation, disrupt peaceful souls, with laws about fighting on dangerous soil, a draft for the living when eighteen does come. A silversmith a poor man, he has his one son, so Jimmy is drafted to fight the Viet Con. The silversmith working, his art and his trade, molding miracles to help his boy save. Each day he walks down to the river to see, if his islands standing with the hut of belief, the circles still open, the bad spirit released. He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

Well, good thoughts aren’t miracles, and prayers not an art, belief’s for the living, who live in the dark.  In silver’s a dross that falls into waste, on a sunny September the 9th, the stripes came.  With medals shiny, and grim faces wrought, they spoke of the timing his sweet Jimmy fought.  A flag they left folded, a flag he did not want, a silversmith crying, his future blocked.

The moon over Burnham, the dark mesa near, the river it’s calling the spirit is near.  The silversmith breathing, his tools in his hands, he wades the swift water through dark churning sand.  The moon over darkness, the hole in the land, the ring of pure silver, the tools in the sand.  The fire of belief, it rises so high, the silversmith watches his eyes have grown dry.  He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

Jimmy Nakai, died on Saturday, September 6, 1969, in Operation Idaho Canyon, in Vietnam.  His father Albert Nakai, buried his silversmith tools, and a ring he had carefully made for Jimmy in a hole on an island in the San Juan River.  Although the story is real, I have changed the names for the above piece, the island and its location along the San Juan River are also real, but the exact location unrevealed. – 03.10.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל