Where Pictures Go

Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of forever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

The picture is still wet from its birth, hanging by a paperclip on a string by my shirt. I know I shouldn’t be staring, for what glares back at me, are the eyes of an empty child that’s lost in time and infamy. There’s voices all around my room, an icy cold, wet touch. An unbearable force of desperateness that ask me now, “how much”? Now it screams, “HOW MUCH”?

Beyond the settlement of time and space, so far beyond these years. Further than my experience in a world that knows no tears. A calling is entered in, to come forth now this day. To bring the phantom of a child to the second window on the right, to show in vague display. It was not by choice I walked too far, or selection to go that way. It was by not, my guiding hand, that brought this camera to take.  The doorway to a million Daemons, that travel around our place. That shriek in silence inside my mind, “let us out to play”. “LET US OUT TO PLAY”!

So, it was in this determination, of other earthly spheres, that I became called upon to see the shadow by no use of smoke or mirrors. The barren holds the farmhouse, of tales of by gone days, of the daughter of the household, that came not home from play. The search of all ridge lines, nothing held her way.  Pray tell, pray tell of simple pennies on the road, that faded away.  Voices calling, saying, “Lilith’s chosen, look away”. With much more capacity now, the dark band crying “LOOK AWAY”!

The picture sits in story, it might soon drift away, out beyond my recognition to simply turn to gray. I stare into the distant forms, that reach from in their day, to complete the puzzle now, I think I know a way. To find out why those pennies led to the road, beyond the day. Why do voices call in vacuum, to take me back to that strange place. Where pictures go, the voices say, “to know, to know”, they say “TO KNOW”!

I stray from my good sense of fortune, to a darker place. In moonlight given there I stand and look at a black iron gate. From all around me summons come, the lights and something wicked runs. The picture comes from rooms above, and shadows fall beyond the child’s face. Oh, death you are not justice sworn, you come to some in uneven sums, and now I think that balance demands a pay. If it will bring the end to come, I will assist this child, this one, I bring my hand a pennies sum, a cry goes up, sings, “redemption won”. From stars above comes a deeper sound, that reigns! “Go out and play”, my child, “GO OUT AND PLAY”!

I sit alone, with the picture there, the moon shines bright right through her white blonde hair, the empty eyes turn copper in their stare, as free she fades away. She fades away.

Sometimes you take that special photo, be it a haunt that is of ever, be it a reflection that’s you. A black and white that’s willing to bring up a specter, inviting, a curiosity that’s something you should pursue. Sometimes where pictures go, they fade right into you.

Dream from 10/09/77 before all went black. – 10.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Daisy (On Mars)

“Her daddy Mr. Dalton, often said he suspected, when you died you went to live on Mar’s, that’s what Mr. Dalton said!”

She flounders a small woman by the side of the ruin, an altar she built as a child to the moon. A place near the Valley Springs. Alone, maybe a moonlit dream, near the swing her daddy built, it’s the end of October but still. In all of her books and fantasies, at her advanced age could she believe. She’s alone now, quaking inside from a breeze, that comes from the hollow north, near the fork in the valley, floor, where…

She kissed every star in the sky when she was sixteen, my, my, and why, did her tears fall, she thought she would be so much more. And fortune, held her against her view, wouldn’t let her become something new. Be an actress on the stage, of course her daddy said that’s okay. You’re in the valley, the hills are your home, so now…

She’s one hundred, dancing without a cane, near the oak where she had her first date, ate a picnic that she had spun, from honey, and buttermilk buns, considered the eyes of a fella, the one, who left her in 44, went to Mexico to avoid the great war. To the stars and the moon above, what’s below is still not known, in conceived she still must trust, in the…

Spirit, of water that runs nearby, the family ground on which her daddy died, the hollow north where her sisters knit, crafting magic from all they give, and all around her fall does move, singing songs that only she knew. In her heart Daisy lives on Mars, her imagination takes her so far, from the valley that she loves, takes her character, becomes brand new, dies tonight, because she…

Always knew, she’s going to leave home soon, resurrect herself by common luck, join her daddy, and sisters who say now, it’s not so bad being lights in the dark, incandescent, just like the moon, out in air traveling to and fro, come on Daisy it’s time to go, little Daisy it’s time to go.

“Her daddy Mr. Dalton, often said he suspected, when you died you went to live on Mar’s, that’s what Mr. Dalton said!”

In memory of my great Aunt Daisy, small in stature, bountiful in spirit, who still visits me in magic from time to time from Mars. – 10.30.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Potters Trail (Semita veneficas)

The place in my mind is featured as real, as the day I went down it in August. A trail by a creek, where Aspens run deep near the high road that leads to Cowdrey. The etches on rocks make a mind go cross, makes a man turn and look at the weather. And whither it’s right there’s a ghost by my side, a friend I lost three years ago come November. I’m serious now, my mind naked and how, I am telling the whole world my secrets. About things that are real, just hidden distilled by the unlawful code of nature. So here it is now the thin truth of how, I met life, and made it on over.

The trail is old, barely hidden by gold of the high weeds, and dry grasses of autumn. An occasional tree that looks dead with leaves, throws shade across those that walk under. The whispers of old, from something wild, I don’t know, makes me think something comes this way different. I walk on alone, well your never alone, at least some sprites bend to my ear and whisper. But on up ahead where the trail ends at a mill stead, and the wind stops teasing my bare shoulders. For here you see in 1903, Potter Steel thought his own life was over. He was ill and diseased to a cancerous degree, and he’s come to the mountains for closure.

I’d like to see him, the way others do, a real apparition, that glows in wisdom. But strange this day, he doesn’t look that way, why actually he looks discontented.

What’s happened here, the thunder draws near, a sound that mimics nature screaming.

Well it is August, but October’s here, this trail of the twisting, the prospector’s tears. The day is suddenly gray, Mr. Sun grows cold, he has gone away. He has gone away! I guess I’d have to say, this witch’s trail leads the way, from 1903 to here, the truth of the matter is clear. The trail of the Potter hides secrets resigned, healing herbs cooking by witch’s design. And maybe it’s just a trail, “Semita Veneficas” from those who cannot tell what they’ve seen, when they reach the murky water of the stream. For on that day in 1903, Potter Steel made his ill body believe, it’s twin self-came to life. No cancer there, incarnate divine. The fountain of youth laying inside a stream. “Semita Veneficas” what a dream. I think it’s so real, from what I have seen.

The place in my mind is featured as real, as the day I went down it in August.

The Witches Trail is known to locals on the high plateau that borders the Old Roach Ghost Town, near Cowdrey, Colorado. Potters trail makes for a wonderful hike there. Some say that Prospector Potter Steel diseased with cancer, discovered his familiar there in the water of youth, in 1903. I would say that familiar still is there! – 10.24.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Mercy & Elsie

Precious Memories,

Mercy. Says “Elsie are we in a special time, sitting here waiting for fire flies to come by? Upon this porch so still, I look at you my sister, it seems sometimes you’re not breathing still”. “I’m not sure Mercy, say’s Elsie, with her slim smile, a crooked endeavor left from her own style. She’s finishing a blanket crocheted from yarn, the silver needles clash, sometimes just missing the white skin on her arm. And just like a summer globe that shows a different biosphere, the two sisters sit, and watch the world unfold.

Precious Memories

The slope of the green hill glides by, the creek at the bottom, letting the Ozarks cry, and still they sit like stone, two sister’s immortal, statues, time seems to leave them alone. The graveyards down there, in the meadow, with weeds and snakes all around, “Mercy, says Elsie, do you think, that your Sam’s still in the ground”? “I know it was so long away, he was so full of spirit that night”. “You mean”, says Mercy. “Yes” her sister says the night he held that awful knife!

Precious Memories

The string beans snap in two, sitting on the porch the silver sterling bowl, sits like fine china between two. The clouds hang low in the sky, between two sisters there sits no lie. And time and fortune roll, like precious memories, the lines on their faces go. “Elsie”, says Mercy without looking around, “I know of no other I’d rather be around”. They look at each other, and there’s a giggling sound. And just like each evening for many a year. Summer, fall, and springtime, and even on a cold night when the winter is near. Elsie and Mercy sit and stare, looking down the hill, knowing what is real, from life that used to be. But those were the days, when a stranger wild and crazy could be hidden away,

Precious Memories

Elsie slowly stands and stares, down at the base of the hill a man stares, and as the evening shadows start to fall. Elsie, looks at Mercy and she says, “I think that old Sam is here to call again”. “May be my lovely sister we should finally bring this ghost to an end”. “For though his love was different, he was crazy within”.

Precious Memories

And so the screeching owl comes to call, all around the valley it summons spells of awe. And the two sisters known for playing special games, send Sam Lakeef, that murderous thief, that one who held a knife against Mercy one day. They bind him away.  Oh the familiars of the forest come down from a tiny little sphere to unhallowed ground. And two sisters in a coven that live from day to day, They send him so far away. So very far away.

Say’s Mercy, to Elsie, “the evening air is so cool, it’s as if somebody left us, somebody that we knew, must have been somebody that we knew”.

For my great aunties the witches who taught me much. – דָּנִיֵּאל

Depothika (Why Me)

He said, I walk the “Devil’s Backbone” with the lights of Loveland down below, and from here I see the answers, it’s the time apocalyptic, read from words so now I know. Now I answer when Augustus calls me, when he makes a certain sound. Like the church choirs all singing, till the bells come falling down. And the Hammond sounds decrepit when it plays the shepherd’s call not at all the way it’s master planned it, hear it quake before it falls. Still in all this morbid glory in the stars from which I fell, I look onward to a talisman west or east now I can’t tell. And in wrath in certain darkness, beneath the statue of the sky, I turn toward my darkened master, and I say as in reply! Why me?

In a spot torn of its glory, from a land that’s lost in its pride, I come ringing lust and story, thorns to place on weak insides, and I say unto the poor man, you’re not rich like that man there, go and take from his table, make what he earned your own lair. For all around you is injustice, peer upon it with your eyes, take from this land that is plenty, you’ll not be hungry ever inside. And know that no one looking can see you in daylight, but in the night you’ll come a crawling, your want’s not denied. The only question you must answer before the quaking of the dawn, is when your thirsty without an answer, look to him for then I’ll be withdrawn. And in wrath in certain daylight, beneath the statue of the sky, you will turn toward the darkened master, and you’ll say as in reply! Why me?

There’s a time, in place of calling, that has caused the fevered brow, of those good and lowly servants, beneath the heavens and the sun, on those fields not plowed. Now they suffer with their burdens, how they suffer all this night, and it is my time appointed to take their wants and make them right. And I call down fires of greed, and envy, oh I speak of hidden lust for the things that bring on misery, from my father who says I must. I see the eyes that think of present’s, of the flesh of hidden love, of having things most wanted, without the effort or the trust. And I look unto the fathoms of the truth that lies can’t touch, and I tell those most willing learn from me if you must. And in wrath in certain darkness, beneath the statue of the sky, I turn toward my darkened master, and I say as in reply! Why me?

Close enough to October 31, I suppose! – 10.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

JR Ticking (A Seasonal Brew)

Oh the moon has past my dear, that, eagle moon of desert tears, that place upon a rocky ledge, where JR played, his flute, and brought young boys to play.

Jr Ticking walks the road and drives his white pickup alone, and plays each night as Halloween, like it was Easter day. Oh it’s true, it’s true my dear, there’s lonely bad men, in a world, that no one steers. A cross, a cross that no one bares, upon young skin, that JR Ticking plans, to find his way into the womb, of deep dark secrets far beneath that black, dark moon.

So many writers, songs of doom, that deep macabre that spells deaths gloom, from over yonder no one can know why. Know why this cowboy walks in death, this pied piper of such dread, that walks the desert and the brush, this albino, this seekers thrush, the one who brings bad bloom. That grins his red eyes full of ruin. JR Ticking, he thinks and thinks, what would it take to bring sweet tears upon this boys red cheek, to make him over to his side to keep. And if he brought him up to Eagle Rock, that featherless place a high altar top. A high, high altar top.

So I stare into a mirror, after all these familiar years, and still sometimes I feel like Poe at play, what would old Edgar Allan have to say? If he would have been a small, small boy, met JR and been his toy, known the devil as he was, climbed into his lap of love. Brought a rock unto his head, and stoned him ever dead. It could have been that way, right up there where those eagles lay.

Now Halloween it comes and goes these years of darkness in repose, and all seems quiet, as it did then, but still I wonder of what has been. Does JR Ticking still watch ore, and look for young boys who would climb up, and be with him where devils play, where eagles lay.

Oh the moon has past my dear, that, eagle moon of desert tears – 10.31.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל