When on Red Mountain


“And Moses built an altar, and called the name of it Adonai-nissi.”-Exodus 17:15

Northern Colorado some twelve miles North of Fort Collins.

It was a natural altar, alluring in the July sun. Red and jagged against the blazing sky. A normal place to celebrate both life and grief. Mortality and immortality. A place to call the lightning, and watch her come.

O’ great lord of Red Mountain, I need a new perspective that is very clear, need your veins of metal and granite to breathe heavy in my ears. I need you to lift me higher, bend my back into the sky, let me feel the heat of summer, release the challenges of July.

I send a storm unto your heaven; your heaven sends the storm to me. Everywhere I feel dry lightning, grabbing inwardly. Whip lashing me. G_D you are the chair of energy creator of twisted me. One that is made of angry illusion, one built on quiet complexity. You have asked me to the mountain, now burn your inward soul in me. Let me not succumb here earthbound, like a wailing, shrieking need. O’ grandeur of this arid edifice that rises up to me. Let not scorpion and rattlesnake reside beneath my feet. For I am one with wind and place that taunts eternity. Do not I pray let me slip beneath this sandy sea.

O prayer that rides the summer skies beneath a sun drenched leak, a boomerang of sounds and syllables a want, a need, a creed. I strode this path to someone’s calling, was it you or a mental disease. To feel the touch of this “Red Mountain” when I cry “Adonai Nissi” When I cry “Adonai Nissi”.

O’ draught that is unquenchable here on your immortal brief, that I would always own this moment, and not its grief. That I would see you counting my compassions one by extra one. Touching my body with your kisses, under this “Red Mountain’s’ July sun, and its third week black moon, on once the night begun. O’ terror may you find me not bedeviled by this form, the one created here on creation the one that is often torn. For it is frame of just reflection, that you stilled in me. That you stilled in me.

O’ great lord of Red Mountain, I need a new perspective that is very clear, need your veins of metal and granite to breathe heavy in my ears. I need you to lift me higher, bend my back into the sky, let me feel the heat of summer, release the challenges of July. – 07.13.20 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Sisters


Before there was Stephen King and “The Shining“, there was the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, and three sisters from Georgia who made a holiday in July of 1922.

Tessie say’s Elsie, it’s such a warm day, much warmer in the Rockies, the sun’s closer they say. Mary holds her dress high to step over a stone, say’s she, it’s not the land of cotton, but I don’t miss our home. The air it’s right for small talk, of what should have been, a bit of gin drinking, with tonic mixed within. Beyond the western terrace, the valley golden lays, behind the haunted walls of luxury, the rocks climb to where eagles stay. The evening grows much closer, as evenings always do, Mary looks at Elsie, what’s a girl to do? I’ve just been so lonely, since we left our boys, do you think they miss us. Hush dear now, says Tessie, they really have no choice. The sisters watch the sun set, crooked down it strays, Elsie says to Mary, it reminds me of our ways, as it goes towards Grand Lake as it goes away.

Tessie hears “Claude Debussy”, the piano in the dark, something from the ballroom, where music is an art. “Nocturnes” playing softly, while near her sisters lay, it’s been a day in Estes, where no one knows their names. Shadows play so distant, from a different time, once upon a small town, when all in life was fine. Outside time is moving under stars that play, someone mixing magic along the milky way. All is where it should be except a dark shadow on the stairs. A moving fist of darkness, a dameon of past care.

Elsie wakes to sunrise, a coldness in the room, her sisters are missing, for a moment she holds a fearful swoon. What if they decided to leave her here alone, and travel back to Georgia, to let the boys be not left to roam. But that would be so silly, for together they have strayed, and then she hears Tessie giggle from the doorway, and she’s okay. Another day in heaven, up where graces stray, up where a guilty soul, can hear angels say it’s okay. For here they are just sisters, women joined by heart, never would they let each other suffer from another’s harm. What they have together, muses in a way, better their sin forgotten, upon this sunny day. This sunny day.

Tessie say’s Elsie, it’s such a warm day, much warmer in the Rockies, the sun’s closer they say. 02.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

West of Denver


Underneath, ground, choking, I’m not sure what happens if I udder a sound. For surely it is, for surely, it could be, that any key that touches my ear, says you are down, oh yeah, it says you’re down! I’m fifty-six years, of sightseeing, things a human shouldn’t see, all the strangers in heaven say they are relying on me. I’m here on Kiowa Peak, west of Denver, you SOB’s can come on up for me, for I’m homecoming, not less a stranger in an alien land. I’m a lost father taking a different stand, but still I’m homecoming.

And I looked down upon the heavens, looked down upon the trees, a father lost in something, so heavy. Here I am above timberline, west of Denver and only G_D can help me see.

Daddy was autistic, a wonderful sort of man, I see things too, keys in music, I’m better than Billy Joel, a phantasmal piano man. I’m further west of Eden, beyond Steinbeck’s, “Red Pony” brand, a prophet in America, like my daddy said on a “Father’s Day” I will rise, and I will head for homecoming, west of Denver, I’ll be the best man, my kids ever met, up here were nothing that’s evil, can get to me.  Open your arms, Orion, I’m homecoming.

Up here above America, the universe in June is still found crisp. The place I have found within my soul, is neither dead, but it’s alive with a kiss, and it says this is the place you must find your life, that visitor, you have hated your entire damn life. That place in fire, golden flames where the Colorado sky meets the devils eye, on high, west of Denver, homecoming. I see the ridge now, ruby red, a sun setting, on the edge of a lineage gift.

And I looked down upon the heavens, looked down upon the trees, a father lost in something, so heavy. Here I am above timberline, west of Denver and only G_D can help me see.

Underneath, ground, choking, I’m not sure what happens if I udder a sound. But you know, as a father, as once I was a son, here west of Denver, I’m homecoming! – 06.18.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Huns of Waverly

Waverly, Colorado 6:00 AM August 14, 2016,

Wonderful glory, and beer fumes till dawn, in a lean-to that looks upon fields like a lawn.  For this is the kingdom, of barren red sun, the steppes of the front range of heaven.  Those boys in their hidden tattoos, those knights that fight dragons, that no one has a clue.  Says Bleda to brother Shen, “let’s dig a hole there, fill it with water, and trap us that bear.  The one who took our sheep, lets skin him alive, let his hide cover our feet.  All winter a song, truth praise to the maker, it will be so long.  With snow upon the ground, nothing in Waverly will admit a sound.  We’ll be swords in hiding, Huns without our bounds, and come spring we’ll be so tall.  We’ll work in the fields, it won’t be so long, our bare backs turned over, making us strong”.

“Climb down that open well”, Pa says to Octar, “prime it, till water drills down to hell.  The water brings us life, the Huns of Waverly, will drink to suffice, and all of these open fields, and we’ll plant grain to heaven, the rich soil we’ll till.  And hail to the dawn, bring Shen and Bleda, our secrets withheld.  We’re farmers or we’re ghost, higher than glory, lord of the host, and all that nature brings, we bring on back in triple our deed.  In triple of our deed”.

Its legend or truth that lives on, ancestral lineage that turns over ground, and the Colorado sun, makes father and sons spiritually found.  From time and places they trace.  Footprints in consciousness of another place, when they brought the Roman down.  Once warriors now farmers, they’ve traced what they’ve found.  And when Attila their father says “go”, they jump to their feet, with seeds they do sew.  For they can never die, even in death their spirits suffice, to conquer all that’s soil, for life’s in the dirt, when ashes do spill, when ashes do spill unto life’s great unknown. – – 08.14.2016 – 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

Eagle Rock (55)

Move a little bit, and open up your door, come on outside with me, it’s just a little holiday to celebrate something, higher than our eyes can see. For up there really far on the Mummy Range, a trail twist and turns then it bows in pain, it introduces itself as my life and gain, for it is me, on my birthday it is me. Eagle Rock it lays like a woman spread, at thirteen o seventy elevations head, such a pretty site and its Hagues Peak, on my birthday where wings are formed, it is me. Come a little closer with your broken dreams, hike a little higher, with your shattered seams, know if I can do it, through all of my life, you can too, on Eagle Rock, turn around, let loose your arms and fly.

On my birthday brother you could see if I rhyme, tell a pretty story about this high mountain climb, but I’d just laugh and say it’s been all my life, nothing’s changed, I’m the creature of a habit of the G_D with no name. That brings me to a subject here on Eagle Rock, stretching my hands toward the summit of naught, sister let me breath in your ear a dream, I am free, in these seventy-two names, I see, you can too, just breathe. After all in all those circles, and those thoughts of blame, you been around this lonely mountain in a time of shame. Time to climb it with your teeth bared in a grin of flame, climb it high, to Eagle Rock.

From here above the timberline an eagle screams, I match it on my birthday, for all it means, I’m something born of Torah, while the whole world sings. Here on my day, the dead move away, for I am alive, on Eagle Rock. Come on dance with me, through the bare aspen lot, climb a rocky trail, breathe, be who you were told you’re not, here above the common traits of man, find your soul, on Eagle Rock.

Move a little bit, and open up your door, come on outside with me. It’s just a little holiday to celebrate something, higher than our eyes can see. I’m fifty-five years old, and I’m born in peace, here I am, come with me, on Eagle Rock, blessed be, on Eagle Rock. – 11.03.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Come do the Eagle Rock with me, it’s my birthday, I’m 55!!!!! – “Well I feel so free” J

Far end of the Black (Cherokee Park)


“Some whisper holy, holy, but they lie. Some cry rapture sweet Pontifex Maximus, but they do not know. I lay in the secret places, where the wolves eat their meat, and I wait for you to call Lord”*.

I came to Colorado, to the park of the Cherokee, to wild places, to see the light, the fading light, and there was black. Into heaven I rose, into lonely lands, on my own I found memories of some things, tragic spells that I lacked. And those places, so high and free, those dwellings of stone, those places that seemed so black, brought me back, so high they were my friend, and they brought me back. I am a soul who has come too closely to what is not right, and by virtue, what is right, and here in these high places, where there is black, there is light great light.

So close to Wyoming here, so close to G_D, and yet he hides, there among the sandstone, and conifer, the pinon and deep shadows. My frown turned into a debt, my childhood scars, no one knows about, those frights, and glass defenses shattered by life. I cast them into that pool of sand, and it turns into black, while demons dance all along my back, my white, white back. And ruins they come, throwing their stones everywhere around, and it seems they place themselves on the meadow where I might never find my way back. Holy, holy I cry, turning to see there in the wild place, the far end of the black, the stones form around me tight, a place I might find. A path to breath in light.

I came to Colorado, to the park of the Cherokee, to stop what was black, to resurrect a magic of right. You see my fears, have made the one of the world something, lost to my sight. And it was cold, frozen beyond anything, close to what I had ever been told it would be. And the wind blew from left to right, from left to right, for all that is known, he is not, for he is foreign, hidden in a sea of compassion and darkness, waiting at the far end of the black, in light.

And he called me Daniel in the park of the Cherokee, his dances were waves of light, I Am, I Am, he gave me with liquid rays, that touch, that kisses me, at the far end of the black, at the farthest end of the black!

“Some whisper holy, holy, but they lie. Some cry rapture sweet Pontifex Maximus, but they do not know. I lay in the secret places, where the wolves eat their meat, and I wait for you to call Lord”*. – 08.17.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

*The Chronicles of Mihai – Daniel Swearingen
* Far end of Black – J.R. Richards

The Burning of Falcon Castle


The searing and screaming, the crows in the fire, the falcon higher, the ghost below in her aching desire. Gloria light, below as above, that which burns, cleanses senses, raptures love.

Gather you children a story at hand, a meaning in meaning from times that still stand, a place you can visit and now know more truth, a mountain castle the industrialist hood. Storm upon darkness, light after light, his second wife dead, and her bones turning white, just like the snow falling while there was still light. She lays at the foot of the mountain you see, dead but not dying from 1916. A high air in Morrison, Red Rocks below, yes Ethel played there her violin and bow, and Johnny Walker the Cosmopolitan king, laughs and he laughs, its part of his grief. Yes Ethel’s still playing so long after death, the castle above her, the train just ignores her, and she’s getting mad. Gather you weak souls, that believe good and bad, the witching of Falcon, will make you go mad, why yes Johnny Walker has done so much good, he’s created a steamer, and a college for hoods. Yes those Jesuits, they sing his good song, at Christmas in the castle, Maria till dawn. Oh poor, sweet, dang Ethel, she’s gone and so missed, but above here in Falcon, she’s hardly missed.

The library empty, the music room of stone, the strange twisting turret, Baphomet’s dong. So stars there still hanging twisted and black, and all through the year, a voice how it hums, a string of a difference, a voice where there’s none. It could be the answer for why nothings clear, a fog on the mountain, with Ethel’s stare near. While John Brisben Walker still strides to and fro, his eyes upon Denver, down there far below. Oh woman sweet woman, who played your sweet song, this castles now lonely, these ghost grow so long. The princes and warlocks, deceivers of men, they take up my mind, my heart it can’t mend. Oh Ethel sweet darling, maybe what I should do, is find me a starling, instead of a shrew. Devils and pines that surround this old life, while industry is waiting with me and a young wife.

Gather and summon you winds in July, in 1918, let the curse draw the sky. While Johnny Walker looks far to the East, and gathers the dimes from schools far and wide, to build there a White House, right next to his castles side. Why there, just below the changes are clear, down near the storm front, sweet Ethel comes clear, and rips all her clothing, from dust of the womb, and points her strange bow at the tide of the ruin. While John Brisben Walker walks in the storm, the lightning from heaven cleanses the strange castles form.

The searing and screaming, the crows in the fire, the falcon higher, the ghost below in her aching desire. Gloria light, below as above, that which burns, cleanses senses, raptures love.

Gather your mind, while it is still time, and hike there a mountain, go back in its time, and while the path covers a story so wild. Know in your mind a secret is lied. Know Falcon Castle burned in a storm, while so far below it, so far below it, Ethel lured a strange form. – 06.08.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Once in a while you meet someone, very old, that tells you a strange story, a strange story indeed, when it is not Halloween! For the safer story of John Brisben Walker, and Falcon Castle, you can visit the following links.

https://morrisonhistory.wordpress.com/people/john-brisben-walker/

https://www.google.com/search?q=falcon+castle+ruins&espv=2&biw=1680&bih=963&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=SWx2VdTvHMTnsAWS54AQ&ved=0CCQQsAQ&dpr=1

http://www.bizjournals.com/denver/blog/broadway_17th/2014/07/more-on-the-cover-story-john-walker-monday-7-7.html


Nederland (The Prayer)


Were in Nederland, the sun has started its track to the west side of Long’s peak, resting for a short time between Meeker and Long’s, giving a parting shot before the whole of the world becomes darkness. “Dad, I have to pray, its sundown”. “Now”? I look over at Ryan, his brown eyes wide, reflecting the high thin fading light, so far, so high. “It’s a commandment you know”, he’s grinning, but serious. “Well I guess if it’s a commandment then”, I’m grinning but serious. “Can I just drive while you pray”, I say. “Sure I think so, I think it will be okay this time”, he says. “Yeah it’s probably okay this time”.

“Perhaps you’re hidden in plain sight, in this shadow or in that light, that ours down on the trail of sky to Nederland. A molecule that parts our hair, from ancient days, in this thin air, your purpose sanctifies and cares our naked minds. If you are real or just as is, beyond knowledge of all we wish, we are here, from day to day anyway. Instant death is not surprise, longer life we ask from skies, but anyway, both are blessings that we pray. Perhaps you wish our gratitude, just like the area, the fire forsook, that place near Nederland, the other day. We think we wish and that’s an art, but what we ask for is so stark, of things to buy, not life sparks, and that’s a shame.

Perhaps right here in Nederland, a place you gifted, and I’m glad, for right here, I think I found my way today. Some visions start right out of time, but what I’ve seen starts in rhyme, this mountain vale, this mountain high, has scared my fear away. Perhaps you planned it from the start, designation of loves pure part, to raise me up, to strike my heart this day. You strike my heart this day.

Perhaps this wind in Nederland, that binds this car, as we descend, teaches us to never ever be afraid. Indigo, or reddish blue, we see you paint a higher hue, of spirits rushing and falling fast, as if to bade, us to be safe. We are scents from what you are, the very essence in this car, the smell of days of sunshine rays, where wonder plays. Perhaps were farther from the truth, but well okay, for when we look, you’re above us and behind in Nederland. A gift before us all our days. All our days.

Perhaps right here in Nederland, a place you gifted, and I’m glad, for right here, I think I found my way today. Some visions start right out of time, but what I’ve seen starts in rhyme, this mountain vale, this mountain high, has scared my fear away. Perhaps you planned it from the start, designation of loves pure part, to raise me up, to strike my heart this day. You strike my heart this day”.

It’s dark, the headlights from the car, pick up the glassy eyes of a coyote moving swiftly near a sharp curve in the road. “I wouldn’t mind living in Nederland”, I say looking quickly over at Ryan and then back at the mountain road. “How about you”, I ask? Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my son grinning when he replies, his hand held up to his heart, “I already do dad”, he says, “I already do”. 6-7-2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Faith Healer and the Witch Heather (1896)


(A True Story)

The faith healer comes, his pockets undone, while Heather suns in her rafter!

A story not told, just bartered in souls, a tale of the lack of some water. From Laramie down, patch fence work and brown, the high land the earth is branded for slaughter. A drought brought by fools, those using men’s tools, those that plant what they rather. The sound of a cry, the wind high and dry, the hungry, from Kansas to Denver. The faith healer came to pray for some rain, his black clothes, Christ mourner forever. He looks to the sky, the plains to his side, and begs his dear Jesus for water. Oh the sin that man has brought, tending cattle, slaying flock, the soul it must wander forever. He preaches on stage, of judgment day, his eyes filled red hell, a pretender. Men fall to their knees, in crisis belief, they rend their clothes open in surrender. Please rain just fall, come over us all, we give you our souls as our tender.

A star on a lake, snow covered in rays, she sits and then hovers, she quivers. A small women true, a witch through and through, down Michigan Ditch her image comes slender. Down canyon she flies, her mouth open wide, the delta she opens her river. She’s quieter than sound, less open unbound, a magic that is no pretender. Some old lady prays, comes Heather this way, she’s bringing some bones from her quiver. Come water if she’s the offender. What if our lord did send her?

The crowd gathers round, the revival tent down, the preacher stands facing Ms. Heather. She shape shifts away, comes close to his face, says what would you give them contender. Can you make it rain, or those words you say, is money, or blood your sender. The crowd murmurs strong, the preacher stands tall, and slaps her face raw with a blister. How dare you mock me you wicked deceived, the rain will come when Christ wills it. He holds his hands high, and lets out a cry, come all that I pray, please deliver.

And then…

She stands to her feet, the skies in retreat, she summons her Lord and her master. The ground churns in heat, the western sky weaves, a rain that will fall like forever. What wills, or what ways, she gathers in place, and prances on past the dear pastor. The people rejoice, a land with a voice, a rainbow from Kansas to Denver.

The faith healer leaves, his pockets undone, and Heather flies back to her rafter! – 02.19.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל