Ghosting


“The essential truth is that sometimes you’re worried that they’ll find out it’s a fluke, that you don’t really have it. You’ve lost the muse or – the worst dread – you never had it at all. I went through all that madness early on”. – Robin Williams

The air is empty this October, so still, not even the smell of pumpkin spice changes anything. No witches, no imagination, and sadly no muse. For it would appear she has ghosted me, left me with no familiar in which to confide, no words in which to write. No spirit in which to see from inside. Maybe it is for a season, maybe it last in a forever night. For now, it immortal, and what can I do but hide.

So, are you my faire, are you my fine? My silver dust, my mystery shine. My three-beat heart, a moving boat, words drawn from witchcraft, when I awoke. Are you Esther, are you ghost, famished woman, a song once wrote? Bones and violence, stung by lore, a talisman hidden in your bust I adore. Are you a windstorm, a broken reed, fragmented in reflection by heavy needs? Are you the spirit, a deep divide, have your legs opened from the other side? And will you call the night sky, home, star by star, like a honeycomb. A periodic table of ore, moving plasma what life’s, therefore. And will you be born anew. And will you move when, I breathe into you. The earth calls me, so I call you, but ghosting me is all you do.

Are you bonny, or thin as glass, hard to see when the writer’s block last? Gone tomorrow, not here today, words just spoken but their meaning won’t stay. Have you seen me searching maps, looking for direction, while a compass naps? Ghosting me to and fro, unanswered questions as my dreams cease to flow. For a lack of rationale, or reason or rhyme. Our conversation ceases in the ether over time. Not fair play I scream at you, still in the twilight there is nothing but a silent hue. In that itself it goes to black, another long night, the sight I lack. A never answer, a silent line, the whole world spinning, but not aligned. I look to heaves, they look to me, the whole astrology so hard to see. The earth calls me, so I call you, but ghosting me is all you do.

Are footsteps following beyond my back, I cannot tell for it’s a trail I lack. So, are you barren, can you not produce, the cut of my tongue is bitter without your use. Could you be an adulteress, gone to sea, riding other hips in verbosity? Could be you dead, cold on a stone, somewhere in time, where the druids do roam. Are you transformed, and gone to G_D, watching me search, this earthen pod? Wherever you have hidden, please come home, I feel so empty and all alone. The earth calls me, so I call you, but ghosting me is all you do. – 10.5.2022 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Shadow Woman


“Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream.” – Euripides

Shadow woman, you know who you are, leaping the skyline, while the world ends it’s song, here along the backbone, while everything is right or wrong. Call me. I am so lonely; I scream to belong. Call me.

The best place perhaps to see Lucifer at sunrise is along the “Devil’s Backbone“. Around 5:55 AM when the sun is throwing pink rays around the scrub brush, the points of burgundy rising past my knees. A bristle, a sound, a rock with an opening under it. A snake, maybe a Fairy, maybe a pixie, a hundred pixies, with lips, and tongues, all memory. All the sounds and pictures of who I shouldn’t be. The wantonness of a seeking mind. All sexuality, everything a being of the garden, erupted from G_D’s eternity. Deep pathways in Joseph Campbell’s symbology. Somewhere here in the Pre-Cambrian strata lies my birth. Somewhere here between sand and stars I behold my destiny. A path outside of Loveland, while the sun is birthing, a part of me, an interesting dichotomy. The gulf between my real life, and what I would want it to be. Here, before I leave life, please call me.

She looks like a witch, down around Morrison, near the “Red Rocks“, a hippie, drawing her life song in aura from her paintings of the earth. She looks like the shadow here near the backbone, translucent dawn of light, of something I can’t control, all paths are open, nothing I ever wanted, is as much as I want you. Imagination before sunrise, here along skyline, purple horizon, etched in passion incandescently. Woman oh woman where, before you have taken me. From one life to another, from the deepest valleys past to here in the present sandstone of your current sea. While maybe I am young or old, long hair laying gray or gold. I am spoken, I have spoken, you are my interest while all goes wrong. Here along the front range, while the sun grows strong. Here before I am long gone, please call me.

I have been crazy, looping round these sharp stones, the spine of the devil has been resting in my head. I have been loved, by women and children who I have fed. They have been the present, the better part of my heart, the breathing that makes sense, in my spirit and in my head. They are the seal of Zion, the promise in sunshine that completes the song, still here on the backbone something still needs to be said.

Shadow woman, you know who you are, leaping the skyline, while the world ends it’s song, here along the backbone, while everything is right or wrong. Call me. I am so lonely; I scream to belong. Call me. -08.08.2022 – דָנִיֵּאל

A Word in February


When God was making the months, I think February was a mistake, like a burp. There it was, small, dark, and prickly. It had absolutely no redeeming qualities.”- Shannon Wiersbitzky

The Pan he flies and dies in February. On a word he glows and goes in February. The Pan he falls so fast in February. Not really but actually!

Four and a half months on a business dime, four and a half months see you in a new eternity. And now I grieve if only momentarily. And if I had a word for this month, it would be only believe. For I have feared that which I could not see. Now faith has set me free, if only momentarily. And how I hate this month, oh I hate it so, nothing good has happened and I’ll tell it so. Lost all my dust and my flying wings on a word in February.

Deep far the tunnel goes, far from the light of the porches glow. Faire the wind the western flow, from steeps not mapped on an explorer’s globe. Here beneath a web not shown, dream a sailor on a carrion row. Bare your soul, on it goes, one world certain, one below. Taste, taste tears they flow, oh my feelings are not for show, for they are momentarily. They are momentarily.

And she was there, as he was too, the dead summoned by a word a kiss. The memories at three in flight. The Pan my boyhood gone from sight. One step than two at night, this month of winter in all its tragic might. A word spoken by both in a tainted dream. A word so small that becomes something more. A word in February. And I am lower than I have ever been still it is momentarily.

Dream er up big, that man he says. What he forgot was about the faith. What he doesn’t know is there is no church, no star or seal in February. Hash tag and love that man he says. Small man little man in his final days. For he has not seen the master screen, falling suns and angels of the lost boys that dream. He has not seen the dark of night, pivoting of eyes on a Pan in flight. And he does not know of the word in me, shattering my fear, all of misery. He does not know of the moon or stars. One word of wisdom that has come so far. In February.

Four and a half months on a business dime, four and a half months see you in a new eternity. And now I grieve if only momentarily. And if I had a word for this month, it would be only believe. For I have feared that which I could not see. Now faith has set me free, if only momentarily. -02.22.22– דָנִיֵּאל


Beyond Red Feather


“If you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.” – Beryl Markham

His spirit came upon me on a fourth night last before, and he laid out all the burdens that I thought once solved once more. And I worried all about it, and I prayed to G-D above, but it was in his insistence and according to his word that I followed my dad the phantom, on into a different western world. Into a different western world.

I set my mind on answers and I lay them at false feet. The Ying and yang of could be, the Ying and yang of disarray. And I climb that lonely mountain. Just the one I climbed before. Oh, here I stand a mountain, on it rest a hollow core. For if there was an answer in every peak, I’ve climbed than surely, I would be a wise man or perhaps holy divine. But oh, this Ghost upon me. The churning of my mind. This answer for a reason. Time to move, nothings left to find. Nothings left that’s mine.

Red Feather, was my fortune in the fall of ninety-nine, and I built it to a temple. To a mystery within my mind. And it’s true my daddy lies there with his ashes that dirt binds cold this very day. It’s all a part of history, the kind the spirit moves with time away. Oh, Daddy why all the mountains, that you breath into my mind, when you whisper out of the cold gray “Lay, sweet lady lay.”

And all I want is wonder, that beckons to my word, changes me forever, frees me like a bird. Makes me to an angel, just the only kind, that flies beyond your mountain to something that won’t fade away. That won’t fade away.

For maybe it’s a treasure, or just an extra breathe, maybe I’m just naked while an eagle makes a nest. Could be I see Jesus, in the beer from the night before, or maybe there is a miracle, laid in my inner core. But somehow, I know there’s a sunrise exploding in the west, laid out like days turned windy with time and secrets to explore. For ghost you are now upon me, mapping my seconds to the day, and what tomorrow may find me. With a grace tracing lines upon my face. On a distant shore of mystery where new muses come to play. A miracle of the day. A miracle of the day.

His spirit came upon me on a fourth night last before, and he laid out all the burdens that I thought once solved once more. But this time it was different, so strange in a good way. A miracle as my daddy bowed his head to pray, and I moved away. I moved away. – 01.24.22 – דָנִיֵּאל

Davis

“Life without a friend, is like death without a witness’. – Spanish Proverb

Sunday, January 11, 1975

“What are you drawing”, I ask him, bending my neck over to get a better view of the pencil scrawl, Davis is working on. “Just our lives at the end”, he grins pulling the piece of paper away and holding it up to his chest, where I can’t see it. “How does it go”, I ask him trying to sound a bit miffed at not being able to see it. “Well,” he says slowly before laying his artwork out before me. “It’s like we are the last owls, all the other owls are gone, and we are late for the sky”. One of us must fly and see what the other side looks like. “What happens to the one of us that stays”, I ask looking at the picture that shows an owl in a mirror. “The one who stays”, he says slowly, now no longer grinning. “The one who stays, looks for the reflection, to show him the way to go”.

He flew into the Western sky, one companion true to the other, knowing one would become a Yeibichai, knowing one would be left alone without a brother. The heavy sound of knocking, the forceful wind, in fight, the traces of burning wings, the death on high that makes me shutter. Oh you, just you, have crossed somewhere, left me to live without a rudder. Flew you alone, late for the sky this world has cha cha changed, oh how I stutter. Those sounds of ghost, the holy host, left you to go my wings can’t flutter. My world has changed too many times, I shriek I cry, so empty now, one owl alone, oh how I shudder.

On, phantom tides, the darkened queen has come. She picks your name, while I sit by. She calls you her bird of prey. Oh, is it that you are me? On that dresser of hers sits a mirrored reverie. One in which she pitches your name, the feathers fall it’s never a game. She mixes a cup, and life fills her up, but still there is destiny, the two of us fly eternally. For if I were to look into the mirror, see the high desert flowing all so clear. Know I am the last owl, and the hour is late. Experience the shadow of your fate, then I will see the pattern of the sky, know every reason for why, and then I will fly, so high, then I will fly so high, even though I am late for the sky.

“I think it will be me, that flies first”, Davis says. He’s grinning again, and it seems if I look close enough, he does indeed, seem to have a light down of feathers. “Don’t go to early”, I say, not feeling like grinning myself, for the hour is early, much too soon to be speaking of such things. “Yeah”, he says, “still, still, it has to happen someday”.

Davis Begay flew from this world on November 22, 2021. He was late for the sky. He was my dearest friend, and blood brother. I shall miss him so much. I think he would want me to find the reflection, he drew all those many years ago, and chart my own flight someday. For where he is there is only sky, and in it owls fly both day and night. – 01-11-22 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Ghost on the Bridge


“It is required of every man, the ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death”. – Charles Dickens

“Listen, listen”, the boy ghost said, “we are present caricatures of what we once knew, no better time than Christmas, to know the life that once was you”. “From this same stargate a child was born, and in that image all lives were formed”.

Blew a kiss your way in the snow of “73”, you were transparent so hard to see, a foot pointed in reverie, no one saw you but me. Just a sprite upon the bridge, looking southward toward a ridge. The bluffs above you, and down below the muddy San Juan looked like moving brown snow. I thought about you standing there, a Dicken’s character with muffled hair. What were you doing, where was your home? Were you the same ghost who whispered to me when I felt so alone? I saw you again when we drove home, winds swirling, the spirits they roam. Oh, the ides of Noel be, above a river, on Christmas Eve. Faire thee well then, from my way back when, the clock is ticking while darkness moves in. A change to shadow, the book of dark, forever thirteen, a phantom in my heart.

Beyond our house, the wind it blew, from the steeps of twin peaks, the sand it made a witches brew. And in the interest of the dark, the Christmas story had a different start. For instead of Judea from my Father’s lips, I heard a whisper about desert ships. A different story from a different arc, a previous world in its glory before our start. “Listen, listen”, the ghost boy said, I’m a reflection of you before you were dead. “Listen, listen”, to your own heart, the Yuletide of genesis was the beginning before this Christmas start. And I heard him singing inside my head, and it sounded of wonder as I made my way toward bed.

That once in a lifetime on Christmas Eve, December 24th, 1973, the ghost on the bridge, came with me home, made my life different from all I had known. Told me stories of how life had been before division of meaning was borne upon men. Told me of stars, that spelled out their names, as they danced in unison, until morning came. Told me of meaning of why we are born, to love in adventure, to love in the storm. And as I traveled so far in my dreams, a boyhood voyager, to give or receive. I passed that bridge by the one where I’d seen, the boy ghost looking, staring at me. He looked so familiar, like someone I knew, no different from me. He waved me on through. He waved me on through.

“Listen, listen”, the boy ghost said, “we are present caricatures of what we once knew, no better time than Christmas, to know the life that once was you”. “From this same stargate a child was born, and in that image all lives were formed”. – 12.20.21 – דניאל

 

The Turquoise Soul (Dreaming)


“You’ve got to always go back in time if you want to move forward.” – Snoop Dogg

“You have a turquoise iiʼ sizíinii“, Grandma Blackhorse says. She is looking deep into the campfire. The flames reflect in her aged eyes and make them look like they are glowing. “Don’t scare the boy”, Ms. Woods says. She is to my back; I can hear the sound of the dough, flipping back and forth slapping her hands. “He’s not scared “, Grandma says, opening her mouth to show a toothless smile, “he is soon to dream”. “Stop it mother, it is not their way”, Ms. Woods says, her voice lower, sounding concentrated. She is no doubt worried about the consistency of the fry bread and hoping it does not burn. “May be not their way”, Grandma, laughs, “but it is his way”. “It is his way”.

A lighter blue just before sunrise, still it is dark at 4:00 AM. Falling deep into a slumber, as the chants begin and end. Three-sixteenths a time a sliver, into a higher desert wind, high above this firmament, this journey, into your ways do I descend. Not of this world, but of this people, between four mountains that ascend. Night has fallen on the Black Yeii; let the light of holy boy begin again. Round and round the worlds bend.

So it is that I am dreaming, of the beginning and the end. Of a soul that learns from mercy, born for water in the San Juan’s
end. Star gaze I into the heavens of a universe where life begins, five billion light years of glory, while right here now I am ten again. Black, yellow, white rotates again, while the turquoise eats my sin.

A safer place has never happened, why oh why can it not be. That every grey hair on this planet should be a child with me. Spinning it would seem in a turquoise destiny. Seeing this stone ship, that which flew, with fires and ash from a deep cold blue. Now it brings me here, from time immortal, cast down by a dream so clear. Everything happens in time, a constant in movement by design. Forwards, backwards, jumping over rhymes. The answer to the riddle is those who seek will find. Floating in a dream three-sixteenths at a time. In a desert near, may be like a child the answer comes so clear. Never fear, be free, dream with me.

“Come boy, come here”. Grandma Blackhorse is motioning me over to her side of the fire, using her nose to beckon. I look to see if Ms. Woods is paying attention, but she is busy hustling pots and pans over to the house to clean. “Boy I said come here”, Grandma has raised her tone. I shuffle over to her, hesitant but not afraid for Grandma is smiling again. Grandma is holding out something in her hand, and as I reach her side, she motions for me to take it. I look for just a moment into her eyes, those eyes that have seen time, and perhaps traveled it too. When I look down, my hand is holding a piece of rough-hewn turquoise. “You have a turquoise iiʼ sizíinii”, Grandma Blackhorse says. -08.27.21- דָנִיֵּאל

Authors Note: Grandma Blackhorse’s piece of Turquoise resides with this author’s soul and rock collection, as it will until the stars fall from the sky and I fly the Shiprock home.

Never Never Land


“So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!” – James M. Barrie

Nothing had ever forbade me to dream of that home I searched for, that place in childhood where I felt safe. Still it seemed to elude me in my nightly visions, for to go there would require a balance. A threading of the needle between lack of, and want to. The summoning of the spirit of will. A belief in divination. The conquering of great adversities to find “Never Never Land” and to own within my own nature, that I was “The Pan”.

3:00 AM August 7, 2021

Left alone it would seem in ferocious weather on a roughhewn stone, in a violent sea. Dreams in phases am I young man, or am I in want, an old man deceived. What would I say has brought me this mystery, brought me this sword that cuts flesh from bone. Sold me naked in a world not my own. What would I say surrounds me in darkness, comforts me more than a warm bed at home. Standing still, I feel so disabled, lightning comes and I am alone. I am so alone.

The dragons have risen to lighten my darkness, come to demand a payment a toll. Deals made in ignorance, while I was younger, have put a strain on my inward soul. Questions unanswered, one and another, why do we search to find what stories have told. Too many thoughts lost in reflection, time owes no man what he cannot hold. Still I say it bold, a legend of fancy, a legacy behold. I am The Pan.

For what is the discomfort here? In my own thoughts, a judgment made clear. Flaws ingrained by my own instigated fear. Aged frowning daemons attack. To what I would not wish for myself to go back. To find my comfort in what I do lack. Wrapped in darkness within my soul. Not to see this storm in phantoms unfold. Not to see the rocks that I must climb, lines on my face, say I am out of my time. Tick tock, tick tock, I should have ran. Still my better ghost remind me in this late hour. I am The Pan.

So on to my hunt, with old bones creaking, tame the dragon my childhood is seeking. To find the tunnels, to enter the arch, know the secret that carries the ark. A covenant of mystery I see, an ancient rite brought to me. Count the numbers ahead, they fall from the skies and enter my head. Enter the sea the spirits forbade. The sky is spinning, my best plans unmade. Enter the doorways ahead. The seal is broken and time is unwed. For I will go on, straight to the castle, the light just ahead. To find the final truth, in G_D’s plan. An old man young in “Never Never Land”. I am The Pan. I am The Pan. – 08.12.2021- דָּנִיֵּאל‎ 

Morgana

“He, who rides a tiger, is afraid to dismount”. – Thea Harrison

July 30, 1982 or centuries ago…

It is a five-hour drive from Whitby to Glastonbury Tor, if the traffic is light, and the winds of good fortune are with you. Worth the drive if you ask me. Worth the time indeed. So much to do while you are there. So much to see especially at night. Especially at night if you dream.

In this moment, she is like an unsatisfied water storm whirling in my mind, and uncontrollable pleasurable orgasm careening undefined. That sweet agony that defies our outer bodies combined. Other times she is inside me, her tongue like an allegory, a legend refined. Wrapping her long, mind around me proving that life will not be with me long. Altogether, she is immeasurable part of a mystic plan. Serving her Lord and her Master, whether a woman or a man. I sleep this night in misery looking for her cause, is she a muse caught in my memory or just a rhyme gone wrong. Maybe I am a searcher for a sorceress drawn in different signs. Maybe I see her naked body summoned out of time. A blue crescent moon on her forehead, a perfect swoop back of her hair. Just a hint of a blue shadow under her eyelid that invites me where. Taking me across many waters, taking me on her own. Stars falling from the firmament, the cold waters how they foam. Swaying circles by a seashore, hearing drums, wrapped up feeling her unclothed home. Knowing you are a witch to my bone. Witch oh which a universe to roam.

Better, you are here with a lady, better you are from the unknown. Stories of you when you were crazy, screaming “roll the bones“. Lower you down just above me, where do spirits roam. Ancient cities explode between centuries. Eyes meet eyes. I moan. Crescents on totems dancing inside the circle of her womb. The stars above me from far away Babylon weaving a loom. Battlefields on her body of a different kind. Tracks telling your history from when Buddug said sweet fairy you are mine. Over and over the sky raining sand, the night upon us in a dream strange land. She breathes it cometh, it cometh where angels ran. She breathes, ride this fifth horseman as hard as you can, and then I see the red moon falling from her raised hand. The red moon is falling from her raised hand.

It is a five-hour drive from Whitby to Glastonbury Tor, if the traffic is light, and the winds of good fortune are with you. Worth the drive if you ask me. Worth the time indeed. So much to do while you are there. So much to see especially at night. Especially at night if you dream. Especially if you dream. – 07.30.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Call to Prayer

“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” – Meister Eckhart

Heed me, need me, call me please me, oh holy.

The call to prayer is my writing. A story not based in my pride. A part of me of which I am revealing, for which in fact, I know not how or know why. It is like a question that was raised to me this morning, as I saw the Colorado Mountains that reached to the sky. The words they came from compassion born from inside me, “If they glorify me above their stature, can you do not the same in word and in rhyme”.

The call to prayer rest inside me. In a place battered by hell. Deep in the valley of spirit and bone, a link to the divine that lives to tell. The story of letters and numbers, of seals and mystical grails. Sometimes uttered as sounds and music, sometimes screams and wails. It is true I have been not a temple, a prophet, or seer of worlds. Still when I pray something happens, the shadows inside me unfurl. Orbital echoes of summoning, that form beyond a divide, that whose names goes unspoken, becomes one with my creature inside. A feeling of fullness eternal, what is cannot be denied, for G_D as she most perpetual, has made me sane while the world goes crazy outside. To pray to bless my creator, the coals of her mercy inside, hallowed be thy creation, your footprint of breath carries my life. Your footprint of breath carries my life.

So here, I am a part of a missive, a call to prayer, let me praise, let me praise. The seals holding the eternal bond within me break when I open to pray. This a part of my union, between she and my life day to day. The call to prayer from the start of the cosmos, on to on goes it on to each day. How does it help to sustain me in the here and the now of this day? The answer is found in a mystery, a word from the ancient of days. “Know me to know you intensely; I am, so you are each day, spoken and born so intimately, am I not worthy of praise. Am I not worthy of praise?”

The call to prayer is my writing. A story not based in my pride. A part of me of which I am revealing, for which in fact, I know not how or know why. It is like a question that was raised to me this morning, as I saw the Colorado Mountains that reached to the sky. The words they came from compassion born from inside me, “If they glorify me above their stature, can you do not the same in word and in rhyme”.

Heed me, need me, call me please me, oh holy. – דָנִיֵּאל – 05.05.2021