Metaphysical

Night of Things (Mayhem)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 73 Comments


“There are methods to creating a mayhem that sounds different from your usual mayhem. Because mayhem and a heavy drum backbeat end up sounding like Green Day or something. But if you put a different beat within it to create some air and lightness, the chaos comes through better.” – Nick Cave

It was mayhem to drive up the mountain at midnight, to visit my father’s grave. A night of things, both describable, and some not, that guided me up the sliver of a winding road to find my better angels. Perhaps daddy spoke to me, perhaps he did not, but something did. Something deep and dark, that deals with mayhem in the most effective way.

Whisper’s whisper all around me, from the mountains, crags and high plains. Whisper’s whisper ere, thy name. Blessings to this night of things, ere mayhem love is still the same.

Ere these feelings, ere these symptoms on this highway, underneath your heavens a spinning shell. Ere I am dying, awhile I am driving, ere I am dying, silence around me I die so well. For mayhem finds me upon your starlight headed toward highlands, beneath crosswinds, nothing happens, when something happens near well. It has been a long while since I came here. To your graveyard, here upon this highest vale, oh daddy you brought me, to speak of mystery of shine that blinds the heart when mayhem the truth will not tell. What a fortune, what a beauty here near your buried ashes, the book of secrets the night does tell. In the snow shining by car light night of things save me from the tides of hell. Ere I go up on this mountain, sing a night song my troubles fail, in the gloom of skyward shadows of timeless winter trees so pale.

Ere oh purpose, why I cry out, begging mercy from those who sleep. Laying snowbound in all their ashes so frozen here beneath my feet. Ere the circle turning faster stealing secrets from this a keep, just standing before Ezekiel’s wheels all I can do is weep. Ere the mayhem of the signal. Ere, what is hidden beneath cross beams? What comes from all around me before one A.M.?

Whisper’s whisper all around me, from the mountains, crags and high plains. Whisper’s whisper ere, thy name. Blessings to this night of things, ere mayhem love is still the same.

For something here is me, something comes on this night of things, and through all nature, begs me bind, thoughts of treasures beneath frozen vines, I think I finally see. That for all mayhem that stays inside, it reveals the signs of life indeed. For where there is death there must be life to see. – 01.23.21-
דָנִיֵּאל

Victoria

/ Daniel Swearingen


” Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”. – Tecumseh

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face. Moving G-d like before me while angels wait.

In and out of minutes, heartbeats slowing, I see her dancing upon a dawn filled sea. Planting footsteps that are visible to only those who would see. And it seems that she would kiss me nicely. And it seems she would fly with me. For she is of the beginning. The beginning of my eternity.

If I should hear her if I should go to play. If my shoes should not fit and stay unlaid. If voices should become a second place. On a present morning before the sun has thought to raise. If change should happen, music and light replace my pleasant grace. If G_D should find me willing to ride the wind on her beckon of faith. My heart broken, my breath that can longer taste. My taste for earth fainter than my fading face. Oh, then Victoria I will ascend in numbers across this water so chaste. While there are seconds moving, time that I no longer make, my soul moving, into spirit beyond the tides that break.

If moving morning shadows should bring me angels. If their high notes should barriers break. If I should find myself willing, to touch her face. A distant journey, now a present place. No longer a question, indecision, or an unintelligible race. If I should no longer suffer, descend to a stoic held together by man’s science or medical case. Know that I am moving upon that water, my eyes wider, no terror left to shake. If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me while angels wait. In death I trip, but so quickly I reach and touch your blessed lace. That which makes you in me. That which you let me take.

If I should walk in mystery, into thy ark with such an airless ease. If their would-be Seraphim that fold their wings when I, upon my journey make. Touching syllables, that only immortals make, crying holy, while she dances for me. If I am growing lighter, closer than, closer than my G_D to thee. For here there would be no lessor freedoms than what she has made in me. If she would make an equation, a variable to a prophesy, it would be that I am with Victoria, for in Victoria I have come to be.

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me.

Jovine DeMarcus’s daughter carries his thoughts and blood deep within her. I am married to her. Jovine taught me how to pull wire, hammer a nail, and put together the most intricate electrical wiring equations. I taught him about the mountains. He wanted me to call him dad and I fought it. I fight it no longer. Jovine went to his Victoria, his woman of the water and mountain on December 23rd, 2020 at 4:15 AM in the morning. Sweet travels Dad. Sweet travels. Miss you much more than I ever thought I would. 12.31.20- דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Magnum Mysterium Phantasm

/ Daniel Swearingen / 95 Comments


“The unknown is not that the soul never changes. The mystery is that the spirit does.” – DS

I thought myself a haunted house in a deep darkened wood, and every December I changed and became whole again.” -DS

There were angels dancing in shadows. There were angels darkened in shape. Singing magnum mysterium. Magnum mysterium. Awake!

Magnum mysterium phantasm is a spot in my mind, a haunted memory of pictures I cannot find. Darkness, darkness hello my old friend. A world floating with numbers, where does reason end. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living…

There sits in a wood a house broken, scarred, and battered and worn. It has eyes on an inward soul searching, haunted on the eve of a storm. The snow it falls on it duly, the ice it makes its way in. There is no way to know if now truly how to separate the ghost from within. So long ago its construction, upon faith and a matter of fact. Articles concentrated by a convention, signed by a builder, his cloak the color of black. This house has a foundation laid in the winter; its windows sealed by the night. What is one to say of this haunting, what is one to say of this errant decay? Can a house be a home really, when absolution of night rules the day? Failing the lack of an answer, the house will let phantasm take it away.

Oh, house that could be a mansion filled with light and magic within, on the eve of a great holiday glorious, how you sit there shrouded in din. How it is you, revel in stillness, pushing magic farther within. Forming union with all the legions, the darkest daemons of unconscious sin. Your inward walls collapsing in terror, your paint peeling within. For the lack of a coherent answer, the only sound is the noise of the northern wind. Did your blueprint not hold some passion, a design of song to begin? Was there never strength in your timbers to hold you up when the darkness began?

As I set here writing this missive, in the sunlight on a bright December day. Thinking how the dark words flowed so smoothly, I was shaken by what they relayed. An insight of a fool really, I am the house, and it is time for a change. I am the house, and it is time for a change.

Magnum mysterium phantasm is a spot in my mind, a haunted memory of pictures I cannot find. Darkness, darkness hello my old friend. A world floating with numbers, where does reason end. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living, a house for the dead. Houses for living…

There were angels dancing in shadows. There were angels darkened in shape. Singing magnum mysterium. Magnum mysterium. Awake! – 12.17.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

Lake (His Anecdote)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 104 Comments


He sees at times that G_D comes down by the lake, dressed in a refinement that makes it easy to see that he is she. And it seems she wants to comb his brown hair with her fingers, wetted by the waters below.

Her cold air comes from a sweet mouth, a hallucinatory word of a devious faire. Spoken by a thin light of possible imagination, he’s never certain if she’s real, or a picture born in defense from his mind’s own devious lair. Is it true she tells him of her lovers, is it right she tells him how she really wants to care? “Meet me by the lake”, she whispers in the darkness, we can enter the blackness where no one really cares. Her picture becomes one of animation, one a Psychiatrist can say is never there, but still as the days turn their light into dark shadows. What once was neverland has eyes that really stare. For he knows she wishes him her secrets, the ones that dance where no one cares. The magic to walk upon the moonlit water, whose to say what afterlife is there.

The night songs come as much more frequent, framed within her blackened flowing hair. Words and gilded eyes that appear now much too frequent, no longer a doubt of if she’s with him there or just a faded belief. “Trust is a neurological vessel”, she whispers as she sails upon his nighttime seas, “and when the time is right, I will take you home. To far beneath that lake with me.”

And the pictures of his mind pass by all description of what analysis would seek to tell. An ancient witch of water coming forth in spell, or a broken right hemisphere, in diagnostic tales. A question or a myth in a modern world, a place of science or a supernatural scale. For what does he see, beckoning him by the lakeside. Is she a delusion or an interstellar bell? Ringing in his mind of the season, syllables and signs and beckoning tales. Oh, her perfect arms that reach to take him, from a mad world to the lake, her wishing well.

For a moment he sees himself, floundering in cold lake water, drowning in an indescribable sad dream. What a bad drama, or a lie of a story it would be if all he had seen, was not what he had deemed. But then a story is never just a story, a fable has a truth that’s really gleaned. She pulls him up, just when he is able to live his dream. She pulls him up, just when he is stable to live his dream.

He sees at times that G_D comes down by the lake, dressed in a refinement that makes it easy to see that he is she. And it seems she wants to comb his brown hair with her fingers, wetted by the waters below. – 03.11.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

She and Ordinary Men

/ Daniel Swearingen / 2 Comments


“I was not a messiah, but an ordinary man who had become a leader because of extraordinary circumstances.” – Nelson Mandela

The angel came…

The homeless guy had a slight English accent, maybe from Worcester I’m not really certain though. He had been drinking for three days straight he said, still his accent was fairly firm, and his thoughts spoken plain. “I saw an angel of the Lord“, he said. “He looked right through me and said he was interested in ordinary men”. “The angel told me great things come from ordinary men”, he said. When he said that, I noticed his eyes lost color. Watered down almost. Supernatural almost, and yet quite ordinary. In that moment I wished to be the most ordinary, the most common, for there was the heat. There was G_D

The angel came…

Saw a boy through a thin glass, saw a boy dancing near Tupelo, saw a bright spot, a big bird sailing high above. In the indigo sang a child, under the moon, dancing near the moss oak that holds the old coon. The questions came as questions can. Is he a shimmer in the dark, is he a twist that makes you want to twist too? Possessed by thoughts of what he can’t say. Does he sing to the stars, does he move in you, is he chosen by all sides? Is he fame, or is he shy just lost now as a typical man? For it could be we are all her, exploding in all we could say, chosen by her to be alive, gifts unopened, a dream, an unbearable ordinary man.

The angel came…

Saw a stutterer, a man who needed tamed, saw him leaving through puzzles in the dark, lost inside, for want of purpose, lacking spark. And a big bird flying high, to a burning bush, a symbol, that can haunt you. Words in syllables and flames, G_D of shadows, fire and rain. G_D who chooses losers known by any other name. Is he fame or trying to hide, gone tomorrow, here today, archetypal by test of man? Commandments given; nothing hides. For it could be we are all her, exploding in all we could say, chosen by her to be alive, gifts unopened, a dream, an unbearable ordinary man.

The angel came…

Saw an answer in a dream, walking deserts, moving through streams. Moved through time, watched my children born, what does it mean. Watched a big bird flying close to me, and wondered why. In the open, under star lit sky’s, followed by the G_D of need, seeking answers in what I see. I ask above, I ask again, let me go for nothing ends. Still she sends the bird of prey, holding me until it’s day. Then I understand the art, understand from where I start. For it could be we are all her, exploding in all we could say, chosen by her to be alive, gifts unopened, a dream, an unbearable ordinary man.

The angel came… – 02.21.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

Beneath the Leaves (Ever Dream)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 90 Comments


“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.” – Arthur Conan Doyle

“Would you do it with me”*, lift the wood that brings mystery; fall forever with me, through the portal where phantoms scribe magic free. Feel your breath leaving air, your body writhing in an orgasmic sea. Trace the hand that you see, draw its lines around your heart comfortably. Be damned to be, would you ever dream with me? Beneath the leaves.

My Dad used to say that what comes before us has always been behind us, and that which places itself at our side has always been around us. My Dad used to say that gates that swing inwards are willing to be pushed outwards, and all doorways into heaven, were beneath the leaves, when we went to an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We discover the door near the river. It is 0.3 miles past the Fruitland Trading Post, pretty much where “Brigham Young Jr’s” House would have been. We sweep away the dead leaves that hide the door in the ground. Their wrinkled husk make a scratching sound as we sweep them from the dark rotting wood of the door to the surrounding dead grass. “Shouldn’t be leaves here”, Jason say’s. “Yep, yep”, I say, “Shouldn’t be leaves here”. “Not a tree in sight”, Jason says, a hint of a grimace on his face. “Nope”, I agree, a little vexed myself not a tree in sight. “No way to get this thing open that I can see”, I say to Jason a little relief in the tone of my voice. The truth is, sundown is near, and there is a chill in the air, that fits right well with the nip that is beginning to well up and down my backbone. “I think we owe it to ourselves to try and get it open”, Jason says. “There might be money or something valuable under there”, he says. “There might be something”, I agree…

My Dad used to say that the mystery in life is life itself, and that which is a pattern leads not to G_D but leads to mediocrity. My Dad used to say, that which leads the head must lie beneath, that which is deep. That which calls unto deep. My Dad used to say would you go with me, go beneath the leaves after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

We brace our cold knuckles against the grain of the heavy wood, the splinters digging deep into our fingers. We kneel opposite of each other. Jason to the top of the door, I to the bottom. From the heavens, we no doubt look like cherubim’s our small frames bent in labor, looking for the covenant. Fulfilling the covenant. The evening shadows move over us quickly enveloping our effort. “I think its moving”, Jason says, his breathing heavy with exertion. “Yep, yep, I say, trying to concentrate on our effort, my fear of the unknown replaced suddenly by the thrill of adventure, for the door is opening. The door is opening. The door is opening.

My Dad used to say, that there is nothing unseen, that has not been seen by someone, yet those who say they see do not, and those who say nothing, see. My Dad used to say, all doorways into heaven were beneath the leaves, when we went after an ever dream. My Dad used to say…

Authors Note: The two boys were real, the leaves over the door were real. The door in the ground was real. The opening of the door was real. What was discovered was real as well. It was all as my Dad used to say… 11.06.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

* Would you do it with me – Nightwish

World on Fire (Lost Boys)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 80 Comments

“We part the veil on a killing sun. Stray from the straight line on this short run. The more we take, the less we become.” – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny……Still the “world was on fire and it was more than I could handle.” *

The phantoms accompanied me through the real forest to the line of demarcation, that which divides the body from the craving. They were muses, if not daemons, and at times they settled upon my skin as if to travel there.  They thought my soul a rest from the long smoke-filled pathway. We walked on to find the shroud. That veil which separates life from the world on fire, and hurls the soul into the blue forest. They whispered that they had been “Lost Boys” too. Unbound in other creations, their worlds scorched by the burdens of fallen men. So, I listened to them, as we passed by the seared headstones near the trail. Those graves of grandfathers, and pioneers, missionaries filled with evil and good will alike. Males of authority, bastards without a story of where or when. Rich and poor men. Those men known to a world on fire, without their boyhood name. Cut in two by lack of identity. A timidity of soul before the vale. Afraid to jump, or believe, and I walked hurriedly by, for I did not wish to know them, or be as them.

The apparitions with me, poked me with memories, as I stumbled through the ash filled undergrowth, reminding me that the delineation boundary was hidden at times, as if G_D wears a mask. I felt myself humbled, bruised, and I did not wish to be hurt or lost anymore. I quickened my pace, as if in doing so I might eliminate those questions that look for hidden responses, when the answers reside in the question itself. As the burning trees consumed the oxygen around me, and in a state of desperation I begged the specters which gave me haunt to know their names. I wished to know them, and with that acquaintance, I alluded myself to think that there was magic. A quickened as it might be. A mirror with a reflection to know whom I was supposed to be. It was then that I stumbled upon an uplifted root and found myself falling. And, as I fell, I heard ten thousand whispers repeating, “We are Legion“, and I knew they did not know their names, as I did not know mine. For I had become them.

I was dropping, falling as the morning star. A burning orb within me, plummeting within and without the world on fire. Plunging as David after the fall. Moving through lives and beyond burning shadows. Failed dreams, and an eternity of futile desire for knowing not my name, or what it meant. For the world was on fire, and every something appeared in a negative sum. A dwindling cool spot under an uncontrollable flame. A crisis that goes without repent. For the night had become the day, and the day the night.

……And I cried out to G_D to judge me, to know me as I am, to amplify my reasons for living under the calmness of her hand. To kiss me, to fill my soul and feel my face. To become me. To believe in me, as I bless the treasure, the mystery that is his hand. To be like Moses, and know it face to face. To be it face to face. For I knew in this world of fire it was my destiny, to be one with the sum.

……And above me was the sound of pleasure, the movement of airborne wings, and what was separated from me, was in me once more. Kissing me in shadows, knowing me in light. For it was eternity beyond the curtain, and I was a child unbroken. I was in the calling, summoned out of a world on fire. I was a man. I was a man. – 10.15.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

* World on Fire lyrics – Sarah McLachlan & Pierre Marchand

Cellar Door

/ Daniel Swearingen / 81 Comments


Cellar door, are you open to find me, Iron ore shields remorse.
When I look, I look to your beautiful name. – Skylar Grey

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you curious without expectation, be you thrilled to be alive, explore the thin veil of the spirit, not the dry bones where they have died. Take your many steps through a tunnel, to see the other side. Know that every dark dream has an ending that ends in the sweet by and by.”

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you not afraid of cellar doors, or what the traits they hide. Many a good man has found that door protection from the tornadoes outside. Be you not of single mindedness of any issue in your life; remember every problem known to us has always had two sides. Be you not for revolutionaries, the one who rebels against the tide. Know that every rebel of the soul is a tyrant who rules his heart with pride.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he led me through a dreamscape world, my fever roaring inside. His large hands moving as he walked down the concrete steps to a cellar door with words inscribed. How I wished I could move closer, how I wished for better light, but alas this dream led mystery, without a clue or special rite. I knew right then that every virus; every blight I knew inside could stand to show me something, even in my darkest night.

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you quicker than your adversary, that devil that comes in light; know that he is part of a commandment to judge you when the day is night. Be you an ever witness to the shadows, the tricks of light, know that Mephistopheles is your left fists action while the good Lord form’s your right. In truth, there are many questions that go beyond this door. Do your best to obtain no answers until you know what the questions are for.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he turned and bent a little bit, his overalls so blue and wide, I thought him but dead just a while ago, but here he seems so much alive. In a dream that held too much fever, at least I could see inside, but still I could not read the inscription on the cellar door, standing before my pappy’s side.

I was nineteen, when I first dreamed of Pappy and the cellar door. Through the years, I have had the same dream many times. The symbols, philosophy and spiritual mysticism and eschatological character of the dream, have never been meaningful to me. To know what is beyond the iron ore door is not necessary to me. However, there is an ever-burning desire to know what is inscribed upon that cellar door. – 06.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

White Sands

/ Daniel Swearingen / 81 Comments


“The wind it paints your face, as it stirs the shifting sand. Nightmare creatures closing in, they leave at your command. Fading lady light, always here with me, singing your song in the wind at night.” – Jeannette Sears

She is a faded lady in the arid early morning, a patch of dream torn from its unconscious birth, a soft passionate cry in the gypsum sand, where ghost lay their hands upon me and breathe light.

It was in April, that much I remember, well a quarter moon too, there is a memory of that. Perhaps the more I think about it, the more that appears. Those cascading fragments of thought, that drift at first unpieced. Those parts like a jigsaw puzzle, that flow afraid to touch, until the hippocampus is stretching at its very seams, and much like some messiah on a cross you cry out, “Take this cup”. And then it happens from various places in the cortex, a wholeness begins, a picture, a sound, smells and then a story. A beautiful story filled with “white Sands“.

The sands hold a picture that is still hard to find, of something that found me on once upon a time. To see it all now comes to me fleetingly. Perhaps a soft breath that touches my teeth. A buried illusion that comes as a tease. A finger down my spine, when there is no one but me. A vision of eyes turned to stars in a sea, a coven of seven dipping to sweep. The dunes of infinity revealing the keys. Oh, Megrez and Mizar they sing a chorus at first louder, than so silently. The place of death angels, atomic degrees. Whispers by slumber the puzzle recedes. A swath of her garment, as she passes by me, her home in this desert a white sand filled sea. What account can be printed until I finally believe. Memory my memory, come to serve me. Memory my memory, come to serve me.

The questions I have asked, that still haunt my belief. When I took a journey of solace in spring. Slept upon White Sands, under a breeze. Saw shadows and graces that circled beneath, the light of the heavens, the chill of the night. The cosmos of magic, that changed me somehow, made me different under odd lights. For if I could take a minute, relive a single breath. I would be in April my body laying helpless on White Sands. Under heavens probing stare.

Perhaps in this nighttime, as I lie on my bed, hearing my thoughts of distant memories unsaid. The puzzle will gather, and pour through a glass. The memoirs of mystery, a swirling soft quest. That led me to sit up that night on the sand, and welcome the spirits of light to come in. To welcome the spirits of light to come in.

She is a faded lady in the arid early morning, a patch of dream torn from its unconscious birth, a soft passionate cry in the gypsum sand, where ghost lay their hands upon me and breathe light. – 04.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

In the Library

/ Daniel Swearingen / 72 Comments


“Oh, my G_D how profound are these mysteries!” – John Dee

Kelley holds the shew-stone with the mist forming fast. The white vapors shoot upwards around the volumes on upper shelves and form a circle as if to task. The days are still some colder but the winter will not always last, voices moving in their language, numbers show me, show me, something past.

For what is the speech of angels?

I set upon a voyage in a hinterland of sleep, a cauldron of air so cold at first, I thought I would freeze. A self-taught journey from places of the deep, to find the ever after answer in the library of John Dee. Symbols all around me some painted legend in the sky, a coat of many colors as millennium flew by. The whispers of the angels said they were drawing nigh, and then my soul dropped from the star filled sky. Like the star, not yet of morning, summoned to a rite of old, my bare feet feel so frozen in the library I well know. It is about the phantoms, and it is about the truth, the long search of the symbols to find if what angels speak is truth. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

For here among this sceptered place, with pages from strange worlds, candles burn until morning light, all time has come unfurled. The figures of the two men turn as if to see, but then I see them looking upwards, they do not see me. The coven of the angels falls without light or human sound, they whisper in the shadows who is willing, to stand higher ground. Their bodies are like different lights, some common, some spark with sound. It could be some are seraphim, some light daemons who have come unbound. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

I stood so indecisively, surveying an unreal play. The ghost of Dee and Kelley asked their questions from a book displayed. An esoteric experiment, to know the power of G_D, to wonder at the wisdom, imparted in what they caught. The scene of simple symbols invoking that realm in which the angels play, to not know that they had reached any reason, only the gray at the end of the day. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

So, this is a little something that happens now and then, I disappear in airs of thought to a library where time stands still. I ask the light around me what is that of shapes and wills, and still I have no answer, and perhaps I never will. Moreover, in it all, yes in it all I am speechless.

For what is the speech of angels? – 01.30.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל