When Daddy Came Through


“Protect your spirit, because you are in the place where spirits get eaten”. – John Trudell

You have been gone awhile now Daddy, sailing upon some unseen sea, you’ve left me here without an answer to what it means to not know you, and what it’s like to live inside me. There are clocks here Daddy counting seconds in quarter second time. They have second hands, painting specters just beyond reaches of my mind. And I wonder if you would visit, come before the summer moon, just to where I might see you, even if before death is a bit too soon. For I would like to hear you question, where I am going to, and be so kind as to answer, if I’m okay and doing fine. For it is I have been a Daddy, been a Daddy on my own, and my spirit is depleted without your help to carry on. For this world it eats my spirit, and I feel as if I am bound, and I need to know your present, need to know your still around.

I miss you Daddy!

He comes before the sunrise, in a soon begotten dream, a glowing set of spectacles on a broken thread in a rip from another world’s seam. His clothes they flow around him, and he looks to be about thirty-three, and he is speaking many languages, speaking them all just to me. For he comes not as nuance, or shiny haunt to be believed. He comes to make a difference, as my daddy, as my daddy.

On a plane of moving objects, through the symbols of earth, fire and bone, comes the man, I thought forgotten, looking round him as if he is home. At first, I think myself terrified, then I move myself to cry, then his cold hands lift me to him, and I see his sky-blue eyes. And they are deeper than the eons of space divided by the PI, they are many worlds spinning giving answers to the why.

And he says there are many pathways to the world in which I seek, but I better watch my spirit, for there are many who only seek. And he says they come to kill that which they never could create. And he says the world is burning, but some love can still be found. And he says keep to the places least expected, for what is expected has been around. And he says to believe in karma, and the settling of old dreams, for what comes around is healthier, if we have given better things. And he says if one door gets closed, wait awhile to open more, for what try’s the spirit might just try it a little bit more. And he ends it all by saying as a Daddy I am doing fine, and never ever question, when I do my best to try.

It seems there were so many things said as the sun moved to fill the sky, and I wished that we could just stay placed my daddy and I. But I felt him whisper in cold breath, I must not, I cannot, but it is never goodbye. Maybe I will see him again on his birthday in July. Maybe I will see him again on his birthday in July. – 06.21.2020 – דָּנִיֵּאל

A Night by the Hours


“How did it get so late so soon?” – Dr. Seuss

I suppose we discovered our immortality on that perfect night, when the darkness moved by the hours. The night it had no name for it was all nights, all times, and I called you “Sweet Darlin” …

We wind ourselves around the western view; to me it is one color, for you it is several hues. A difference of opinion on a falling sun that takes away our breath, as in the east a large moon has begun. Our spirits take position in a higher place, silent in communion no words can they say. For they border on a boundary, of clouds and grace, an absolution of spatial logic, a jump into ghost held space. I hold onto your tight bodice, my lips drawn back as if to taste.  My teeth a sharpened color, white snow like, chaste that would be debased. In an instant, we huddle closer as if some spell would tell us so, a last walk on the skyline watching the evening as it flows. For it’s a night not held in sorrow, or an evening in shallow touch, but a darkness filled with flying, where no one ever says too much.

We have come to know a pattern, when the gloom draws us here. To this path below the snow-caps of “Twin Sisters” crooked leer. You say, “One looks like she is laughing”, I say, “No dear, that is a sneer”, you say, “what if for an argument”, I say, “you are just so weird. But in that moment when we draw our eyes together hands held wide against the sky, the sun tilting backwards on its even, for the night on which it dies. With our sightseeing further, as we call out to the night, come and take our lives immortal, under over kingdoms rights. It is earth that in the daytime, what it holds cannot appetize, but the glory of the night sky is by that, our paradise. Unadorned by life’s expectations, we have no breath in which to sigh. Glory, glory in our indifference, bodies unwinding, our cathedral the sky.

We separate not when the shades of night taste us; their own light shadows pass us by. We laugh without laughing, and memorize each precious instant, the largest of mountains we have yet to climb. “What say you’re an artist, what say I’m the painted”, I brush my hand against her moon-touched thigh. “What say we are without replication”, she sighs her lips drawn as if to cry. This night of all has moved in time, by hours, rhythms, and numbers that rhyme. We are different as we turn to the east and make our way home to sleep before we would know why. Before we would know why.

I suppose we discovered our immortality on that perfect night, when the darkness moved by the hours. The night it had no name for it was all nights, all times, and I called you “Sweet Darlin” …

For Susan – 01.15.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Songbird (OCD)


“My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened” – Michel de Montaigne

I tell him he’s a songbird when he’s terrified, not a simple canary, no not that. Rather he’s a Hawk, a screaming raptor, that hunts symphony, that looks through the patterns of confused stanzas, and bad timing, and finds perfection. For he, this son of mine is perfection. He has flown to great heights, and yes, he has skimmed the valley floors. Tasted clay, envisioned horror. It is there we begin.

First it comes when he’s dreaming, and it takes the dream away. In its moves insidious it turns water into clay. It wraps the things up he loves to do and binds them first with string. Layer upon layer it then becomes rope and finally barb wire that stings. It tests the singing of his angels, until their sound becomes such pain. Night after night they come until, he holds his head screaming as if he’s insane. It blocks off every open space to make a puzzle of dark disdain. “For everything there is an answer”, It whispers, “it’s a fire to a flame”. “Turn the lock just one more time to drive that itch away”. He has heard there are many troubles and diagnosis of mental ache, but nothing beats the worn-out torture of neon thoughts of personal pain.

Sometimes he mourns the private artist that person who rode his silent range. A wild boy inside chasing rainbows so playful in his games. Then it came and brought its people, the nightmares of made up shame. Twisted turned, and bound his anger made his pathway narrow and strained.

I tell him he’s a songbird, in a deep, dark mine, finding the right, tracing invisible paths of oxygen until he breaks into the light of day. Then he’s a raptor, a bird who seeks prey, and he rescues that which was long ago taken away.

I know for now he looks at trouble, at daemons night and day, those thoughts of dripping blood and agony, he wishes would just go away. I wish it too as his Dad, I wish I could take them away, but damn it G_D expects him to fly and challenge what’s in his way. For there is no amount of medicine or therapy that can heal what is a shade. That, is the road of what was chosen by another lord of judgement gray.

For now, I tell him he’s a songbird, that sings a note that’s unheard in the fray, a melody that will soon turn into lightning, and strike the fright to day. When all the world has stopped to listen, his mind storms arranged and stayed.  This thing that takes his pleasure will  bend to his vision, and he will be okay.  My songbird will be okay . – 04.02.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

Marriage


After all these years, I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.” – Mark Twain

Our marriage is like a shelter.

Our marriage is as Don Quixote heaped with scorn.

Our marriage is like a great man o’ war with sails unfurled.

Our marriage is as “Allegri Miserere” performed at 3:00 A.M.

Our marriage is abstract before concept, a dismissed preposition, built upon an article of fact.

Our marriage is like a shelter. Our marriage is like a shelter.

There is a falling angel with eyes like glass, bringing fire for our journey to the world we cast. For we float on many waters of times to come, and we search each other’s motives with an iron rung. For we are one, under this shelter, we are one.

I wake, eyes wide, from smoky dreams, of tattered wings falling from beams. I wake in morning of the year’s just past, I harbor that vision of yesterday, dwelling my eyes, upwards while kneeling as to pray. What there does fall, and consume rare air, fall at fifteen past two before the altar stair. Just the years before, before my words “I shall”. How it warmed my face with a bit of touch, then brushed right past me to a bridal veil.

Those years before, when I looked up high in a sanctuary and saw no sky. Imperceptible in quiet, below, rafters’ brown in tongue and groove, flew a rarer angel who with burning glass eyes flew. Came a lustrous fire upon the gentle head, swaying to my side, such a beautiful head. In all those words strung by to and fro, a lighter rhyme off our tongues they flow. Written by earth bound hands and spoke with ease, now they mark my soul a façade I see. Now in this morning of the years just past. Something in those rafters reaching so fast.

For it seems the years before brought something new. Not the voices inside, the ones I always knew. But a visual aspiration, from a king’s held cup. A curse or a blessing, but it is always enough. A premonition that would lose its way floating through the years of marriage until it was almost decayed. Once or twice to rise, when forgotten enough, just a kind reminder, of the host with wings above. To speak clear words in the dust and binge, when the modern worlds about us, and we cannot remember why or when. The shelter of sorrow, with hands held close, our entwined fingers tighter than if they were sewn. And if I look just up above, toward the ethereal of heaven, where most see a dove. For I see a raven with fire in its beak headed towards kingdoms for those we yet seek. What comes to me just as that first day, when I said, “I shall”, and two in one we came away.

There is a falling angel with eyes like glass, bringing fire for our journey to the world we cast. For we float on many waters of times to come, and we search each other’s motives with an iron rung. For we are one, under this shelter, we are one.

Our marriage is like a shelter. Our marriage is like a shelter.

For Susan who has put up with me for 26 years under the glassy eyes of the angel. – 03.13.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Shekinah


“I am the mother and the daughter. I am the bride and the bridegroom, and it is my husband who begot me. I am the silence that is incomprehensible and the idea whose remembrance is frequent. I am the voice whose sound is manifold and the word whose appearance is multiple. I am the utterance of my name.” – Sorita d’Este

“I am beautiful with you” – Lizzy Mae Hale

She said would you try something with me, a favor of a curiosity of mine. A wager between a man and something, I think I read about this in one of your rhymes. Would you come in ecstasy with me, and ride your way across the great divide? All I need is for you to lay your soul down beside me, and sleep with me through your night. She said my needs have built up like your phantoms, those daemons that stroke what they find. Nothing can be built on indecision, and to be without you I would lose my mind. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

And I looked to see the falling mountains, the ones that had been inside my mind. In front of me, there stood no dark valley, just a land of milk and honey and sunshine. Then she came out glorified in me, like a gift of pleasure given in kind. There were spells, sounds, and the feeling of her breath, carving hallelujah on my spine. The chills of a mystical lettering branded from past times. Something that dwelled deep within me beyond the X’s and the O’s. Moving so far beyond my boundaries, a warmth in passion and grace undefined. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

She said would you marry Shekinah under moonlight; know the light of my body, it’s by design. Take a branch out of David and fill me up, know I am beautiful when you are inside. For my ways are in love with your shadows, your hurts are scars, that I heal in your mind. Come bath with me, do not wait until tomorrow, make one out of two, it is more than a rhyme. For we are much more than lovers, we are greater than lust of the world that binds. From left to right, I am a source inside you, make me beautiful, and now is the time. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine. – 01.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Christmas Hallows


“And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you; not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem, and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.” —Fra Giovanni Giocondo

I prefer to think of “hallow” in a verb tense, to honor as holy. We all deserve that I believe. To have our special times, thoughts and loves holy, hallowed. A special place between death and the awesome light of G_D’s plan, and what better time than Christmas to celebrate this moment. – D.S.

When I think of Christmas, I’ll think of this day, Mr. Clapton singing, how somehow love can’t stay. Still it seems a mystery, a divining plan, how in Christmas hallows, love can take a stand. Every truth is wonder, how we struggle to find, a deeper love or meaning, when its in us all the time. History revolves around us, here in peace on earth, the myth might be a baby, still we celebrate a birth. For something in these Christmas hallows is something with each of us that stays, perhaps the prayer of memory of tender moments strayed. Falling cold around us, I wish it would snow today. That would make these Christmas Hallows seem like Christmas day.

Somewhere there’s a story written on one hand, I think the inks still drying, it’s a dream I don’t understand. Of a place or story, a certain promised land, traveled to on Christmas. Lost and found again. May be Mr. Clapton found it on a day when his son went falling his spirit went away. Now in Christmas Hallows a round and round it goes, asking for our memory, saying don’t let go. Asking for our memory saying please, oh please don’t let go.

When I think of Christmas, I move as if to stray, suddenly, it’s a far time, long so long away. I am just a young boy in 1978, looking through a glass darkly, so much I can’t say. Wandering through a long hall, one without a way, is it just a dream, knowing that I’m changing, loosing childhood memories in hallows, gone for good on Christmas Day. Every moment meaning, a skip a carol unsung, do you know this feeling, to leave this earth? Rise yourself in Christmas, watching all your memories in reverse.

We are all just children beyond our age, thinking we are special near Christmas Day. Bringing forth our hallows of one time delayed. Yes, it comes at Christmas, a ghost, a space, asking us for something to give away. Just like Mr. Clapton, our sorrows in hand, asking for forgiveness from a light which draws us with it’s plan you see, draws us everyone with its plan. 12.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Pathways of Faith are Never Free


“…someday…, we’ll medicate human experience right out of the human experience.” – Dennis Lehane

“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” – Carl Gustav Jung

He writes a story in me, humming in words as he steps around our Christmas tree. Nothing of logic is key, though he answers the question of what it takes to be free. He builds a lion in me, hunting through the puzzles of his mind decisively, turning instantly, moving from mood to mood, nothing is broken if you can finally see. The picture of his sweet mind, the character of the essence that makes him love me undefined. For if, he should ever go away, I would weep without stopping and there I would die that day, my heart in darkness, blind. For he cannot go, while he stays, oh no he cannot go while he stays. He gathers from a different world he sees. Breaking down a fourth wall, dividing black out of white decisively. Fomenting conversation that draws mystery, he means everything to me. Oh, my son you mean everything to me.

The orbs of his eyes create a sea, a brown warm emotion that stops the worlds freeze. The mystic how it forms, layer upon layer over history it swarms, taking our discussions to the how or ever when. This world has many doorways let us open them from within. My son you are a fortress that no one ever sees, a stronghold of magic that forms a mighty keep. Weaving in and out of love like it is on a time release. The ways of G_D are strange to me. You whisper in my ear, “The pathways of faith are never free”. You say it while I sleep, “the pathways of faith are never free”.

He spins such ominous ghost, according to our dialogue they have established in his mind a host. Words a Psychiatrist plays, let us try this little pill just to get him through each day. For what is an interest to him, the opening of a beautiful mind, or the compartments we define them in. The days are passing quicker; before you know it, time will lose its way. So on the eve of winter when there is snow upon the ground. The sign of mankind’s judgment a line of demarcation all around. My son he rises holy and he points up to the winter stars, he swears upon his body, and he loosens his minds scars. He writes a story in me, and it will not go away, for in his own belief he seizes what is day. For nothing is of logic for in that is the key, to answer the one question that it takes to be free. Who is me? Who is me? For as we know, Faith is never free.

For my wife, daughter and especially my son, who has over paid the price of faith to gain the light. – 12.21.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

  • Over 80 million Americans took a Psychotropic medication in 2018

When Jimmy Plays


Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused!

I heard G_D made a woman to balance me, when I get mad, did G_D give that woman the right to know me beyond that. To take from my anger to take when I’m cruel to know with ingenuity my weakness when I’m cool. I heard G_D made a woman that knows me too, may be that’s why its heaven. blissful in the night when we talk, chaos when we screw. Chaos when we screw. So much for a madam, so much for anything that’s new. Who needs fake Teflon, when I got you? I’ll take what I have, because it’s better than good, and deeper dreams do come true. I’m listening to Jimmy Page while I look at you, over twenty-six years I’ve been looking at sweet you.

When the wind came down, chords falling, octave after octave, oh we hurt, like we never thought we could. Vows in light, real life in darkness, everything is suddenly round not square, not like the good book said. Jimmy’s playing his bow, oh the devil plays a bow, like lightning can strike a man’s soul. Children we got children, better than gold, better than pretty, we look at each other what are we going to do. They look so much like me, they look so much like you, what’s to imagine, I heard G_D made a woman, looks like that G_D made a man too. What we have here is a puzzle, what we have is me and you, oh, oh, oh, so sweet is life, when I’m dazed and confused. Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused.

I heard an overture, a dream, then I heard G_D made a woman to balance me. She stepped right on each loosed strand, each bow string off Jimmy Page’s hand. And I climbed an illusion that was hidden in me, the difference between me and Jimmy is I had her with me. For I saw the old man, she saw him too, and she told me, unlike that old man, I am going to make you be you. Go on now and play. Sometimes a love song is dazed and confused.

And we love for such a long time, for such a long time, while Jimmy plays, yes while Jimmy plays.

I heard G_D made a woman to balance me, when I am old, did G_D give that woman the right to know me beyond that. To take all I had taken and let me take it right back. To push me further, then I ever could push back, to push me further, then I ever could push back. I’m listening to Jimmy Page while I look at you, over twenty-six years I’ve been looking at sweet you. 05.25.18- דָּנִיֵּאל

At 25 (Seraphim)


“We are old flames”, she laughs, her green eyes shining, sending signals to a part of me that has thoughts for later. “You mean like old lover’s I say”, knowing somehow, she is headed in a different direction, but not certain where. “No”, she smiles, and suddenly looks thoughtful, “we were much more”, “probably glowing darkness”, she continues, “intertwined, cobalt blue, flames falling from the heavens, aliens to this earth, we are the seraphim”!

What thought is this that touches breathe, from sub realm worlds our net is cast, to bring us warmth before this day, to bind our hearts to what G_D would say. We walk as one, we fight as two, and we make our bonds, of rougher hew. To know our hearts of what should be, but Lord Let us not strip our identity. For years go by, grant this we pray, when we are hard, our souls so gray, bring us to dreams, and let us be free, and bring us to make our myth reality.

When we were young, much younger still, we lived so hard, with tragic skill. We sought to make what we could not build, and so we stopped while time stood still. From eye to eye, our rage contained, we entered a cave of pain, but still something that was a dream, helped us go on. With love achieved a root deep song. What thought is this, we gave to love; we christened babes with skies above. Gave we them spells upon their lives, said we your blessed, by stars above. For beauty came into their own hearts, my wife my love, how did we start. To know ourselves through what life brought, the lines of time have been our sparks.

What old ways come, to bruise us through, what future kingdom, do we hew, upon our love nobility, rest spirit of our fallibility. For on and on we strike the stone until, the house rest, solid home. To rest in arms not built just flesh, but ideas of G_D built on happiness. The angel turns she is in you, the seraphim mystery, flames of flesh, the girl grown strong, by challenge till death. I parse my thoughts, and I turn too, I bring my seraphim in line with you. For we our strong, much stronger two, unto this day we cast our view, and single out where we go now, all time is ours to say just how.

What thought is this that touches flame, from sub realm worlds our net is cast to bring us warmth before this day, to bind our hearts to what G_D would say. This shore, this shore is our land too, this mountain that would block we cut in two, for unto us is joined a charm, built long ago by G_D’s own arm. Beyond, beyond an octave blue, we shimmer, move in angel blue, at twenty-five and one more too, my heart, my love, I still ask for you.

Twenty-five years ago, this day I married a Seraphim! – – 03.06.2018 – דָּנִיאֵל


Snowman (Cameron Pass)


“I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep”. – Leonard Cohen

She puts snow down in my pants. It is an annual ritual to the art of romance, the cold moon, levitates by the mountains, above the pass. The aspen bending low, their bare arms barely hold. The banshee who resides in the Crags above, pushes her breathe, bringing screaming wind down Cameron Pass. Those same Aspens snap right back. Their arms an archer defending in shadows from attack. Frozen dead leaves in the ground. They will raise mighty mountains when enough have fallen down. Oh my dear, my faire and beautiful one, let us put our spirit in this cold, find the moisture off this pass, make a snowman that will last. A frozen altar, beneath clear skies, eleven thousand feet, up, come down this moon and Regulus. Ignore the spring and summer time, while we build with speed sublime, our snowman.

We touch our gloves, a strand of your hair is wind swept across your nose. Like the builders of Avalon, we build what is shown. Two circles skyward, around the moon. A statue of paradigm, with fingers we point and say you, oh you, have become me. Voices, she whispers, and I can hear the snow falling from the needles of distant trees. And it seems the snowman takes form and like the moon, he winks, and lets our love become what we receive. “What do we believe”? My words drop frozen before me. We look sadly, as the sound of my voice becomes empty drifting, skating, into this frozen Valhalla, this “land of ice and snow“. We fear not wait too long, for those voices, those seen and unseen, those moving beneath trees, those of a terrible and familiar sum return, and their spirit is not void.

And before us moves that which beholds us, work of our hands, our joined “Hallelujah”, our creation, born from the falling of a celestial sea. And it is what we believe, exactly beautiful, as creation should be.

“What if it should snow more tomorrow”? I ask the question, watching familiars take shape in dancing shadows beneath the watchful eye of Regulus, our moon having decided to wane away. Our snowman leaning forward to hear, his living purpose almost done.

“Then we shall make children”, she laughs, scooping up more snow, and reaching for my pants. – 12.09.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל