Spiritual

Valiant

/ Daniel Swearingen / 95 Comments


“You cannot give me my soul and take away my heart” – Prince Valiant

Upon this terrible eve of difference, that between the dragon and me.  His, the daemons troops so terrible, that which brings the fear I see.  So it is, in that great battle, that which quakes inside of  me. Move I unto my great lady in this darkness comfort me.  In this darkness comfort me.

Oh, hallowed place oft with no sun, to drench the soil of goodness done. Why here I pray, and ask someone in shadows come and cloak thy son. Bring grace in step and purpose some, make inside stronger than outsides sum. Know thee to me, my ladylove, one life, one soul, I will not run. For battle rages, I know it true, it rises when the sunrise is through, and I will not have glory then, for all blood spilt, is mortal sin. In truth right now, when darkness comes, a slight chill uttered on thy light tongue. Kiss it to me, and I to you, become we one in ghost and shadow too. Lay here with me, and know not my tears, take now my thoughts for the coming years. For here so cold on nighttime’s shore, we know each other in skin and more, and share a shimmer of what might be if on the morrow I cease to be.

Light here no candles as if I am staid, a token monument while breath is weighed. Still laugh with me and breathe in true and call the muses to sing us through. One life, one soul that parts nowhere, even on that morrow when blood flows everywhere. So the question asked between us two, are we finite now, in what we do? Tonight, tomorrow when the battle is through. To know this eve of that to come, will be enough when sleep is done.

Oh, sprite, thy torments everywhere, thy flurries dark and teeth still bared, to rent my grasp from what I do. To sow the doubt within my love so true. To split my will as if it is none, to change the mystery of what must be done. To show this place where we now lay, to describe its hollowness as my shallow grave. My sword to me, my strength renewed, the stars above fall, and show me to you. For in my heart, laid deep to test, one life, one soul, will pay to rest.  One life, one soul will pay to rest.

Oh, hallowed place oft with no sun, to drench the soil of goodness done. Lay down thy time, look not ahead, for what is future could already be stead. In this black place which knows no sun, bring light to me, thy will be done. Know thee to me, my ladylove, one life, one soul, I will not run.

Upon this terrible eve of difference, that between the dragon and me.  His, the daemons troops so terrible, that which brings the fear I see.  So it is, in that great battle, that which quakes inside of  me. Move I unto my great lady in this darkness comfort me.  In this darkness comfort me.

For Queen Aleta and my wife, both who have put up with much the night before a battle. – 10.26.20 – דָּנִיֵּאל

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

For the Lack of a Map (Roads)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 87 Comments


Artist Samy Charmine – Almost Time

“New roads, new ruts.” – Gilbert K. Chesterton

For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline.

So many roads into Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. So many dreams left along the front range, gasping. They are a memorial, a delusion, inside, that’s not fact. Treasures at altitude, a once upon a time, a “Rock of Westies“, a vision above Nederland, a realization that 1975 is never, ever coming back. And maybe that’s a good thing, a very good, good thing. I think I can dig it now, “Portishead” driving me on this road, Beth Gibbons taking the wheel, right out of my hand away. Strange when I stare into my rearview mirror, I still see the mountains, shimmering above Boulder, some angel somewhere, whispers, “find”. Just another road, here, made up inside me. And I feel it takes me where I need to go. I know it takes me where I need to go.

So many roads into ageing, so many stories that still are to unwind. So many numbers numbing my mind, the physics of heaven, still these many, many ghosts aren’t changing any time. Driving, diamonds dancing on this road, in the summertime. High table, that’s still glowing now “Rocky Flats“, in nuclear time. That which is buried, still stays on my mind. And whispers, low tones, syllables that barely rhyme, still they encourage on this road, “seek and you will find”. “Seek and you will find”. On the road now, that which is with me, never that which is left behind. Going further then I need be, watching mountains left behind. And I wonder, as I wander, what it is that I will “find’, what it means to really unbind.

So few roads out of Denver, so many anecdotes without fact. The sun never sets above the “Mummy” Range, the snow never melts and that’s just a part of my mystical Colorado, that’s a part of these roads. A paradoxical fact. I suppose this might seem like nonsense, an ageing man rambling who has lost his tact. But there is something here, something shimmering on these worn roads, something well beyond 1975. For the lack of a map I free wheel, for the lack of knowledge I try. There might be a road that is headed for what I have to “Find”.

For the lack of a map, I took roads, some with steep inclines, most ended with no right of way, leaving me lost beyond timberline. – 08.11.2019- דָנִיֵּאל

Tatters

/ Daniel Swearingen / 52 Comments


“Overhead the clouds cloaked the sky; a ragged cloak it was, and, here and there, a star shone through a hole, to be obscured almost instantly as more cloud tatters were hurled across the rent”. – Joseph C Lincoln

The tatters take me below the bow, the dip where there’s no time, a place where weights fall, in what could be a loss of mind. The genus it hides inside of me, and ask for six quarter time, something different, then this melodic rhyme. And pictures they paint a lesson, that’s already learned inside, so I cry, again waste this time, why waste this time. The tatters are made of fragile folds, inside this house, with pulled curtains, that stay always closed. And though teachers told me about ABC’s, they never taught me about me, inside, let the rage fall where light can’t see, the scars I will wear in wasted time, such wasted time.

A voice said the mountains fall into the sea’s, and somewhere, the great “I Am” lays down, and no longer beckons to that great celestial reef. Could I be different, maybe tomorrow, but right here and now, I am tatters, and that my reader shames me, in loss it shames me. I never wish a doubter to walk beyond these trees, to take to these dungeons, the ones with chains of inversed belief. All the same they still come, it seems invisible they chant, and how they tease. Can’t you mend those tatters on your own, bring the truth, to your belief, stop all this wasted time, this terrible wasted time.

I went to the garden, beyond the hedgerow, I ran to find the life filled tree. Lost so much weight, drank myself to the toast of life’s jubilee. Patched my clothes when they got old, hid the tatters with what I was told. Still at times their still here, useless without skill, they drag me deep. And here in the crevice, where dark angels no longer have wings. I look up, without a tear left in my eye, tatters inside of me, and it’s a waste of time, a terrible waste of time.

Here in my tatters, I place it all within reach, and if I could tell you, if it were known, by the lack of organization inside of me. There would come a time, maybe tomorrow, where I will be clothed, and there would not be wasted time.

350 million people worldwide suffer from depression. Per the World Health Organization (WHO) It is a leading cause of disability. – 02.28.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Your Hallelujah (Home)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 4 Comments

Home

Sits he alone upon the snowy, snowy rock, wind comes she down, and takes his breath away, and makes him want to say, “oh why must my blessings come in gust, blowing my hallelujahs all away”? “Here upon this mountain while it is still falling dusk, come now light of daemon let it be your hallelujah, while I pray, staid still, while I pray”. A deal with the devil in the snow, winter is coming, and how burdens do flow, yet still with his speech that summons much, looks he to heaven and says, “G_D you’re not my friend but do what you must”. “For all my life till fifty-five, I’ve served you as I must, taken all my victories, but the sorrows line up, and so Adonai, take this beggar from the dust, let it be your hallelujah today”.

Home

Sometimes when he stands in a perfect kind of light, that which tilts his head, under winters cold, blue sight. He looks upon the valley where a rich man sows his greed, that sort of kind of evil that makes a man’s blood turn to need. It causes him to be still in just his simple way. Look down from frozen perch, and whisper what he prays. “How a little sentence gives me more today, to look unto my enemy, and say to him this way, oh my hallelujah has made my mountain steep, while your hallelujah pass’es by while you weep”. “For all my life till fifty-five, I’ve served him as I must, taken all my victories, but the sorrows line up, and so Adonai, take this beggar from the dust, let it be your hallelujah today”.

Home

Kneels he now a fallen man, while night upon him takes his all, a winter of the altitude, that has sworn his defeat. But still he says, another word, thanks to all he’s ever heard, a blessing to something farther, a magic he can’t see. “Tears they belong to bitter men, smiles to those who sleep, but here where blessings fall in snow, a darkness is my treat”. “For all this hallelujah, that most are heard to say, descends in my frozen judgment, and these flakes they seem to say”! “Yours’s is hallelujah from heavens open door, that which falls upon you, and freezes your inner core”. “For all your life till fifty-five, you’ve served as you must, taken all your victories, but sorrow has earned your trust”. “And so Adonai, takes a beggar, takes him from the dust, let it be your hallelujah today”. “let it be your hallelujah today”!

Home

Happy Thanksgiving – 11.26.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Still Here (Rolling Thunder)

/ Daniel Swearingen / Leave a comment


Still here, wounded from the light, as I should be, like rolling thunder divided by the lightning, yes that too as it should be, for I am light, I want you as light, joined with my light oh my, light as we all should be. Still here, light in rolling thunder.  Still here!

Light of the world, a spirit to us, time takes us, its toll, beyond the shattered scroll, that place where in our troubles, our graves roll. Pictures I once knew, shadows of reflections are they true?  They must be true.  Time that bastard time, the light makes us live through. Words and notes of clue, upon this life before us, captured in its all, a photograph of pain, reflect it all. I can steer this ship no more, for I, am like a naked sailor, my back bloody red, from all the lashes, those heat filled lashes.  Oh there you are, your star, it moves, with the ease of a shadow, in this gloom, I know, a fable or a truth from my “Book of Shadows” glows inside, light of the world, I come to hide, it’s me. Make me now a glowing Torah, round and round, the feathers falling, oh it’s now, a destined howling, light, oh light of the world. My sweet light!

Light of the world, like thunder rolling, dear you whisper, is this a dream, please let it not be.  Yet here we are the tide is folding, everything happens for want it seems. Sunsets come before the dawn, still it sends, a light, to even darkness, a child, here, I’m crying oh, Adonai, please find, something of the light deep inside, so far inside of me. For every thought that ever mattered, every dream that ever shattered, light the prism in dark matter, let it shine, my wound, let it be light. For here we are the two of us, oh my G_D maybe it’s just me, light from darkness unto all it cry’s, shatter all that’s dusk, my all, light of the world.

Light of the world, for now it’s darkness, deep to deep, it’s now upon us, and it’s fine, I know, yeah even though it’s just me. Though this rolling thunder on me glows, ah yes, it’s natural that I fear on all I find, here now, for light is a darkness that shows us how, to find, a clear morning on the other side.  Would you with me step over this great divide? Oh my friend pull all that troubles, light yourself inside deaths troubles, light tonight for tomorrow waits, be still here you’ll find, your light of the world.

Still here, wounded from the light, as I should be, like rolling thunder divided by the lightning, yes that too as it should be, for I am light, I want you as light, joined with my light oh my, light as we all should be. Still here, light in rolling thunder. Still Here! – 11.22.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


7500 (The Property)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 8 Comments

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)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 12 Comments

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

SHEEN

/ Daniel Swearingen / Leave a comment


“So I said I am fallen, sweetly into this dark stormed sea, from those others, false accusations, those beliefs that terrify me”. Those words came from something beyond me, baritone, maybe, sexually sweetly, “do you not see, that fallen taste, I would love infallibly, that beautiful form I would, make sheen, strip away all the pain that surrounds belief. Breathe, sweet surrender to me”.

Oh who is it now that would judge over me, just G_D in all raiment, my name is indeed, for all sweet surrender in sheen and in storm come join me remember, one judge is its form, for you do not need a religion or peace, you do not need those men who breath death in their grief, for sweet, sweet surrender is all when you breath, it’s all when you breath.

Every, oh everyone says to me, your life should be this or it should not be. Why you should not have her or you should do this, it seems oh Daniel your life’s not of bliss, and if you would be poor, for poor you should be, and you should want something, but something you need. And voices they come, from those who speak while dead, there spirits with Jesus, that place of guilt dread. Oh I say of what there is respect of me, that part in endeavor that part you don’t see. But still they spell on with their Munchausen eyes, there daggers of pity, those Christian dead eyes, and bellows and billows of false sense of ease, I see it when they come to characterize me, for it is a time of dead dawn that is past, that person that holds there sense unwilling dread. For what is the truth of what you don’t see, the G-D you deny, that watches on me. Have you thought your soul so secure in its rest, while marching ore others those who know your best. What oh adventure when you come to die, to know you were wrong to know you lived less.

And now like the watchman that watches ore me, the daemon of purpose that changes with ease, would you know that now I surrender my rest, I give unto others the thing I know best. It is with a still grace and change upon dawn, a sweet near surrender to fly in a storm, a recognition of who holds all keys, a spirit indigenous, to damn theocracy, a billowing storm of all matter and rain. A gift of the purpose, creator all things, a light that moves, and catheterizes me. Reaches for you and ask you to see. A sweet, sweet surrender not Biblical form, a treasured of timber, ghost spirit no forms, and the one that drops down when you’re on your knees, I see that in you and I know it’s in me.

Oh who is it now that would judge over me, just G_D in all raiment, my name is indeed, for all sweet surrender in sheen and in storm come join me remember, one judge is its form, for you do not need a religion or peace, you do not need those men who breath death in their grief, for sweet, sweet surrender is all when you breath, it’s all when you breath.

For those of the select that are fallen, you are so beautifully made in G_D’s eyes, and I might add mine. – 10.11.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Melancholia (if an angel, an angel came)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 11 Comments


Real is where we are right now, so cold and rare that I see you, blended in a fairer side, taste me more than I taste you. Cobblestones well most can’t feel, that heel that’s bruised it’s me and you, shadow comes and twilight bends, and then its dark and how it rains, it rains. Rare a storm that ever ends, but melancholia, loves such sin, to bring the soul to just one drop of where the wind does end, so silent in the end. I thought it such a single road, a sharp thought held in poet’s prose, a rose that’s died and then turned blue, I thought me better than you, and then there comes the truth.

Melancholia, a place of art, a sociopathic kind of start, the creative side of blue, the street where daemons stare at you. A genesis, we title fun, beginning gothic, self-persona of. An innocent prick of the pin that draws pictures in the blood of sin, and there in silence while eyes stare old. Those wild perusing, rhymes so cold, that melancholia without end, that rules the world without the wind, and oh what love it’s lost within. For all is downward in a trend, and just as dusk comes in self-pain, narcissistic endeavor in black rain. To walk and draw such art in mind, self-absorbed, descent in mind, and what would happen in this pain if an angel, an angel came.

…. if an angel, an angel came!!!!

A cover warms me, keeps me dry, a strong willed woman, who does not lie, a shield from prying eyes that cry. An instrument formed from G_D’s own why. A blend of treasure, laughing through, over and over and its truth. She says you’ll write where there is wind, and stop, the torture that’s within, and what must go, must go first, that melancholia, that is of earth, that self-absorption from within, that dank dark secret that just pretends. For this strange journey must endure, with light around you, of that I’m sure, for melancholia cannot win, I see those eyes, and they are pure, but those behind you, you must fight, for you are worth to be of light, to be of light.

Real is where we are right now, so cold and rare that I see you, blended in a fairer side, taste me more than I taste you.

For my wife Susan who is my angel – 10.09.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל