On Ageing


“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” – Robert Frost

All future is ageing, all present is fear of the future. All future is me. All future is me. On Ageing, I see the end of the world in me. And perhaps no one will know it, no one will see, that growing older terrifies me. For I would not be lonely with this song stuck in me.

The end of the world seems within my reach, rushing so suddenly. Dampened ideas, slower dreams, a final goal written by her in front of me. The future has changed for what I thought it would be, and now I no longer think myself as a king. I believe now I’m only me. Perhaps that is all I was meant to be. And in this is the metric, the sword without the stone, the Julius without his Caesar, in this I am alone. Betwixt a shadow and a great sea. A figure hiding along that great highway toward Wyoming by the mile marker fifteen. Between high stones, my heart baring a rare treatise. The end like the beginning is all I believe. For this in ageing is my reprieve.

Perhaps the end comes in ageing in stereo, feeling the sting. Could be it comes between a stranger’s hips, hearing an angel sing. For I think of it like a murder, that’s never been discovered, a bit of freedom from what the law decrees. Perhaps the end is the stage of comedy, an open platform of strange honesty, a darkness of my heart spilled for all to see. Oh, how even now the end it comes, and I would deceive. How wicked I could be. For it would seem that in ageing we are sums of curiosities, atoms and molecules, and strange memories. Perhaps ageing is a disease. Still a vampire I would not be. The spirit is enough for me.

Life is referred to as a great ship, a feminine, a cosmic she. That is, she is, referred to by me. A delicate bride, born by my own destiny. A creation, a genesis of my own spiritual mystery. A raging banshee. Oh, in ageing she has taken me. For this alone I will not let her be. No, she will never be. Like a house haunted for many years, I will not let her go so easily. She will hear me scream. I will draw her blood in equity. And I swear, that last breath that she draws, will come from her, but not from me. It is a spell at the end I will weave. For on ageing it is enough to know loss. Still, it is too much to grieve.

All future is ageing, all present is fear of the future. All future is me. All future is me. On Ageing, I see the end of the world in me. And perhaps no one will know it, no one will see, that growing older terrifies me. For I would not be lonely with this song stuck in me. – 05.22.2022 – דָּנִיֵּאל 

Tippy


“There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time. Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional moments and most of the time we are ageless.” – Milan Jundera

Tippy and I sit on the river bluff looking down at the muddy water. A cold November wind shifts from the direction of Shiprock, and hangs over us briefly before dispersing its frosty feel to the high desert plain behind us. “I think, I have always had this same dream”, I say. “You always have”, she says, pausing for a moment to let her words get beyond the cold wind. “It is an eternal dream”, she says. Older eternally.

Tippy stops the clock in the desert, muttering in my dreams. “Once you are young, once you are old, forever you’re turning with me.” “Forever you’re turning with me.”

Tipp’s within me at thirty, dancing around by degrees. Her hair all assorts in mystery, a muse that creates or a witch that deceives. Eyes that sparkle with hellfire, a body that constantly conceives, of odes and rhymes, sermons that find, the Ark of the Covenant in me. Tippy parts weeds in the darkness. Separates them while I sleep, those webs of my mind built out of time, she removes them where I can see. There, their, there she whispers to me, licking the inside of my ear, she is she. Be old, be old, be older, than me. She grins such spells wickedly. Come be old, be older than me she bites her bottom lip, and looks into me. Treasures in deserts to search, she smiles, and I am lost infinitely, at thirty. Remembering ghost, in shades ere aloof. Tippy she floats, through time of my youth, always a shadow to me. Instead of behind, she quickens the front of me. Older eternally!

Tipp is right there when I am seven, buxom and ready, brunette to a tee. Watching me grow, incessantly, I cannot escape her eyes of hard brightness, stars of a night’s mystery. Behold the glow of paradigm’s mold, broken when she is with me. Plotting my thoughts not spoken, they line with her stars by degree. Sitting by muddy cold rivers, speaking symbols to the moon, watching the desert clock ticking, she whispers, “I birthed you from my own womb”. “Someday soon you’ll be older, no longer a familiar I’ll be”. “That day we are older eternal”. Older eternally!

Tipp invades me at sixty, a summons that blocks a plea. She looks to be the same shadow, standing in front of me. Somewhere a clock is ticking, in a desert that holds a key. My life has been so backwards, so much there that I did not see. Reflections and ghost, daemons that host the haunted spirit believed. The question comes to me now ways, what mystery is there to believe? The answer somehow comes from her now. Challenge and interest free.

She says, “When I had you by muddy cold rivers, in the high cold desert naked and free, you knew this day then. Older my twin, older eternally.” Older eternally!

Tippy stops the clock in the desert, muttering in my dreams. “Once you are young, once you are old, forever you’re turning with me.” “Forever you’re turning with me.” – 11.19.20 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Hunting Angels


Picture Courtesy Heavy Metal Gallery

“If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.” – Tennessee Williams

“I probably listened to Black Sabbath more than was healthy for me growing up”. – D.S.

It was Autumn suddenly, without pause or even time to change, one wondered at its difference inside, one wondered why it came. For it seemed as the leaves changed so did I, as the sun tilted a slight way, different shadows came to play. Long shadows somber and without sway. The angels that had been there through spring and summer, had left, they had fallen. I waited but a bit for them to return, but they did not, so in my mind I formed an adventure to find them. For although it was fall winter would someday come, and I wished not to be without them.

Up near the blue sky where October would come, a stranger kind of blue sky then that summer one. A learning from the jet stream that Holy, Holy one, that breathes into your mind, and ask “what is it that you have won”? In springtime were the angels they danced around the sun, they whispered special spells of magic until the night was done. In drunken special spectacles they rose upon the day and dared the Lord of harvest to stay out of their way. In youth they formed a circle and chanted to the sky, even though you find us naked, we will not be shy. For life is fun and special the answer to our whys. What is the use of having wings if you never get high and fly.

In summer time when most worked the angels stayed in play, they listened to “Black Sabbath” and drunk cheap wine all day. Upon a rare occasion one of them would say, lets be like this forever, no one better get in our way. For power was a motivator, and the lie has no shame, when it is done as habit, with the truth hidden away. With many days upon us, why should we dread the shade, that, that brings the harvest, brings life and all we asked for, we will not be afraid.

It was Autumn suddenly, without pause or even time to change, and life had been granted and the angels went away. I cried aloud to the past spring and summer to release the winged spirits, for just one more day. The Lord of the Harvest answered, and this he had to say, those angels you are hunting are turning gray. Though they have been a spectacle between youth, and the mid of day, they will learn the mix of mystery, here as they near the end of the day.

So, I thought upon the matter, I thought upon the sum, and I thought it best to leave the angels, and not to hunt a one. For the blue sky of October, a stranger sky had come, and a winter would soon follow and then I would be done. -10.01.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Gray


I was looking until thrones were set up, and the Ancient of Days sat; His raiment was as white as snow, and the hair of His head was like clean wool – Daniel 7:9

Amazing are the things of purpose, I’ve been told, I’m looking more like him as I grow old, and gray, and that’s okay.

They arrive at the end of the day, in whispers they say, all they can do is wait, for my age to arrive, for the opening of my eyes. For me to reach that place. Where all is gray. The world moves through the phases of the moon, while one sun goes up, I think a different one greets the evening womb. And birth takes place inside my head, the visions just like my namesake said, turning me back, making my thoughts make room, for you. All my life, I’ve waited for this day, a strange foundation, humble still, is that what you say, stay so humble but wait for the day, you become gray.

And yes, there are many strange visions, broken, and blue, in life this indecision, like an addict needing more sight. Was it “Aerosmith” that sang, “When the moment arrives that you know you’ll be alright”, I think I’m there, with all the places I could go, reaching for G_D it seems like I’m solo, but in a twinkling, without a sound, prophetic terms come out unbound, and all around the world seems to age. I’m not certain but I think, that I’m okay, for just like the “Ancient of Days”, I’m gray, and that’s okay.

Woe unto bitterness, an earthly yoke, I won’t go back to places from where my youth awoke. All the changes in these years of men, maybe I’m better when I don’t think of them. For letters and numbers bring me to a spell, in a better grace, practiced crafts of spirit, done in Adonai’s own grace. And yes, the sunset comes, bringing my name to the place it belongs. Making my delusions real, an amazing song, blessing you with all my gray.

Amazing are the things of purpose, I’ve been told, I’m looking more like him as I grow old, and gray, and that’s okay. – 02.13.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל