Beneath the Sorceress (Shannon)


The coin’s glint in her eyes, weathered, shiny, under the Boulder bright December sky. “You sing well”, I say not able to stay in tune and follow her gray eyes. “My names Shannon Morgana le Fay”, she says. “Yeah, like the sorceress”, I grin out. “Yeah just like the sorceress” she says. Suddenly, Pearl Street seems small to me, the whole world before me is unimportant. It could be her song, that she sang, it could be what she later claimed was beneath the sorceress.

It’s half past noon on Pearl Street, the sun goes down at five. The gypsy with the gray hair sings Shannon, it brings a single tear to my eye. It’s so cold in December, but it’s worth listening to a sorceress bind my mind.

Henry Gross, she says was at Woodstock, Sha Na Na, an apple to my young eye. And my gray hair was blonde then, I saw it reflected in Henry’s eyes. There’s stories about groupies, there’s girls baring their tits, she says with a sigh. But oh, when I saw my reflection in his eyes, spirits happened, Shannon’s not a canine, well maybe in possession, she winks, oh my my.

I look at where she’s looking, to the Southwest, 80 degrees up a rocky slide, The Flatirons are still standing casting cold shadows underneath a cobalt sunny sky. “Beneath me is a secret”, Shannon looks crafty, well may be almost wild. “Does it have to do with Henry”, I ask thinking this story is worthwhile. “Not really”, she’s getting up to leave, the dollar bills in her lap she’s gathering, an offering like her song’s reprieve. “Wait a minute, please”, I’m begging almost flirting, Shannon like a lover, staring back at me. “Henry, wrote Shannon in 1976, Woodstock was in 1969, what does this have to do with…”! I look down, the crumpled piece of paper is laying still in the Pearl Street grime. Lying ever ready, for someone named me to find. I reach for it, and then look up, seeing the ragged back of Shannon Morgana le Fay turning the corner on Broadway.

I waited till now to read the paper, the fine lines flowing in lyrical curves, tails of dragons making love in the underworld beyond finite time. The wrinkled parchment coming from a “Meads” spiral notebook from the local Target. The words swim, congealing, dissipating and then forming, syllables together, congruent from beneath the sorceress, whom I will never see again.

“In an ancient tongue, we are you, and you are we, what’s sewn enough, can’t get free, don’t run away, ask and see, ask again, this time believe, for we are you, and you are we. Blessed Be, Blessed Be. With kindest Love, Shannon Morgana le Fay”

12.04.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Ghost of Lucy Gilpin


Hello, Hello, I have come back to see, what’s happened all these years, what’s thought of me, I thought of all the breath that was inside of me, thought it wanted loose, so I set it free!

Most of the day she listened, taking in all the shadows of the years, from all of the waves on the Colorado, to above where the eagle fly’s and nothings ever feared. She thinks that on the earth below, there could be hearts in treasured cloves, down among the trees, where aspen can’t even count all there many leaves, it matters not, for she is free. She moves from book to book, learning more and more, for everything she reads, she thinks natures teaches more. So it is at night, when her past comes to light, she goes outside and breathes, five thousand feet above Denver, she screams, a part of what she claims of setting herself free.

Judeo-Christian crimes, all of western culture, likes to whine, she says, the truth is, she’s risen from the dead, not victim of creed. A witch that seeks the upper thin air in glee, she says what a find the Flatirons touch her soul, when she climbs, so free, better high altitude without mediocrity. One spell is all she knows, from those words comes more. Gloria, without the bells, the girl in a full grown woman born, and oh you know, the witch they say is young and gray, not so true, not so true, she is older than time, for her climb, has led her to the very face of G-D, he’s not excelsis, but what light. Oh those who ask for what an adventurous sight. So she sees, then she screams, a part of what she claims of setting herself free.

The mountains move, high above the front range, all things do, and she knows, she is changing with the high air ebb and flow. Could it be, all those things that made her chained now make her free, in the light. Climb the rocky stairway flight, things unseen, the witch of the flatirons is so free, is so free, immortal all beloved of the high air sea, oh now child, G-D knows you are only thirteen, just a spirit, just a child, setting herself free. Better then, she thinks, better than to know all that’s been, or come before, better than to touch the face of G-D so high. So she sees, then she screams, a part of what she claims of setting herself free.

Hello, Hello, I have come back to see, what’s happened all these years, what’s thought of me, I thought of all the breath that was inside of me, thought it wanted loose, so I set it free!

Lucy Gilpin was thirteen when she committed suicide upon Flagstaff Mountain near Boulder Colorado in 1925. She thought herself a spirit before she died, and became one after her death, so reads her headstone in the Salina Cemetery beyond the seven hills near Boulder Colorado. – 01.22.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Tsaritsa (Of all the World) 1989

Saturated facts from the night of talk we had, it’s the morning without a promise and you make me go. Still an awkward dream, what happened, are those my things, and was it you in blonde and starlight that made the Flatirons glow. Did you rock like Ann Wilson, bring your accent down, pulverize this Boulder nightclub with your Russian sound, for when I looked upon the stage I saw divinity, I saw Tsaritsa of all the world and kingdom sing. Maybe just a crudeness of the state I’m in, for I’d burn in hell forever if I did not sin, but to touch, the thoughts of spirit, that immersed from your skin, and with that I end forever with a win.

“This worlds an awkward place when we rule from inside, you don’t know this yet but you’ve slept with the tide, and opened up the river where I sailed as a queen, and kissed the same lips that you watched sing, and all the world has come on down to this little dream, the place you and I find tonight”.

There seems to be discussion as you walk on the stage, a bouncer looks me over, and I melt away. Then the heavy bass of sorrow filled that smoke filled room, and the crest of all Stalingrad began to move, and all of Colorado stopped for just that night, when my eyes fell on your tight jeans, to your wet mouth bright. So you picked me from a place that I could still not see, Tsaritsa you brought the whole world to me, and the heavens opened crying, thunder came on down, when the empress of the world told me don’t leave.

“This worlds an awkward place when we rule from inside, you don’t know this yet but you’ve slept with the tide, and opened up the river where I sailed as a queen, and kissed the same lips that you watched sing, and all the world has come on down to this little dream, the place you and I find tonight”.

It would be a mistake if I don’t kiss her ear, for she listened and she talked of things, I’d never share, but Tsaritsa of all the world, did you not proclaim, that’s there’s victory in the dance of time.  Did we not climb together down that Northern Steppe, and bathe in all the mystery’s that our lives can’t keep. Forever I will listen when Ann does weep, and the rock of all the heavens moan and scream, Tsaritsa, you’re a dreamer, and you summoned me, for that one night when you sang the world to me.

“This worlds an awkward place when we rule from inside, you don’t know this yet but you’ve slept with the tide, and opened up the river where I sailed as a queen, and kissed the same lips that you watched sing, and all the world has come on down to this little dream, the place you and I find tonight”.

A love story or a one night stand, or it might be something forever. – 01/16/2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Boulder


“Your sundial will grow weary lacking shadows in this place”!

They rode in wagons, on horses, wheeling vans, smoking high, to the base of Flagstaff Mountain this Persepolis in the sky. They moved in special symmetry on a parallel, you wonder why, and under one they caravanned, with mystery in their eyes. Said Chief Niwot, with his sadness, build your temples, “your Versailles”, there is iron of mystic waiting with the Flatirons on their side. From one, repeat this antiphon, when the wind blows in the sky, on the forty creeps a Camelot, ghost of things who knows of why. What does flow here from this mountain, 30 miles from this divide, crystal liquid from cold glaciers, blinding white against the sky.


In this place of distilled beauty, they have come to worship land, from the cornerstone of all reason, logic blossoms where she can. If it not would be for gravestones rising grey upon this butte, one would wonder if this Boulder didn’t give life at its root. Here she sits when all the mountains meet the plains that mock the sea, and she anchors here in goodness, mediating wild and free. This premise rest then in mythology, where an angel stirs in its seed, sighing blessing’s in its virtue giving promise by its creed. There by on this risen city, western gateway, earth’s degree, G-D has made in you a miracle, beauty sown and guaranteed.


They have come to see the mountains, watch the bear rise on its feet, set their feet upon this meadow, walk their way down Pearl Street. They have built upon an anthem, while the snow fell down in sheets, turned the city to a people, and one soul to be complete. Fortune, has not come with weakness, nor will it ever know repeat, for there is but one Boulder, and she is the magic suite. When there is but one city, one village, left, shining still, she will be there below Flagstaff, with her people, their love of place instilled.


They rode in wagons, on horses, wheeling vans and smoking high, to the base of Flagstaff Mountain this Persepolis in the sky. – 11.12.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל