The Ruins by the River

“Where were you and where are you going? Here I built the ruin in the stone-crushed. Sage leaves my hands scented as long ago. When I liked to press the desert against my head to think”. – Dan Beachy-Quick

“Testimony – Evidence or proof provided by the existence or appearance of something”.

When we were boys of youth, we found a secret, a rock filled wall, and tunnel that led away and yes, I know it is time to tell a secret; the moonlit ruins are calling me back today.

They came to be under moonlight, a ray a world time away, with hallow calling to hallow, what is lost can always be retained. White air it moved between kivas, lovers of smooth rock and clay. A rattle with chips of dried bone broke the silence, in a world lost to time and date. The river ran without speaking, low water a drought of malaise. The tall cottonwood bending toward; looking to cast doubt at its own shade. The tall bluff across the shallow water births the large shadow of gray. The night it could lead to delusions, or render a story or two, there could be a death by the ruins of forever, or a life born in imagination new.

They came to be under moonlight, near a tunnel, a time warp of old worlds and new. One boy could say to another, lets cross the electron tide to take a view. The tunnel it went into a new space, a fourth of dimensional view, a round room centered by an altar, with a well of water beneath its purview. The spirits of the ancient’s cried endeavor. Bring your eyes so wide into the center of our view. By the ruins beneath this center, know what every pure mind would do. It seemed as if the round room grew closer. The fortune of the night at once renewed, for the moon shifted to a small peephole, and displayed all the colors and all the hues.

They came to be under moonlight, the last of testimony, the chosen few. The ruins of old cried out for an attention, one boy looked to the other and made it true. They came forth from the tunnel into the open; they came into the light under the moon. There it was they swore an oath blood given. The ruins would be the secret they knew.

The ruins are a true story, found sometime late in the spring of 1972, by the San Juan River, by my pal Jason and I. Others probably knew of them, but we found no evidence that they did. One summer night in July of 1972, we followed a spot of moonlight there. This is a fragment of our testimony. – 04.17.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The House (Specters)


Trust is a whisper from the moonlit house near me, there so close to the mesa near the tree, there by the stars of the Navajo sky, there when I was eight did I watch shadows move by. Nenahnezad a long incline backwards whirling dervish sounds that formed my mind, daemons, my friends said, those figures from the den of time. Boy she whispers my throat so dry, here I am, in the sweet by and by, bring your sneakers, come here, life is nearby.

By moon a statue, that looks like me, by ever longing, lost in a sea. A silent world of wind and keys, numbers swirling by night so free, a small boy I stand, I stand by the tree, and look possessed in sweet conjunction harmony. Of all the high ground around me, just the house, asking me, to enter free, a white boy on the Rez you see. Pass young one without hesitation, do not hide, bring your empty spirit, take the glimmer filled ride. A ray of full moonlight comes and goes, I sit out by the cottonwood and watch orbs flow, it’s daring I would say, that one could reach my heart, and take me far away.

The house it travels to my many dreams, it follows me to this very day, under moonlight while the presence does play. There upon the bluffs so high, where my childhood played and was so shy. Near the back of that old school, in sandstone, alone where specters rule, skin walkers of the other side, a small boy standing just outside. That old house at night near the reservation school, Nenahnezad, myself fulfilled. To stand upon sand so cold, by there that cotton tree, the moon to blackness come over me. To watch and feel an invitation pass, at eight years old, it touched my flesh. To know it’s there to see it real, the house it waits there now, after all these years it waits for me still.

Trust is a whisper from the moonlit house near me, there so close to the mesa near the tree, there by the stars of the Navajo sky, there when I was eight did I watch shadows move by.

This is a true story. When I was eight years old, wandering around the BIA compound at Nenahnezad, New Mexico by myself, there was an old house, made of stone, empty, but filled with something still. On my travels at night, I would watch it, orbs moving from room to room, beckoning, calling. It still calls me to this day it calls me. The picture above is that house. May be you too will see it now, for I think it waits for all of us, someday. Some enter before others, some wait afraid to enter in. It is our childhood, that circles, and the specters inside would have us enter in. – 02.21.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Cabin

Come along with me , let me take you there, where the children play, writing mystery to air, it’s not so far away, that your never free, disturb your darker life, train your heart to see. In an older wood, that laughs at finery, while the sun grows hot, in transparency, where lost boys do play, with strange spark, this day, shroud my heart in the cabin, okay. Bring your pens along, bring some color too, we will write strange words, sing if what we could, oh there’s guns and dolls, and a mind or three, we will build this dream in this older tree.

And were spinning in the cabin, speaking spells upon free time, making magic out of fodder, books of shadows out of rhyme, well were walking reflective waters, to the charm that never dies.

We are crafting canon letters in the cabin of our life, oh my friend we found a secret, of a brilliance in disguise, look it talks just like an angel, tea doll words they always rhyme. Wendy will you take us higher through the upper window back, oh it’s just a little secret, to guard the pirate front attack. For you know we hide a treasure, that no witch has ever seen, it’s the cabin in Missouri, sometimes myths are built on dreams.

And were spinning in the cabin, speaking spells upon free time, making magic out of fodder, books of shadows out of rhyme, well were walking reflective waters, to the charm that never dies.

Gray eyed spy that looks for coding, in the codex that we spin, secret agents, in the nighttime, when you hide beneath roof tin. For I think I heard a story, that was transferred by these walls, we will spy upon the neighbors, when our cabin leader calls. For this cabin reaches unkempt gates, where children hide their fates, and they sell their souls to hidden thoughts, that life initiates. Oh this cabin celebrates a time, when play it ruled the earth, when the genius of that unseen brought forth a richer birth. Well it seems I found a wooden source, that sparkles like a dream, and who would have thought, we found the way, to live what was unseen.

And were spinning in the cabin, speaking spells upon free time, making magic out of fodder, books of shadows out of rhyme, well were walking reflective waters, to the charm that never dies.

The cabin has disappeared now, a victim of progress, and development, much in a sad way like the imagination and play of so many, both young and old. The cabin is dedicated to Diane, (whom I have always loved) the Wendy to many of us lost lads, tearing through the fields in summertime, and finding rejuvenation for our unconquered spirits and minds, in the cabin. – 01.20.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Red Clover (Pappy’s Psalm)

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Pappy said closure comes rolling in clover, its red healing power relieves heat from a wound. Never you listen to crazy physicians when earth’s medicine lies at your feet. Danny my Danny the Front Range in clover is calling from Denver, toward Boulder so sweet. Thin air, red clover, infections are over, elixir of angels for free. Have you seen, taken, lost, sought or abandoned on high country highways or streets, what children are hungry or dirty for laundry when our fields are blessed and complete. The tide of depression it cleansed dirt and sand land, and taught us the use of our hands. History be given the reign which we lived in has brought a great soothing relief.

My grandfather’s eyes, like spirits in skies danced, as he further would speak. In thirty four, I could take it no more, so I fell on my knees on this land. I reached to the sky it was blue open wide and I called down the force of G-D’s hand. From clover, he answered with red to fight cancer, a tea for the living, rich nitrogen for sand. Medicinal healing, a tea, while you’re dealing with bread that you’re kneading, with red clover honey, the manna of land. It’s pure of the nature like soul’s lacking danger, a common occurrence the better to stand. We learn from another on how they seek cover, for me Danny boy, I rather just stand.

In Pappy was clover, no gloss or switch over, the pure tide of nature, the root of a man. His kisses of wisdom, the plants of his kingdom, red clover his savior, in love did he stand. He smiles and I see him, right through him, I need him, the prophet receding, in glorious perfume. My Pappy his clover its seeds never closer, a lesson for living has finally bloomed. – 07.09.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Walden (Woods of Zion)


I thought I was twenty, I was nine, when I set my sights on woods of Zion. I took Excalibur, a three inch blade and went to make myself a day. In the woods a wild wood trail, by a creek down near a vale, I found a fossil an ancient shell, that spoke of oceans within the dell, an ark of time hid for me, a code of Noah by my feet. In a secret, by the glen, down a path that never ends, by a pond that revealed my soul, reflected wonder I lost control, there in moss of mountains old, came an element that took control. Its wind of shelter bore a craft, of greater wisdom then I had, had.

Down the well, of dirt and stone, in red clay I went alone, thought of ghost, my danger wild, a fate delivered, a risen child. By the Elm I cut my arm, tasted sun in grace and charm, found a mill stone of ancient clans, touched its surface, it froze my hand. A strange occurrence in Ozark heat, what made it cold, and incomplete? When in doubt, I climbed a tree, saw a snapper beneath my seat, it moved so slow, within its shell, its place in nature made stories tell. I bet it lived there before the trees, when by the pond there was a sea, I bet it cried unto the deep, send a young boy to rescue me. Eventide it brought me back, a boy encountered by what he lacked. My countenance shining in mud and lore, brought on by secrets at natures core.

Henry David, did you see, G-D, in your woodland, a deity? Were there shells born on the leaves, were their turtles that made you believe? Did you see the eyes of one, buried deep beneath your pond? Were there mill stones that had no heat, when you touched them what did you seek? There in Walden you must have smiled, knowing someday, a child would find, in the Ozarks, a glen so deep, a precious Walden a heart would reap. I thought I was twenty, I was nine, when I set my sights on woods of Zion. – 06.24.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Summer wishes (The Boy That Stretched the Sunshine)

Would you place my head, against your liquid sunshine, run and taste the song that sounds just like the wind? Would you take me higher then pines below the boulders, sail in ages fashioned for me as a kid. Would you take the beat of my simple heart learning, cost before life’s pleasures, you lose before you win. Interwoven strings that weave a simple magic, lyrical spells in footsteps that sigh where you’ve been. This is brew worth drinking in signs and pints of sixes, this is Pi of kisses a mellow happy end. Reach into the mystic, follow all the markers, round and round the ashes now swallow and blend. Burn now ancient circle, invest now your senses, blow now yellow pollen and bless your find. Have you run the meadow, dreamed in darkened caverns, have you placed the sticks that mark a strange moon? Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

There are canyon graveyards, underneath a river, a bent tree on a mountain that tasted G_D’s moon. Invested in the starlight, a fallen kind of firefly, an ice cream worth a kingdom, the opposite of doom. Have you touched a young girl, felt her lips like candy, entered, asked her to dance at summer’s high noon? Did you build an engine that raced down lanes of harvest, drank a bitter whiskey, and whistled dangerous tunes? What is glory given, if not for boys of summer, when the time is over, it’s over too soon? Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

Circled on the highway, crystal in its stillness, strangeness of a summer, that swallowed our youth. There where candles bleeding, clubhouse of believing, an oath that saw us grow up, and conquer our youth. How I wished we’d savored blessed summer wishes, rain and golden fishes, that followed our hooks. Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

I wanted to replicate in a brief poem the total sensory of my boyhood summers – jeez it was a great time דָּנִיֵּאל – 05.29.2014

 

Better Living (Life in Totah)


I will take you there, where the three rivers meet, where something really special built a spirit in me. In the Totah of the valley I was built with creed, my apostles were the blue sky, and the sand at my feet. My birthright was the mesa that was soaked by sun, my terrors torn asunder when the day was done. The fashion of the plain way, and the spoken tongue, the right and left of promise, deeds of praise unsung, the sheltered light of caring, forgotten cost of sharing while I was young.

A chamber not so hidden still resides in me, a place I stood my childhood still in memory. A blanket full of wisdom, not found in norm, a hand that wears the turquoise, no culture lost by storm. Sometimes when an earthquake shakes my home, I bring back better living, life in Totah there I roam. The best that I can offer in my private belief, came to me in boyhood near a Pinon tree. In the seed was Manna that fed my soul, there in by the San Juan I took control.

Now I’m growing older, and my hair is gray, I need to search three rivers where my secrets lay. Something in the water, could be stone or sand, something in the people, and the heart of the land. Sheltered by remission, where this road does lay, I will find permission where the ghost do play. Come famed muddy waters cutting channels deep, I will live in Totah while my soul does sleep. Therein lies my wisdom from where I used to play, growing better living in the Totah way. This immortal minder gifts a better day. I will take you there, where the three rivers meet, where something really special built a spirit in me.

Kind memories of the plateau’s valley’s and rivers of my childhood near Farmington, Kirtland and Fruitland New Mexico reminds my ageing soul that the cost and victories I retained in this special place as a child instilled in me better living for life. My foundation was life in Totah! דָּנִיֵּאל 03/22/2014