Sing (The Eternal)


Psalms 101: 1 – A Psalm of David. I will sing of mercy and justice unto thee, O Adonai, will I sing praises.  

And under Jacob’s ladder, and upon the eternal I will sing!

From the emptiness of a voided desert place, you bring those notes that most would think insane, and in my death of these old spirits, that which would bring me pain, I sing!  In Deuteronomy’s darkness, in requiting insanity, I sing, better when I lie naked with these things, still you say, unto me let your eternal soul sing!

You have summoned me from the Colorado, from Burlington to Cortez on shades of gray. I am born upon the plains, and everything around me sings, and so I sing. From the depths of my drunkenness I will sing, everything surrounding me can proclaim, yes it can proclaim! Everywhere around me in the prairie to the mountains fill it with your grace, Hashem, you are eternity, you are my madness, you are my light and in your universal confusion, oh ancient of days I sing. A plus and an equal has always been misplaced, for algebra, would teach us, that a proper equation would bring us the answer to all things. For you have subtracted me into the end of days, but still I will sing. For G_D of everything, you have raised me Damien high, to rise above the angels, the son of the morning star, above all darkness I am crossed in lightning, and by your will, oh Adonai I will sing. Death cannot stop me, I will sing. Bones all around me, still Elisha who sets my feast, says in languages so old, oh Daniel sing.  In El your countenance sings!

You have given me a highway that always follows north, to the snow, to the judgment of the long-forgotten kings. And when you gave me leave by your wavering northern lights lace, you instilled within me a rebellion, that says still sing. For you are my creator, not a ghost on a cross, or a savior filled with blood filled things. You are the wind of Pan upon my Hebrew wings, you are not textbook, you are the G_D of my everything. My everything!

So, you raise me like the phoenix, bless my troubles anyway, and I praise you for the trouble, I bring my magic down to sing. And when you raise me from the brokenness, my teeth gritted in pain, I will sing, for you are my everything. My commandment, you are the is, you are blessed beyond my jagged scars, I am your voice, you are my song my Hashem, I will sing. I will sing!

For G_D of everything, you have raised me Damien high, to rise above the angels, the son of the morning star, above all darkness I am crossed in lightning, and by your will, oh Adonai I will sing.

From the emptiness of a voided desert place, you bring those notes that most would think insane, and in my death of these old spirits, that which would bring me pain, I sing! Deuteronomy’s darkness, in requiting insanity, I sing, better when I lie naked with these things, still you say, unto me let your eternal soul sing!

And under Jacob’s ladder, and upon the eternal I will sing! – 07.02.2017 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

The Morning Sun (1989)


I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun!

She came over Burlington, over that plains township on she rode, and pointed beams like the crown of the French lady in the New York Harbor, there upon the Colorado plain she strode. And I stood there in my bare feet on the back porch of my keep, and on Mother’s Day I watched the sun tread heavy over all who still would sleep. It could be I thought about the world turning, each soul reaching for what would not make it weep, but no not me, not me. I rated this the best day, watching something this way come. A day star raging magic spinning, oh life, in age we are, how far in age we are! Adonai, my love Adonai!

A barren testimony, a fire that seals the heat, upon this morning riding, the virtue, the seeds of earth do reap. A G_D that rides a chariot, oh angels staggered leap, by count of six and two they come, summoned by this fervor fashioned so deep. Upon the South Fork River with waves that wait to hold spring’s tide, the morning retribution of something born in wayward skies, Adonai, my love Adonai! The snow it piles behind me, much higher than the earth, the rage of all the heavens, the judgement of all the earth. Upon Long’s Peak, a thunder, a sound in May it flows, face your cold for battle, for upon the western wind the sun flows, upon my sunken cheeks the light it glows.

A circled revolution, a night has come to end, upon the plains, their rides a ghost of springs heat, and winters end. A witch of convocation, a word of mornings din, and there and here before my life, a fire it comes within. Like David before his last rites, a younger olden whim, the rotating earth has brought the sun to begin. Adonai, my love Adonai!

I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun! – 05.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


On the Morning of the 16th


From the summit:

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.”

You love me, you created me so, to spin what’s difficult in my soul, to crush the shame in all its despair, Adonai, my Adonai you have brought me home. The judgment, that self-judgment that, wants my name, it wants my freedom, all my breath, these things you will not allow it to have. My G_D I do not cry out, as some have done, for here above lightning, in thin air, you change me, you bring me home.

I rest like a homeless man against a skyward overpass. An afterthought of the world that has asked for payment past. The lines upon my forehead match the different paths I cast, and just like a long-lost dream, the angel comes at last in spells the angel comes a craft it comes, and takes me home. We climb through the years of life, some good and some with taste, the after bitter lingering it’s not too much to take. I look back through this journey, my power is lost in stress. And I see the gauntlet just ahead, no Jesus, just the light, and love is taking me home.

Their rest upon the spring flow, just on Deadman’s pass, looking down at Red Feather, the place where my daddy rest. Their breaks a sudden trouble, with wind and lights and all G_D’s ways, with music that makes the dead play, and brings me home.

A moment for a wayward child, turning questions, with thoughts gone wild, is this Easter Sunday, or just a game? A breath of air a simple sigh, a homeward journey, in linear skies, an April blessing shoots in colors across the Colorado sky. Just us here, a spirit claims, just us here now with no religious games, there is no easter, there is no pain, just you and Adonai. Just me and Adonai.

It could be g minor, in four time, a drum kit playing, maybe it’s all in G_Ds game, maybe a lack of oxygen so far up here above. My Adonai at last you have come. And here I rest and touch the timberline, the place of high thin air. A genuine place of lullaby, where witches and darkness, turn to bare, all that is not modest from worlds below, and open place where what is ancient, says this is your place.

And here at home above skyline, my soul is shared between loose lines, and what is heaven is his flame, burned beyond recognition, blessed be, in more than seventy-two names. I rest like a homeless man, against a skyward overpass, that holds my name, and there in my Adonai is home.

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was Easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.” – 04.16.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Nails


“The light was what brought the wheat, it looked like little Mary Lou, I’m convinced of that, it’s what I saw, I know what I saw”!

RF (Nails) Swearingen

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

Nails walks along Horsetooth headed for the West, all around him vibrations coming from the wheat at rest. It could be there is a savior embedded in these sheaves, or maybe just a rattlesnake, reaching to strike where he can’t breathe. Sometimes when spring comes, and Nails walks his land, he hears the flicker of Henry David, say, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see“. Well yes in fact, Nails see’s frustration, sees a door that’s turning black. His crops and soul are in dispensation, with the L_rd in favor does he lack. It could be no one will come down.

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

The child is up ahead, the little girl, “Mary Lou” is deceased, it matters not on a sun-drenched day. Hell, has no fury, like a dead child at play. Still she blocks him anyway, too young to say Daddy, though her lips move that way. Nails spins around, and he turns once more, matters not his vision is interred with loss. For what he has seen is a sign from his self, the raising of the spirit, it comes from one’s own hell. Suddenly Nails believes, that just like Henry David, it’s what he can see. If the dead can rise so can his wheat. Nails takes his shoulders to his knees, he thinks just like David, he’ll build an altar to what’s his need. And if there is grace, and truth, justified, for in the mind of Nails, in his soul’s own eye. Life in the ground will be.

Wheat as carpet on the front range floor.

1942, and the worlds at war, Nails walks Horsetooth road, and looks at the floor. The ground of Colorado waves in oceans believed. Under sunny skies an altar of a good omen received. And a little girl is giggling, a tinkle to the ear, the light is resting easy, upon the fields of gold, and Nails might be seeing, something Henry David foretold.

RF (Nails) Swearingen was my grandfather, he always saw what he saw! – 11.12-2016-
דָּנִיֵּאל

Potters Trail (Semita veneficas)

The place in my mind is featured as real, as the day I went down it in August. A trail by a creek, where Aspens run deep near the high road that leads to Cowdrey. The etches on rocks make a mind go cross, makes a man turn and look at the weather. And whither it’s right there’s a ghost by my side, a friend I lost three years ago come November. I’m serious now, my mind naked and how, I am telling the whole world my secrets. About things that are real, just hidden distilled by the unlawful code of nature. So here it is now the thin truth of how, I met life, and made it on over.

The trail is old, barely hidden by gold of the high weeds, and dry grasses of autumn. An occasional tree that looks dead with leaves, throws shade across those that walk under. The whispers of old, from something wild, I don’t know, makes me think something comes this way different. I walk on alone, well your never alone, at least some sprites bend to my ear and whisper. But on up ahead where the trail ends at a mill stead, and the wind stops teasing my bare shoulders. For here you see in 1903, Potter Steel thought his own life was over. He was ill and diseased to a cancerous degree, and he’s come to the mountains for closure.

I’d like to see him, the way others do, a real apparition, that glows in wisdom. But strange this day, he doesn’t look that way, why actually he looks discontented.

What’s happened here, the thunder draws near, a sound that mimics nature screaming.

Well it is August, but October’s here, this trail of the twisting, the prospector’s tears. The day is suddenly gray, Mr. Sun grows cold, he has gone away. He has gone away! I guess I’d have to say, this witch’s trail leads the way, from 1903 to here, the truth of the matter is clear. The trail of the Potter hides secrets resigned, healing herbs cooking by witch’s design. And maybe it’s just a trail, “Semita Veneficas” from those who cannot tell what they’ve seen, when they reach the murky water of the stream. For on that day in 1903, Potter Steel made his ill body believe, it’s twin self-came to life. No cancer there, incarnate divine. The fountain of youth laying inside a stream. “Semita Veneficas” what a dream. I think it’s so real, from what I have seen.

The place in my mind is featured as real, as the day I went down it in August.

The Witches Trail is known to locals on the high plateau that borders the Old Roach Ghost Town, near Cowdrey, Colorado. Potters trail makes for a wonderful hike there. Some say that Prospector Potter Steel diseased with cancer, discovered his familiar there in the water of youth, in 1903. I would say that familiar still is there! – 10.24.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Red Barn (Cold Cold Heart)

Cold, cold heart!

On 14 just toward the bend in the road, toward the prairie grassland, where wild banshee’s roam.  On 14 there where there is an old farm, guards the opening of Sheol, stands the old red barn.  So I stand here alone, and I feel the hot wind, of a thousand voices, of a thousand sins.  I think some are within, and they sing all the same, if they be in or out, they say don’t you please want to stay.

And I wonder to myself, as my spine turns into chills, would the moon upon this night turn my fate into a kill?  Would my soul go deep inside, where it might be never found, would my actions be a coward, could my future be never still.

Cold, cold heart!

I suppose the red barn once upon a time held hay, or just a horse or two, before the devil came to play, and made the barn pay its due.  It could be just inside near the hooks, where the sheep would lay, there was an unease about the future of darkened days.  And standing in this sun, and standing still I do, I can’t but help but think, what it is about this red barn that made a mad man do what insane men do.

For Sharpe he was a wise man, who started on that day, with his face as red, as a dying star, to do his wife and friend away.  And he ran his Ford from Ault, with two hooks in the back, and he drove on down 14, to take his missus back.  For Sharpe he was desirous to have what was lacked, to bring the spirit of divorce to bring it to a fact.

Cold, cold heart!

In his eyes he saw a red barn, as magenta as his face, and inside of that old red wood, lay his wife upon her back.  And Sharpe he pictured murder, oh he pictured his friend’s back, moving up and down upon his dear wife, in their passion they did not lack.

So I stood upon the highway with the sun burning red, and it showed the paint was peeling from the red barn where Sharpe attacked.  And it seemed I heard the screams now, as the hooks came raining fire, or it could be banshees laughing, as they brought the dead on back.  And I thought about my thinking, of waiting on the moon, to see what would happen, or think what if it could.  And I moved myself transfixed then, not determined in anyway, and thought maybe it better to wait another day.  So I drove on to the highway and I headed my way home, and I passed an oncoming Ford pickup truck, with a man looking onward.  His face was red, and his eyes were rolled on back.

Cold, cold heart!

Eddie Sharpe murdered his wife Edith and best friend Drew, in a red barn that sits off of Highway 14 near the Pawnee National Grasslands on Monday, August 8, 1960.  The barn is said to be haunted, and it certainly appears that way to me. – 08.08.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

El Diente (Follow) 1990

El

For your ways are a different way, your voice so small, it sends me in, and I follow.

A place ahead, where heavens bent, above the clouds, where air is spent, I bend my brow, I cannot speak, for I’m alone, with my bare feet, on holy ground in simplicity, and I follow. Mountain range that meets G-d’s eye, am I awake or did I die, for vaults and doors are here for us to enter in and seek a trust, a two-way street, a two-way love, for G-d is here and I’m in love, and I follow.

El Diente, a raptured art, wrapped so high, an ark a path, and while I climb, I follow. For your ways are a different way, your voice so small, it sends me in. And there the wind, it speaks to me, high upon this mountain peak, tearing me, till I can’t see, yet still you want of me, and I follow, in disbelief I follow.

I’d like to say you hold me still, bind creation in my heart, but here just now, we are so far apart, like plants and stone, we cannot meet. Yet when I break, when I bleed, like here on this lifted place, I look and you say jump, and I will follow. And I will fall a thousand feet, rest my will at your need, and when I look you are high and lifted up, like always on this mountain peak, which you created and still you say follow, and I will follow.

El Diente’s trail makes me weep, when it’s winter, it plays my feet like a violin a string of glass, and yet I follow, where this way would have me go. If words could help, I’d sing them now, to the crest, the place of infinity, where G_D would turn to me and say follow. And I will breath here in this place forever, so high in your grace, free to follow.

For your ways are a different way, your voice so small, it sends me in, and I follow.

El Diente peak is a summit in the San Miguel Mountains of Colorado. It stands 14,165 feet above sea level, and to climb it in winter reveals an inner faith that demands one follow. – 03.19.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


7500 (The Property)

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)

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

Nederland (The Prayer)


Were in Nederland, the sun has started its track to the west side of Long’s peak, resting for a short time between Meeker and Long’s, giving a parting shot before the whole of the world becomes darkness. “Dad, I have to pray, its sundown”. “Now”? I look over at Ryan, his brown eyes wide, reflecting the high thin fading light, so far, so high. “It’s a commandment you know”, he’s grinning, but serious. “Well I guess if it’s a commandment then”, I’m grinning but serious. “Can I just drive while you pray”, I say. “Sure I think so, I think it will be okay this time”, he says. “Yeah it’s probably okay this time”.

“Perhaps you’re hidden in plain sight, in this shadow or in that light, that ours down on the trail of sky to Nederland. A molecule that parts our hair, from ancient days, in this thin air, your purpose sanctifies and cares our naked minds. If you are real or just as is, beyond knowledge of all we wish, we are here, from day to day anyway. Instant death is not surprise, longer life we ask from skies, but anyway, both are blessings that we pray. Perhaps you wish our gratitude, just like the area, the fire forsook, that place near Nederland, the other day. We think we wish and that’s an art, but what we ask for is so stark, of things to buy, not life sparks, and that’s a shame.

Perhaps right here in Nederland, a place you gifted, and I’m glad, for right here, I think I found my way today. Some visions start right out of time, but what I’ve seen starts in rhyme, this mountain vale, this mountain high, has scared my fear away. Perhaps you planned it from the start, designation of loves pure part, to raise me up, to strike my heart this day. You strike my heart this day.

Perhaps this wind in Nederland, that binds this car, as we descend, teaches us to never ever be afraid. Indigo, or reddish blue, we see you paint a higher hue, of spirits rushing and falling fast, as if to bade, us to be safe. We are scents from what you are, the very essence in this car, the smell of days of sunshine rays, where wonder plays. Perhaps were farther from the truth, but well okay, for when we look, you’re above us and behind in Nederland. A gift before us all our days. All our days.

Perhaps right here in Nederland, a place you gifted, and I’m glad, for right here, I think I found my way today. Some visions start right out of time, but what I’ve seen starts in rhyme, this mountain vale, this mountain high, has scared my fear away. Perhaps you planned it from the start, designation of loves pure part, to raise me up, to strike my heart this day. You strike my heart this day”.

It’s dark, the headlights from the car, pick up the glassy eyes of a coyote moving swiftly near a sharp curve in the road. “I wouldn’t mind living in Nederland”, I say looking quickly over at Ryan and then back at the mountain road. “How about you”, I ask? Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my son grinning when he replies, his hand held up to his heart, “I already do dad”, he says, “I already do”. 6-7-2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל