The Writer


Throes of Creation by Leonid Pasternak

I sat to write to keep me warm, I toiled with pen some bitter scorn. I spun a shadow, I felled a tree, in awkward syllables I wished to see, and still within me something grew, an inward soliloquy that shook the room. What if, in color, I wrote a fate, a detailed sonnet, an ode to hate? While hearts fell shaking in earthbound flight, a penciled journey on a starless night, I wrote in earnest, I drew in glee, strange lyrical verses by six and by three. Dark words on parchment not meant to be. For written in breath between the lines, there was a curse, a scribble scribed, a poem engraved in broken time. An omen tempted upon the page, a rhyme, a token, an author’s rage.

It was a summer when I wrote last, the gods of wonder let me pass, took me to heaven past some gates, phonetic magic in clear glass lakes. Described in narrative by angels worth, a book of novel a writers birth. I was the novel alive in light, an untidy journey scrawled in block type. A cast of millions filled my mind, ideas of magic that seemed to align, a story forever that staid the heat, antagonist fury that rid deceit. In tense and medium and style of design, I lived with my characters, and made them mine. Forgotten was anger, and black words of lore, in genre and motif, I jotted for more, and as summer went, I entered a plan, I’d write about days and the love of G-Ds plan.

The writer of darkness, she is what she sees, a stranger to living, a jailor in need. A writer for fortune he spins tales of woe, to heighten his margin and shill all his gold. The writer of romance she favors a war, where sex has no balance and envy wants more. A writer of mystery, he marvels at crime, afraid of his conscience and what he might find. The writer of days of what I can see, wants balance in writing, and all that can be. I write in fulfillment of grace in my hands, my terror is over, Hashem guides my plans, for over and over, inside what I see is writing forever, a dance within me. – 06-20-2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

My (A Psalm of What we know not)


Graphic courtesy of Weaving Grace

My heart seethes, my texture turns into a rough and challenging sand, my shadow becomes another image of man. My danger challenges, my kiss leaps and catches sorrow where it lands. My distance stretches, and catches suicide, where daggers play, my eyes catch the deadly doctrine in the palm of your hand. My age is worthless, my time is your skin, and forever I am the interest of your anxious need to watch equality swagger drunken in a spiritual wind. My womb is open, my alphabet of relief, my Aleph to your fallen need to know why your love smells like roses and genesis to me.

My breath conceives, my air, a tumor that grows, and overtakes your softer need to touch the earth. My movement, my blood underneath your broken skin, a moment you know not, sheltered whispers I place upon your cracked and barren lips. My craven balance, my scent upon your brain, a footprint a Yod in mind from where all law begins. My oh my how you know not, my nature, my gift, my flame that touches bone the sound of Samech, endless divinity, that defies your end. My face that mourns not, a language long before you thought, forgot. My stars, my earth, my ethereal wonder in all of you.

My Tzadik, my faith shimmer of righteous shine, my sun before morning and my moon blood red before the blessed rise. My Zion, my tangled freedom set in Tav the impression of stone where nations die. My lonely fate, my rush in changing statute just to hold you with me. My Vav from end, my beginning in dreams that utilize the earth, my love for you, my light on and on, my expression, my Hei, my action in thought, fore thought in psalm music played, my you while letters seek the day. – 06/06/2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Start of a Day

 

Creation

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summon you letter, sound of the din, curse of believer, friend of the wind.  Slip of the season, born on the range, more than a reason, pictures at play.  Subtle translation, that bends to the bow, cradle of spirit, bereshit below.  Infants and candles, minor keys play, lost in the physics, of a new day.

Crystal of distance, sight of the glow, death of the phantom, start of the show.  Creation tunic that shields a new start, lightning, and earthquakes, spoken by sparks.  Screaming and yelling while banshees die, balance of two worlds born on a sigh, grace, and passion while bodies play, born like a baby, the start of a day.

Destiny of water, conscience below, immortal groaning born of a soul.  Shadow of wisdom, equal in time, pressure of fortune, song, and pure rhyme.  Imminent kingdom, death of the gloom, systems of motion, under the moon.  Heavens are splitting, while feathers lust, done in pure image, the creators trust.

The first day of spoken creation, what was it like?  Did devils look to the sky and marvel at solids appearing out of chaos?  Did the ‘Ancient of Days’ motion or simply communicate by transmitted thought?  So many languages, from time to time emitting the creation story, some complex, some scrawled simply in stone.  I believe in order for there to have been a first day, there had to have been a last, and before that a first, end to end all in a circle, always spoken, always a first day!  – DS 01/14/2014