Ivanhoe (An Addendum)

“Is death the last sleep? No, it is the last final awakening.” – Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe

For Ivanhoe sailed on a blue cold sea, ever present from what could be, to be a knight of war no more, to embrace his final score. No more dust and blood of war, just better passions on heavens shores.

Hold still thy Eastern windows, those upon the North Sea, facing toward Jerusalem, where there I will soon be free. Breaking now my spirit that, which is a loom, weaved by darkened feelings, comes the witch before the moon. What was my father’s fortune, tithes and land and silk, lay I now before thee, thy daemons and their ilk. Forge the steel of Canaan a double-sided seal, who knows if it is really, really real. Here now I pray, between the stones from another day. Standing still, I cry as all men cry, “will G_D let me stay”? Whom is now upon me? Darkness or the light by day? What is its fashion, poet or warrior fallen by a blade? So, this night, this starless, soulless night, filled by shadows, great with evil’s plight. Is it mine to reckon, to stiffen with my arm? By these shores of England in a calm or storm. Still I hear thee bade me, come unto my breast. Oh my G_D you know me, in this you know me best.

I thought upon this hardly, when first a sword I sheathed, to carry death upon my hip, better to give unto than receive. For all the years of battle when my mind saw blood red, I never thought that demise could come peaceful for men once bled. For what the passion of all true things, those men of oath can often decree. Their minds lacking character in the power of control they deceive. Their laws held high on banners, held to heaven’s doors. From love and savage battle, they are laws that never bind to us subsequently once we are no more. For here, it makes no difference, this crusade now described, in final breathing moments, to a black angel. Oh her eyes.

Names, names, names I would be remiss, not to say my true love’s name, in death I truly miss. Daughter of the misty lake, Saxon queen whose sweet lips I often taste. She who leaves before me, now by a flowered filled lake. For all the swords and lances, have I thrust, to give unto this dark angel all my trust? To view Rowena in a land so faire. Very different over there. For ever Loxley perhaps I shall miss, its stone and thatch and heavy mist. For what has come in what I see in these boiling eyes nonmoving before me. Just a calm within a storm, in a circle that feels so warm. In a circle that feels so warm.

For Ivanhoe sailed on a blue cold sea, ever present from what could be, to be a knight of war no more, to embrace his final score. No more dust and blood of war, just better passions on heavens shores. – 02.20.2021 – דָנִיֵּאל



” Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”. – Tecumseh

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face. Moving G-d like before me while angels wait.

In and out of minutes, heartbeats slowing, I see her dancing upon a dawn filled sea. Planting footsteps that are visible to only those who would see. And it seems that she would kiss me nicely. And it seems she would fly with me. For she is of the beginning. The beginning of my eternity.

If I should hear her if I should go to play. If my shoes should not fit and stay unlaid. If voices should become a second place. On a present morning before the sun has thought to raise. If change should happen, music and light replace my pleasant grace. If G_D should find me willing to ride the wind on her beckon of faith. My heart broken, my breath that can longer taste. My taste for earth fainter than my fading face. Oh, then Victoria I will ascend in numbers across this water so chaste. While there are seconds moving, time that I no longer make, my soul moving, into spirit beyond the tides that break.

If moving morning shadows should bring me angels. If their high notes should barriers break. If I should find myself willing, to touch her face. A distant journey, now a present place. No longer a question, indecision, or an unintelligible race. If I should no longer suffer, descend to a stoic held together by man’s science or medical case. Know that I am moving upon that water, my eyes wider, no terror left to shake. If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me while angels wait. In death I trip, but so quickly I reach and touch your blessed lace. That which makes you in me. That which you let me take.

If I should walk in mystery, into thy ark with such an airless ease. If their would-be Seraphim that fold their wings when I, upon my journey make. Touching syllables, that only immortals make, crying holy, while she dances for me. If I am growing lighter, closer than, closer than my G_D to thee. For here there would be no lessor freedoms than what she has made in me. If she would make an equation, a variable to a prophesy, it would be that I am with Victoria, for in Victoria I have come to be.

If I should claim how great thou art, my lady. With thy pale dress, and thy white face moving G-d like before me.

Jovine DeMarcus’s daughter carries his thoughts and blood deep within her. I am married to her. Jovine taught me how to pull wire, hammer a nail, and put together the most intricate electrical wiring equations. I taught him about the mountains. He wanted me to call him dad and I fought it. I fight it no longer. Jovine went to his Victoria, his woman of the water and mountain on December 23rd, 2020 at 4:15 AM in the morning. Sweet travels Dad. Sweet travels. Miss you much more than I ever thought I would. 12.31.20- דָּנִיֵּאל



And I’m just dreaming counting the ways to where you are” – Vladimir John Ondrasik III

“Oh Wow, Oh Wow, Oh Wow”! – Steve Jobs, October 5, 2011

“The Moment”

Such quietness now, where there was none, machines of the living as they stop undone. The lights above turn to darkened grey, and four wheels they slow, as the final gasp fades away. A disconnect from cold steel poles, and a light so bright is turned down low, an urgent whisper from an EMT goes out through a mic and cannot be retrieved. Life oh life from a second to none, an eternity of thought before the final moment comes. An interest of mine, from the outside looking in, is not the eternal here after, but that space before the end.

“The Moment”

Were there sudden questions asked, about the weight of sin, delicate weights moved from the life that was when. Oh forgiveness did you come on down, in a space or a flash, was it like here on earth not permanent or fully grasped. Was there Eastern peace held still within, the lucky of this planet not taught the guilt by chagrin. Did the wind that moved right by, cause your mortality to wake or was that just a steel tipped angel reminding you it is there to take. Take you to the land of Holy Moses may be to move around, to become inwardly recycled, once a lost but now a found. In that micro second brimming in the crack that is a door, was there choice that was your willing to move to nothing, or something toward. Were there a million familiar faces, named all legion everyone, or a light in the eyes of a small child with a hand that said come here.

The Moment”

Each time a crossing is affected by the ending of a beat, and the numbers that were counting come to zero that repeats. I would study that small interval, and stand in that breech. Hold my breath as if it mattered; ask my voice to not compete. For the tearing of the curtain from the window of the eye, happens truly in the zenith between the last breath and open sky.  Between the last breath and open sky.  One more time, between the last breath and open, open sky!– 05.14.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל


“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story” – Frank Herbert

The ending comes as all ends do, with a kiss of sadness, and a question of what now, should I do?

I sat down to write before sunrise, just now a mark across the Colorado eastern sky. And I wondered about where I’d been, in the darkest night before the hour that I sat in. The pillow marked its crest upon my cheek, as if to say last night was a repeat, of something stronger than all my whims, perhaps a fathom of wonder within. The stranger beyond past doors, the darkened blonde of silhouettes shores. The lady standing with hips undraped. Her wrist with stories in marks untraced, and she turns without and within. While all the night it comes to end, and she whispers her lips at my nape, can you see me when your awake. I stumble and stutter from my bed awake, the darkness of ending, my soul in her take.

I sipped my coffee and wondered of fate, of crossings of spirits, and life we attain. I thought of the night, the pictures and weights, the balance of dreams, and what all I take. The hours of the watch, that float from my view, the mystery of stories, her body unwinds, the marks on her arms, the shapes on my mind. And though it’s now morning, another cold day, the words that she whispered, bring still life to play. For it is a phantom of light in my life, that chases my ego, and drowns it each night. I turn to the morning my coffee in hand, and see her face ending, and all things begin.

The stars of the old night they signal withdraw, and the winter’s morning comes early to call. While something of last night, a whisper retrieved, disappears quite rapidly, and hides it own need. And I wonder it’s ending, those wrist with their signs, of sorceress stories, and rhymes in her thighs. Where off has she gotten, as the sun comes to rise, what endings does she tell of, and why is it mine.

The ending comes as all ends do, with a kiss of sadness, and a question of what now, should I do? – 01-15-2018 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

By the Hours

Authors Note: I have only asked this before, once. If you start the unbelievable music below by Philip Glass, before you read, that which is sewn together by mystery and the sirens gasp. If that you start before you read “by the hours” then you too, will know, you will know!

“Every extraordinary occurrence unsettles the heads of hundreds of thousands of men for a few moments or hours or days.” – Mark Twain

By the hours when the flesh dies to knowledge, hands so carefully placed to feel, transferring faith on cold stones of remembering only good thoughts, while some are still sealed. In the dark here a boy on stone so cold, I see them move. Oh, they transfuse. In the dark, keepers are sleeping, staying quietly, air up above, angels of “El” meet phantoms of love. By the hours, when equity meets love, thought is, thinking thought is! And it meets conditions, hallelujah, alleluia, and all is thought, by the hours, as Samael moves in notes, by stanzas look around, behind you with such a spirit, does that feeling move, is it without a sound. Oh, you will see even while the day comes, the next day, with tides, decreed by G_D she moves. And the times by numbers, for you who can see, beyond me, the picture is all beyond me, for I am everything, I am nothing, by the hours, oh spirit that dwells so ingrained in all that is you, that which is strange, not by man, your eternal light unto me.

By the hours, great seconds, by the clocks man made, under nourished man, oh knowledge, you cannot fathom, where great giants do lay. A quiet space, beyond the sun’s rays, when air is suspended, upon the grave. Oh, perpetual feeling, all that, that is against nothing, the final escape. Into thy places, the dare that goes alone, and I without known beauty, into your secrets there my so long forsaken grave, that great kingdom, next to your seraphim, by the hours in their mystery I find my home. Such is this place, I have never known. A wonder still I must know.

By the hours in language, unspoken, but yet still alone, where phantoms, bestow wisdom, they give unto others, now unto me it’s finally shown. And this in life is mystery, as in death it is by angels bemoaned, that earth in her time is a beauty, as in your breath, all wonder bestowed, and by the hours there are favors, that each second this gift is grown. For G_D does not judge that which is compassion, that given, that by the hours which you do own! In life do not let it go, for in death, by the hours, you will not ever go! You will not ever go! – 07.23.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

One More Try (For Yog)

It could have started with a simple little question, a stare in a mirror to something over there, looking at reflections of a lifetime, a moving shadow asking why. The words in a tumble, it happens when we are weary, we stumble over answers, and try not to lie, we wonder if it’s worthwhile reaching for an angel giving our breath, “one more try”. I expect it happened on the morning early, after a night of supplication, oh loneliness, thy cost is high.

Teacher my teacher, it appears so cold, so empty outside, and would I be so small as to ask, that you ask me not to try. And if I ask for absolution, ask that pain not enter my heart, for not to know love is too strong a challenge for me to ever know or try. A scattering of applause, that turns into rivers, smiles and wanton stares, all the world a stage or a highway, somehow my inner rooms don’t care. For nothing is stronger than a life of illusion, voids and lowliness terrors, ever I come to try an end or resolution, still for me I’m still just scared.

Silence, such silence, the room so silent, and at last the careless whisper caused by the whisperer has gone to sleep. A different angel came, his eyes the color of many waters, his kiss not shy and when he finally spoke, he didn’t say goodbye. “Yog“, voices, so many voices, resonating across the weightless sky, could be shadows dancing, no doubt smiling, having released the hold, having found the peace. And the uptown boy has made one more try.

Know this now, there’s changes in the atoms, changes in the air that we breath. A voice is gone, it’s joining in the heavens, praying for time in release. For Yog has sailed a boat on hades waters, though that sea he went on, knew some bounds. Now that one more try has, netted him eternal, the question has been answered, a heart with many questions has found peace – 12.27.2016 –

Dusk (a·da·gio)

“It is dark, so very dark”, said Dante, “yet you fail to speak, and I would say it not impossible that what you’d have to say would not replace that disappearing light you still claim to see”.

So here we are at last, you and me, my reader and me, and it could be that as the night comes, it will be so hard to say, I see.  A darkness comes, like none before, a fortress that holds no shiny keys, and with these two feet, I walk ahead, blinder, no memory, save the elongated dusk my shattered mind, would allow to still be me.

A “Sound of Silence”, in D minor, still whatever does it mean, perhaps Paul and Art could enlighten me.  But still no difference does it make for here in the West, alone, so by myself do the dusk I see.  And if I write for the world what’s inside of me, how selfish would that be, indeed maybe I a narcissist to tell of this grief.

For their against that granite stone, that sky seeking temple of geology, weakens a sun in timidity.   And woe it says, what you have taken for belief.  This night cometh, indeed it rest here now for you with no reprieve, and you are singular, no better light, than your last memory.

“Did you come to walk with me”?  The words whispered, skyward, unaccompanied and in darkness do I breath.  Still, so still, only Dante resting cold inside me.  For now it is a rolling obscurity, that’s colder, then any wound that has ever bled me.  And it does not seem right that darkness, should belong alone, to the death of me.  For that last light, the one that loved me best, somewhere, to make eternity last, it dies with me.

“Perhaps I should go too” I hear Dante say, his words fading fast, for unlike the last light of day, I should not think that even with him inside, they will probably last.

*Authors note – Dante has been a fine muse. – 08.31.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Ad Finem (Witches)

It waits so patient, some say so strong, it’s beauty a part of the terror of a song. A melody sung to a right minor key, sometimes hummed backwards, now those novice notes wait inward in me. Oh upwards G minor, and down to B flat, and somewhere a violin, without strings, well, there’s that. And just like at Salem, a witch that knows she’s dead, all I have to say to G_D is “I’m innocent of all that”.

Outside this door. At fifty-five, bored, I’m not fond of counting, that shadow waits for more, and in disguise that shade of gray that has death on its tongue, you see it’s a little secret, darkness, has no sex. That non feeling matter, that thought has assigned, that angel or devil, that Daemon divined. That secret of carrion, no respecter that comes when your dark shadows, play with you, while you drink some cheap rum. Time when fairness leaves you and Facebook is not real. You stand just at the end, and bugger that film reel. It’s not in digital stereo, it’s sixteen millimeters, and how you deal, with all the pops and sounds of how your life is whacked.

Well enough for covers of what I thought, that tomb of Jesus still stands sought, and after all this life and dreams I have to say. G_D, would you take me with all my fears, a stranger in darkness, on ever clear, an immature old man whose old and gray. Look at these shambles I think I am, this witch of a man, whose magic can, write him a song to the master-plan of grace. For I do adore, the after lore, of shadows and play, the left hand of G_D, that Ad Finem, who takes a witch to a greater place. It surprises me some of what could be, this place of greatness, in ecstasy, why is it we think, that death is the way, our world sets in place our days. It’s something that witches adore. Ad Finem when they open that desperate door.

It waits so patient, some say so strong, it’s beauty a part of the terror of a song. A melody sung to a right minor key, sometimes hummed backwards, now those novice notes wait inward in me. Oh upwards G minor, and down to B flat, and somewhere a violin, without strings, well, there’s that. And just like at Salem, a witch that knows she’s dead, all I have to say to G_D is “I’m innocent of all that”.

A dream 05.17.2016 and you were in it! – 05.18.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

When Children Sleep (Stairs)


When children sleep, be they ninety or forty-five, a staircase descends from hereafter. And oft they go to the places where hearts sow, seeds of pictures of real that last forever. When weary eyes close, after years that come and go, and the bells do toll for what we’re after. Just a piece of morning sky, maybe slurping apple pie, while the flagship asks us to surrender. Give it all on up aw shucks, such a pleasant form of luck, to be a child again, and know such laughter. For twinkling lights oh how, they cast the night aloud, and its time oh my mate, to pull the lever. When the staircase comes, releasing one by one for fun, for the cause, for the flight, oh what a shiver. Do re me fa so led, up the scale, while wrinkles fell, to cast it all away what endeavor.

When children sleep, and take a peek before they wink, and their eyelids close, how clever. For what they see are the treats, permission oh how neat, climbing up into the rafters with no effort. And though they may be fifteen, twenty-two, or eighty-three, suddenly their slack lining through the Neverland, of their best dreamed of, neighborhood. It would not really surprise me to find that some who’ve gone, and climbed one at a time, wish that they would return to try… it one more time. For yes you see its grand, to see the secrets where angels stand, while music played you can be what you’re after.

When children sleep, requiem it sounds unique, not at all so sad or so dreary. And sometimes drums do play, to lead the parade away, and up the stairs they go, Jacobs ladder opens so, like a womb of a kind and pretty mother. Would it ever be any other way, could it be planned with a different… none will know until they go to sleep, then in surprise and what a treat…sandman says go to sleep, it’s time to know no need…

When children sleep. – 03.31.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

At 3:00 AM (On Death)

At 3:00 A.M. there’s whispers there, such secrets crawling some unseen stair, and when I awake and look outside, fully expecting to see dreads eye, and it’s not there, no it’s not there. At 3:00 A.M. I watch her sleep my sweetest angel, of love’s known keep, and sometimes not to be rude or weird I touch the small lobe of her ear. I breath with her, while rhythm’s sleep, in an unconscious keep, I whisper rare, my voice so deep, I’m going to that window there, the one with glass that often stares, I’m going to look outside and then in spirit I’m going to leap.  It’s time to fly.

At 3:00 A.M. I’ve heard it said that witches dance and Satan winks, it’s that time when sages say the whole world has gone to sleep. I would not know if this is true, I’d dare to think it might be could. Oh well, oh well, whatever comes I’m awake well before the dawn. My skin so cool to touch the glass to look upwards and see the pass, to see footprints of daemons past, those good ones too, but oh those bad. Those sprites that chase the star known charts that bring my body into the dark, at 3:00 A.M. to know such joy, of dreams that come to pass, not forward and not past. Just here, all around this shiny sphere. I don’t want to go back, no, I don’t want to go back.

At 3:00 A.M. for nights on end, it’s like a passage that never ends, my eyes outward so old and black but inward sailing my soul does last. And on to thus fairy land of dust, an original place where G-D brings us, and in the prayer at 3:00 A.M. right out of my clothes, and all of my skin, I fly to places filled with love, imagine all of this for us, a wonder land when first we jump, when no one’s looking, and there’s no fuss.

At 3:00 A.M. there’s whispers there, such secrets crawling some unseen stair, and when I awake and look outside, fully expecting to see dreads eye, and it’s not there, no it’s not there, then at 3:00 A.M. my breath will stop and I’ll learn to fly. – 0315.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל