Cellar Door


Cellar door, are you open to find me, Iron ore shields remorse.
When I look, I look to your beautiful name. – Skylar Grey

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you curious without expectation, be you thrilled to be alive, explore the thin veil of the spirit, not the dry bones where they have died. Take your many steps through a tunnel, to see the other side. Know that every dark dream has an ending that ends in the sweet by and by.”

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you not afraid of cellar doors, or what the traits they hide. Many a good man has found that door protection from the tornadoes outside. Be you not of single mindedness of any issue in your life; remember every problem known to us has always had two sides. Be you not for revolutionaries, the one who rebels against the tide. Know that every rebel of the soul is a tyrant who rules his heart with pride.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he led me through a dreamscape world, my fever roaring inside. His large hands moving as he walked down the concrete steps to a cellar door with words inscribed. How I wished I could move closer, how I wished for better light, but alas this dream led mystery, without a clue or special rite. I knew right then that every virus; every blight I knew inside could stand to show me something, even in my darkest night.

Said by my Pappy,

“Be you quicker than your adversary, that devil that comes in light; know that he is part of a commandment to judge you when the day is night. Be you an ever witness to the shadows, the tricks of light, know that Mephistopheles is your left fists action while the good Lord form’s your right. In truth, there are many questions that go beyond this door. Do your best to obtain no answers until you know what the questions are for.”

Said by my Pappy,

As he turned and bent a little bit, his overalls so blue and wide, I thought him but dead just a while ago, but here he seems so much alive. In a dream that held too much fever, at least I could see inside, but still I could not read the inscription on the cellar door, standing before my pappy’s side.

I was nineteen, when I first dreamed of Pappy and the cellar door. Through the years, I have had the same dream many times. The symbols, philosophy and spiritual mysticism and eschatological character of the dream, have never been meaningful to me. To know what is beyond the iron ore door is not necessary to me. However, there is an ever-burning desire to know what is inscribed upon that cellar door. – 06.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

On Sleeping (1971)


“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” – Edgar Allan Poe

“Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions.” – Stevie Nicks

The full moon swings on a wireless swing and comes to rest above my sleeping shoulder. I move as if a little too much to block its shine by pulling at my cover. “So near to summer” whispers, whisper, “come outside let’s plan an escape and count the stars by number”. Shadows move, twist, and shake, with tenderness they pull me from my slumber. “All the worlds an open stage”, sings one stray spirit to another. So how I moved I did not know, hand to mouth, a secret I stowed, and off in light bequeathed Altair’s glow. Let some dream of dancing, some devise lofty plans. Set their scope of dreaming on obtaining all they can. Faith deems I set my nighttime hours on Neverland, and fly away.

Now here I go again, I see the Crystal visions“, unlike what Stevie sings, I cannot keep my visions to myself. For there are ladders here, a way to heavens chair, a better view to share what was seen was all about. On here, a summer’s stage, with an equinox to display, the spirits hop and dart about. And back in inertia deep, a graying man he sleeps, the covers from his shoulders creep. The air in golden gloom, a hand held out just like a spoon, a breath of unseen consequence, sends out a playful spray.

For I see a window open, of the places undescribed, a familiar looking better me of what I will to try. For though I lay a sleeping somethings changing inside, and then I slip away, on sleeping it’s the only way outside.

The boy stands at the edge of the river and he cleanses all away. It looks like the Jordan, but it is the San Juan in disarray. He gazes at the sky, and counts every star by number in its place. For he means, every promise with words he will never say. And when he assails the bluffs of the mesa for a second, he will stop and stay. For the entire world is his alone, the summer present and the one he still owns. No dark valley where the winds still roam. The boy is a me, as I have never known. A full moon falls in a single ray. Nineteen Seventy-one at night is on display. Let some dream of dancing, some devise lofty plans. Set their scope of dreaming on obtaining all they can. Faith deems I set my nighttime hours on Neverland, and fly away. – 06.14.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Endings


“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

The Apostles


The apostles came when the night was weighty and black, their long shadows filling the window, no breath to see, for they are dead I believe.  It’s two or three AM.  My love’s comfortable, the furnace is working, after all its January. It’s at times like these I wish I had Dante back, earthbound sprite living in and out of me, now I’m thinking he’s a part of that apostle pack. Its egregious I think, looking though the darkness, hearing them scratch the window panes, they should come inside with their riddles, and their claims. I move to the hallway, almost stumbling down the basement stairs.  There’s an anecdote in that.  Maybe I’ll tell you it someday.  You my friends, need to know what’s down there.  It’s so late, I whisper to maybe only you who would be like me.  I’ve lived too long, and it’s too late to be seeing ghost, at a quarter odd three. The dining room seems longer, a never-ending stall.  A shuffling of my feet, my usefulness to these host, it appears a never ceasing call. The sliding glass door, that opens to the cold, outside across the heavens, the Gothic clouds.  I see creatures, without wings, smiling they fall.

For one strange moment, I think I hear so clear, Maureen McGovern sing, “The Morning After” is near. Not for me, I think, the apostles in feverish spin, their faces or spirits, so close, they touch my skin. The darkness has come, all hail the darkness, my insides cry, nothing you can say to me, my apostles, my spirit wants to die. Though I suppose I would rather not freeze, funny how that happens when your depressed, you want to go with ease. I bend down, the patio has snow, and it reflects my breath, I look up to hear my dad say, “your far from dead”.

Thurman a Reverend, from years all sewn up. I look up at him and smile, “I’m a Hebrew now, so different from when you offered the communion cup”. “Doesn’t matter” he says, “I’m now one too, things are a little different beyond, I’m a Levite, it’s what I do”. My Pappy is laughing, he yells, “it’s good to be back”, I start to hear that damn Chihuahua, yapping. The spirit of my grandfather woke it from its late-night nap. The lonely figure, the one standing at the back, it’s my friend Jason, he’s looking me up and down, a sign of disapproval, “there’s something he says, something wondrous you lack”.

Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet“, I turn and look at the moon, the blue-eyed moon, that place from where Dante speaks. It’s his voice, teasing, and cold. “What does he mean”, I yell at the apostles? I have aggrieved the before said Chihuahua, it’s tenor, reaching a falsetto high. The apostles laugh, as in some course, these phantoms, how dare they ruin my depression in the middle of its strongest sigh. “Your life it needs you, take from it and be fed”, my dad backs up, nearly tripping over his own father, if it’s possible for ghost to do such. “I’m drinking too much”, I spit the words out looking first at Pappy than at Thurm. “Drink less”, whisper’s Jason, having come up behind me. “The righteous one eats to satisfy his soul“, it’s the muse Dante again. He’s fading though I notice that. In fact, they all are, they come to visit, now it seems there going back. “Don’t go”, I’m begging now, and it does seem one of them is coming back, but it’s only Dante, no doubt coming for one last tease.

He lands close, squatting on top of the snow-covered fire pit. He reaches out and feels my breath that’s misting towards his face. “I wish I could still breath”, he sounds tender, an accomplishment for him. “What do you want Dante”, I ask, I signal toward the sky, “what do any of you want”? He points toward the snow, that part I thought undisturbed, and I see the honeycomb lying there. “Eat and speak Torah and live“, he laughs. And just as he disappears along with the honeycomb, I think I hear him say,

“listen to Rachmaninoff – Piano Concerto Number Two, it’s a great way to work off a funk, and it’s the apostles favorite”! – 01.18.2017 – דָּנִאֵל


A Psalm of Haunting


*”Before the mountains were summoned, or the Ancient of Days had formed this earth, that even from everlasting to everlasting, even before you were formed, that tissue that breathes in the womb, even before your eyes were the color of dark amber, I knew you, and I made a psalm of haunting inside of you, for I am G_D”

A spirit wraps scenes, builds a life around me, takes me to the mountain than whispers see. It could be music, life upon a stanza, still the answer never wants to come to me. Shadows in living puzzles, wonder without breathing, haunting of the light, that knows not sun, nor does it freeze. It can’t be wonder, grace so unexpected, for it seems the expected has been told to me. Would it take me, cause me to see visions, know the place of G_D, the place of one? Can I touch it, psalm of the haunting, lyrical adventure beyond free? Syllables of lonely, well beyond the sunset, changes in the language, a different key. Face to face with tragic, joyful noise and magic, take the ghost of many, and fill my voided sea. And then I will know, what places I should go, inside, not as I would dare project, not introspection of the elect, just a haunting inside of me.

A love that pauses, in a sea of marvel, human oh I’m human, that seems all that’s wrong with me. Are there angels, tell me whirling spirit, are there daemons, that would do as I see? Are there verbs known, predicates of worship, points of the Magen that I haven’t seen? Can I touch it, psalm of the haunting, was it there in Meeker Meadow when a November moon placed hope beyond me? Dialects of wisdom, silence oh how silent, what forms of my knowledge how it fails me, now my Adonai, when you say simply, almost gently, turn around, and see the haunting. See!

A psalm of haunting, better than a knowledge of the tree of evil, or of life what that may be. In the stars around me, six points or whose counting, love of the light, that place of swimming in a timeless sea. Language of children, simple without asking. What is found is placed solely in front of what we always see. And it haunts us so, but in truth when were not told, that’s the space of time, a psalm of haunting makes us free. – 01.14.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

*Psalms 90:2, Jeremiah 5:1, Psalms 10:1

Sanostee (Ordinary World) 1973


Lately I’ve been dreaming of strange autumn days, a car, with my parents inside. Missions of the heart, and Jesus in the way, the sand on the rez its painted, painted art. There upon a desert corridor in flame, the Hogan stands empty and still, surrounded by a painting, of memory that’s stained, a course of my life not of my will. Daddy preaches goodness, while time it whiles away, fry bread and the smell of mutton still. Mom, she plays an accordion, that brings strange notes, so shrill, “No Dark Valley” changes nothing still. I reach for water it’s not there, the sky a winter’s gray, a bastion where I find my childhood’s real. Sanostee brings memories of life that death can’t kill, it’s not just an ordinary world, well G-D says it’s an ordinary world.

Still, so still a Thursday, a late Autumns day, Dad and Mum, they take gifts to help make things okay. Navajo, their hungry, and spirits must be fed, the spirits only willing, look how Jesus bled. The storms they move asunder, the sky looks purple black, I leave the Hogan looking, for some sheep can’t be led. I hear the sounds of angels, the psalms of ancient deep, moving I a young boy walking with the feel of ancient feet. Somewhere in the distance is the sound that mourns, the desert comes together it is the perfect storm. And I know there are missions that just can’t be reached, a lonely spirit crying, a wilderness out of reach. I turn blue takes the highland, the fire from below, a flame in the desert, a dream I will keep. Sanostee brings memories of life that death can’t kill, it’s not just an ordinary world, well G-D says it’s an ordinary world.

Sometimes I am lonely, sometimes I am sad, thinking of all others, and things I haven’t had, but then the dream before me, the one that mocks the past. My childhood in the desert, the best I ever had. It’s still just a Thursday, a strange autumn day, my missionary parents keeping daemons at bay. A trip out to Sanostee, a Thanksgiving noon, a storm out of the wasteland, bringing birth, out of a wound, a young boys wound. I reach for water it’s not there, the sky a winter’s gray, a bastion where I find my childhood’s real. Sanostee brings memories of life that death can’t kill, it’s not just an ordinary world, well G-D says it’s an ordinary world.

My parents were Wesleyan Methodist missionaries in the early to mid- nineteen seventies, serving the Navajo Indian reservation in Northwest New Mexico. Often they would travel to a place south of Shiprock, New Mexico, to hold services. While they served, I wandered, running through the desert washes, and climbing mesa’s that touched the sky. One November around Thanksgiving I believe, I saw a late autumn storm, that I have never forgotten. I dream about it still. I think we live in no ordinary world, although my faith tells me different. What is seen is ordinary, that not seen, not so much. I think what I saw that November day in 1973 was the unordinary made ordinary, and it was beautiful. – 11.27.2015 –  דָּנִיֵּאל

Salome (A Perspective)

I took a deep ride on a tape of myth, the one that weaves my dreams. Thought it was better to write it all down, and hopefully see what it means. Come, won’t you travel this three o’clock hour, and delve in a keep by the sea, flashing tan lights that go back in time, sepia, green light and she. Hollow, and cold stones, kinetic inside, perhaps a retreat from belief, but something whispers she’s just up ahead, her movement on just 40 degrees. Hewn rock for climbing a palace of past, steps to the throne of a queen, open silk curtains, my hand being led, hoping soon something I’ll see.

Shekels made in pain for Salome, in this place of shade, she can dance, and she can mate. Your name means peace, a better place, your thoughts on G-D are not misplaced, could there be deception in your fame. The first shot true from a dead god true, term they you, a prophet’s blame.  I see you dance through the air, through the lace. You’re the thought in this dreamers case, moving physics in between, and it seems, Salome, these times veil your face, my Salome. Trouble is a misplaced story gamed. You have for the centuries earned your place, and still, it seems you call out from your ghost, tell me how they lie when they split the host. Is that why you called me in your grace, standing smooth and lithe in fulcrum space. You of all the Hebrew queens, spinning, gleaming of others schemes, and still your eyes show a sad disgrace, oh Salome.

What a tale of mystery come undone. Herodias finds you dancing by someone, in the pool through ice you fall, your head detached, a legend falls, but still the stories go through time unchanged. You’re still to blame.

Welcome live morning from a dream, look deep in my eyes and tell me what it means. Whispered words that do remain, am I beguiled by histories seams, those legends, deceptions by fallen queens, or have, I reached a niche of time delayed, sweet Salome.

I took a deep ride on a tape of myth, the one that weaves my dreams. – 01.31.2015 דָּנִיֵּאל