Radiance (May 7,2016)

A foggy cold, cloud filled morn, Isaiah said you would know, no scorn. For like the rays that fall from up above, my daughter. You are radiant with love.

Last Saturday morning, I wrote a song in your soul, just like I did twenty-one years ago when you cried on all I know. And you swept the vision of fatherhood against the image I had been told, and made my depression go away, with your radiance you turned me whole. I read in Isaiah that spirit will take control, and burn away the images of thought that takes its toll. Well if I was to be a better man, a father that gave more than a damn, I’d open up my memory, tell you ides of all the shadows I’ve retrained, inform you of the mystery of the light that fills your plan.

For you are like a shooting star, that was born in tomorrow, a siren screaming, I can’t wait no more. And from my past I tell you true, for once my seed was just me too, but now it fills the footprint in your plan. And I saw it on Saturday morn, a young woman so adorned, a high honor, a radiance. A better reason I fought and planned, and you too will feel judgments hand, but you’ll fly, where I ran. In radiance, far away, across these Colorado skies. Radiance it’s in life plan.

Last Saturday morning, Shekinah flowed through the day, and all the sense of prophecy, I had predicted through the years you see, all the dreams that fell and died in me stood to play. You stood there like a light filled star, still a headache away from last night’s bar. Just an Achilles weakness that’s gone today. And forward to the titles held, all Cum Laude honors, an earthquake felt. I turn and look your smiling, you take the day, in rays, the clouds just float on by and away.

A foggy cold, cloud filled morn, Isaiah said you would know, no scorn. For like the rays that fall from up above, my daughter. You are radiant with love.

For my daughter Kaitlyn, who graduated Cum Laude from the University of Colorado Boulder last Saturday, you are (Isaiah 60:5) radiant. – 05.11.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Ides of Parts

This time he’s breaking, while the moon turns its back and the days grow longer, his retain is cracking, a riddle is becoming harder to take, his mind its delicacy is becoming the ides of parts. Revelry broken, tangled weeds, a mind tattered, rocks in fine sand, there in fashion he falls, there alone he recedes before the raw darkness, before the emptiness of a beautiful mind. This time there’s a hopeless lonely dark spark, a soul with carved cuts in the shape of isolation. What silence beholds this dark eyed grace, held by daemons in haunting screams my heart, he falls in the ides of parts?

In seconds, moments of jagged pain, cold realities of fragile dreams are released. Words, diagnosis, prognosis of logic sifting and coming forth like dead Greek winds on the oaths of Hippocratic knowledge. Tablets to stop the rain, to paste together false band aides on the ides of parts. On his knees, his silver Magen David hanging wet with damaged cries. A misunderstanding between his creator, his Hashem, his builder and he. The long night wears on, he conceives, he breaks and still he shines in this strange dance, this bloodless war born in the mind of my son. Here, he alone, he within me, and yet so far from where I can stand, his to crawl into the ides of parts.

Like a waterfall that crystalizes and is born into quartz his mind finds sheen, and in division and ritual it creeps. The echoes of his screams will not die, they hang delicate in the night air unmoved by his father’s prayers. It is the Ides of Parts. All is well I suppose. In tragedy all kingdoms are given. What is broken is unyielding and it is like Ryan’s love, great and unfolded, he gleams like a dominion. He is like an enchantment billowing his story untold, and even in this mindless place of dialogue between logic and pain, he shines. Like the glow of those mysteries written upon runes that no mortal eye can see, he lives, suffering, gleaming in the ides of parts.


For (the reason) my son Ryan whom I love very much. – דָּנִיֵּאל


Pale Blue (Benediction)

My dad died again Sunday morning, around 12:32 in the morning or so. I don’t keep up with the exact time, but suffice it to say, this time like all the rest provided its own special memory. The man had blue eyes, pale blue eyes that separated emotional waters and brought a stillness in place of anger and disbelief. Pale blue eyes that revealed no hero, just a sanctuary for his son when he was weak. So again he sealed his eyes, without breathing or fury, no longer man, just a spirit, no power, no words, the breach to pass, no longer a great divide.

That was what was different this time when dad closed his eyes, I saw him say goodbye. This time for the fourteenth time he simply let me go, with a gentle sigh. Amazing really for a man who was not afraid to die, to hold on to me like that. I think I’ll have to go back, over and over again. May be I’ll have to watch his pale blue eyes close fourteen times in my mind. I’ll look at the story to see if it fragments, when the essence leaves the iris, when the wind changes direction, and in benediction my ever changing sorrow is released.

There should be more words, a book of memorandum, but that would not be truthful, that would bring false stature to what true love is. My dad had love that sits in abandoned days and waits in patience for empty years to realize their mistakes. Pale blue a color recognized only by the best of artist when the time has come to put the finishing touches on their landscape of a greater place. In benediction he showed me a way to walk through the storm, and although I have read this, it surprises me to know my dad lived it, for no power can hold one who does not look for an escape.

Pale blue, a benediction, after so many years and not seeing his face. A wonderful gift he has left me, simple not so full of religion and creed, not based in shamanistic technology. Just eye sight, passed down in death so many times, at last I am finally realizing what his memory has completed, and I will not look to escape from time. I will love the moment for what it has done.


Jack M. Swearingen died on April 20, 2000, he was my dad. – דָּנִיֵּאל – 04/22/2014

The Rite


Tonight while the weather’s cold, forget your own body, beholden your soul.  In thrilling moments while change draws near, smile with your last breath, cancel your fears.  Author your foothold on a sheltered claim, challenge, your spirit, determine your pain.

Know in the morning you’re a better man, for owning your birthright and blessing the plan.  Terrible thunder, an omen, a sign, comes now the lightning before we dine.  Treasure the stories from far and near, how the Hebrews held Masada and died in their tears.  How legends tell purpose emboldened by flame the shadows tell stories the lessons the same.

The chalice of forgiveness it comes not in blood, but strength of your wisdom, wealth of your love.  A warrior be willing, a sovereignty you will give, to build your own kingdom, and watch people live.  Your blade is still forging in mystical time, a tool of G_D’s temple, your melody to find.

I bow in your shadow of wisdom you seek, I raise you a builder, the star of the key.  What I was watching, a child at strange play, a builder of esoteric temples, a sorcerer has come to craft the way.  The fortunes of people you hewn from your stone, a temple to YHWH, a gathering home.

We sleep in the forest and wait the dawn, the seal of the starlight, I awake and you are gone.  I dreamed we were together, I warred with strong words, like David before me I sinned against earth.  Your delicate nature I found in the grove, a gathering of angels, in spirits and stones.  You prayed for sweet wisdom, your face how it shown, your destiny living in one alone.

The face of your childhood while vanished stills lives.  Incomparable knowledge born from this man, a branch of forever, scratched in your hand.  In shadows of pine trees we sang where we lay, the rite of your magic is born in this way. – דָּנִיֵּאל 02/24/2014

A Little Bit of Gas


One Saturday we set out looking for a great adventure.  Grand breezes blew in from the bay, and we motored along without a care in the world.  Your fine blonde hair drifted in a Mohawk fashion from your mature baby scalp, and when you giggled it wrestled with itself in indecision from one way to another.  The humidity had conquered your dad, as it was always prone to do, but not you, for in your sparkling blue eyes shown defiance that no climate could ever conquer.  Our destination lacked direction and like Christopher Robin and the Pooh gang we were looking to drive into the greatest of a story.  Mom was at work and we were at play, a quest leading us on a forever after.

We took the bluffs for the shoreline, and across a great bridge we traveled, me cooing you in song and laughter, and I knew that we would always be friends, father, and daughter challenging destination, and disobeying great thoughts of discipline.  It frightened me that day, but only for a moment.  You see even now I see you and I touch the wrinkles in my forehead and realize conventional thought is too easy for us; we create genius in the moment and run into the lightening even though perhaps we should not.  The road less traveled is something made for great venture.

As you grew somber and sleepy after our trip across the bay, I looked over at you trying hard to find a reason not to whimper or cry.  It was hard for me to understand how a little girl could so quickly shift moods, and it created some tension if only for a brief moment between us.  I realized back then as I realize today that I was quick to shift my mood as well.  We mirror each other like shadows in great weather you and I.  It seems you might have let out a little cry, and I rushed to find a bottle, driving with one hand frantically waving my hand over into the backseat to find the always prepared baby bag and all its goodies.  I discovered it was missing.  Your Dad had left it at the apartment.

Your intuition followed my panic quickly.  What had started as a day of motoring in sunshine and song quickly escalated to howls of complaint.  You cried some too.  The weather changed its pattern on us as if we were leading the heavens.  It began to rain, and as is typical along the Florida coast a great torrential downpour began.  The rain, the thunder your screams and no bottle, led me to a place of misery very quickly, and not thinking that it was beholden of me to be a great role model at that moment I began to cry.

We drove on in the rain you and I, crying and sobbing watching our inability to communicate with one another lead us down a tissue less highway of despair.  In desperation I pulled the car over into the parking lot of a McDonalds hoping to wait the torrential downpour out, and find some way to sooth both of our tortured spirits.  As we sat there me sniffling you howling to make sure your complaint had validity, I had an idea.  McDonalds had recently come out with their apple pies, and although your little stomach was one that took colic seriously, I knew that desperate times called for desperate measures.

I drove through the drive through quickly having to shout out my order over the din of the storm and you’re dirge.  I remember to this day the look the kid in the drive through gave me when we pulled through.  I’m sure he went home that night and gave his old man a big fat hug of appreciation.

Sitting in the rain in front of McDonalds I squished the hot apples from the pie into little bites and let you suck them off my fingers.  It was like magic.  Your face turned as pure as an angel, your sobs turned to the sounds of digestion.  In relief I relaxed and sat back in my seat leaning my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes in thankfulness, and then it happened:  I farted.  Not a mild little church mouse fart mind you.  No, it was a bombastic this won World War two fart.  It rattled the windows of the car.

For a moment we both just sat there.  Baby girl and Dad.  There were just no words.  Then you giggled, and giggled some more.  I looked over at your little cherub face with squished McDonald’s Apple pie all over your lips and saw you were guffawing.  You were laughing so hard you had little snot bubbles coming out of your nose, and you were pointing your little chubby fingers at me, and then I got it.  You wanted me to make the funny blast again.  That’s when I started laughing.  I laughed so hard I had snot bubbles coming out of my nose.  We sat there our worlds together again laughing, and watching the rain stop.

So many times through the years I have thought of that day that you and I took a drive.  We are alike you and I.  Our worlds get complex and we forget how to communicate with each other, and it seems like the rain that falls all around us is going to drown us.  I believe there’s an McDonald’s everywhere we go however, and there might be gray in this hair now squirt but I bet I can find it somewhere in me to bridge this communication gap with a little bit of gas. – Daniel Swearingen 01/25/2014