Integrity (Orlando)

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might, for integrity.

Integrity it finds a soul in not what is new or bold. Across the electrical currents of media, it’s not bound up and sold. And if you think that it is found in left or right your political goals, your deluded in your ideology stop reading go back to your soul. I ask myself a question, when I pray at night, do I say please protect me, from my enemies I think aren’t right. Or is a better prayer said, Oh HaShem you are as is, from back beyond primordial to the time of future tense. Would now as all the world swims round me everything so tense, where there is both good and bad, and there is ego spent. Will you come down to this desert, life that’s ever spent. Will you fall like reigning fire and right the spirit bent? Will now oh legend all who worships, dark and light, crescent. Arced upon the grave and life the world that we pervade. Will you in all the storms of tatters, liars, norms and depths, in deathly faces.  Will you for those who think wrong and right, stifle their mad matter, let them think with insight, in integrity.

A warrior, you said, a warrior makes right, here in hard deserts where the wind blows with right, and all around me caters to wolves and the sheep, all around me fortresses of thought and deceit. And G_d of many ancients, Adonai oh Ruach of leads, Shekinah of  my dreams, you who with your breath makes Orion and the seven stars, come so still, bring them now still.  Come unto the willing, those in pain without creed, those who here tonight, care not of ideology. Make now a potion, of your right and left, send now a matter to those with no heart left. Fill now a prayer not against enemies, take this spell higher to integrity. When this all is over, make death even less, make no one with thought, think their right or left.

It seems the nights upon us, far past what was morn, when gunshots rang out, and now the mother’s morn. And I would not be so crass to say what is left or right, but for this dark, this oh so dark, I will pray with all my might for integrity.

Psalms 25:21 – 06.13.2016 – 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

The Silversmith (1969)

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Well, good thoughts aren’t miracles, and prayers not an art, belief’s for the living, who live in the dark. In silver’s a dross that falls into waste, on a sunny September the 9th, the stripes came.  With medals shiny, and grim faces wrought, they spoke of the timing his sweet Jimmy fought.  A flag they left folded, a flag he did not want, a silversmith crying, his future blocked.

It’s all about smithing with silver and heat, a raising hammer, the fire and the glow, the night time upon him, his inner soul.  A small set of tweezers, a soldering poke, rough hands bright eyesight, a scriber in tote.  His Tripoli Polish stands worn by its wear, seen many a scratch now worn without wear.  A wind from the high bluff that whispers and moans, and moves his old Hogan without any hope, his hope his main action his time to see clear, he’s finished inscribing what name he holds dear.  A light above cloud line the mesa away, the one he saw Jimmy riding that day.  His uniform dancing, his stripes so in play, from halls of the Aztecs to an African bay.  A sigh of strong memory, that swoops and it smokes, by now it’s a Chindi gone up in black smoke.  He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

In 1950 his smithing a prayer, a gift to the blessing of harmony’s care, a child of the river his Jimmy did cry, he built the wood Hogan, under blue sky.  By the San Juan, he worked and he played, his artisan silver, he sold every day, and when he was finished his son he would take, young Jimmy Nakai, in the river they played.  You should see the log hut, the hut of belief, the one on an island, near rapids and snares.  Their poles catching rainbow and brown to share.  There by moonlight a fire, trout to taste.  Albert Nakai, would teach his boy to place, a sliver of turquoise in silver lace, a line from the heaven in shiny grace, first man and first woman in times embrace.

What ways of a nation, disrupt peaceful souls, with laws about fighting on dangerous soil, a draft for the living when eighteen does come. A silversmith a poor man, he has his one son, so Jimmy is drafted to fight the Viet Con. The silversmith working, his art and his trade, molding miracles to help his boy save. Each day he walks down to the river to see, if his islands standing with the hut of belief, the circles still open, the bad spirit released. He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

Well, good thoughts aren’t miracles, and prayers not an art, belief’s for the living, who live in the dark.  In silver’s a dross that falls into waste, on a sunny September the 9th, the stripes came.  With medals shiny, and grim faces wrought, they spoke of the timing his sweet Jimmy fought.  A flag they left folded, a flag he did not want, a silversmith crying, his future blocked.

The moon over Burnham, the dark mesa near, the river it’s calling the spirit is near.  The silversmith breathing, his tools in his hands, he wades the swift water through dark churning sand.  The moon over darkness, the hole in the land, the ring of pure silver, the tools in the sand.  The fire of belief, it rises so high, the silversmith watches his eyes have grown dry.  He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

Jimmy Nakai, died on Saturday, September 6, 1969, in Operation Idaho Canyon, in Vietnam.  His father Albert Nakai, buried his silversmith tools, and a ring he had carefully made for Jimmy in a hole on an island in the San Juan River.  Although the story is real, I have changed the names for the above piece, the island and its location along the San Juan River are also real, but the exact location unrevealed. – 03.10.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Fagan (Talking Old Soldiers)

 

(Before you begin you’re read, go to the bottom of the page and press play on the video.  Reading Fagan’s story with his song, makes for just the right atmosphere.  Fagan would like that. 😉 )

Fagan, it’s Friday, I miss all your story’s, the wheezing in pain of your oratory, the silence, the mystery, of picture’s, of dazzling past glory.  I hear your chilling effects, a gift from the dead, I can’t seem to rest until this little poem has been said! Cheapened by fables and life’s worst labels, Fagan has syndrome deficiency acquired as disease. Protease inhibitors and gin as he glances at dying, he giggles at pain as we meet. It’s bullets and weapons a lost art of killing, I’m a talking old solider do you not recognize my defeat. Old couches and lovers have brought me the kingdom a gift from the devil while I was on my knees.

“I have lived from forty-six years, this flailing of warfare has settled my thoughts, of my needs. What is a minute when time is increased though it is leased? Is heaven ready for one talking old solider, lord, Fagan’s ready, why tease me by asking me to submit one more fleece. There is not time to love one more rhyme, I’ve championed my life, with lovers and wine, but still you keep me too long in this way. My kidneys are gone, my lungs won’t last long from this day. Why am I here, when reality fears, what I say? Inflame my heartache oh breath of my life, you have given me dismay.”

Sit’s Fagan a queer man, his honor invested in acumen logic, all medical procedures with his life held in play. A talking old soldier while AIDS eats his body away. G-D loves you dear Fagan, you are his own warrior, you are his receptor, hell in its laughter will not defeat victory this way. Run when you’re over, by then you’ll be sober, and pain will be melted away. Fagan you’re larger than cannons and missiles, greater than judgment of words of small people. I see you old solider, making me better this day.

“I’m just in your nature, the sum of your labor, we’ve talked on for hours, a talking old soldier of memory. You’ve helped me through sorrow, now please ask your G-D to relieve my life of tomorrow. What sin is there, that my father brought down to me, judges me mercilessly for this travesty? I see a loss of dead hero’s, tell them I’m hurt please.  Burn my body, favor me friend, do not incinerate my memory.”

Dear Fagan, old warrior, a talking old solider, someday in endeavor, I’ll write your war story, someday you’ll be stronger, your debt owed no longer, and when you look outward some light you will ponder, a talking old soldier an epic of a warrior’s destiny.

 

Fagan passed from this life in March of 1999, from complications of AIDS. He was forty-six years old. Each Friday I would drive to his small apartment, and more likely than not he would have his belly full of gin, and we would laugh and talk through his pain. He loved to play Elton John’s “Talking Old Soldier’s” over and over again as we would talk. For him it was the story of his present life. He taught me much. I miss you my friend. Kiss the face of G-D for me this day Fagan, I have told your story at long last as promised, and someone who should, will read it. – 08.06.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

All rights Talking Old Soldiers/ John/Taupin