January (Psalm for a New World)

Dead bough now weighted with white birth from skyward downward, round its girth. Gray shadows long and quickly gone, as ice embeds her prickly song. In January, season without end that goes full nights and never ends, for that is when the heart does hide and regroup tender where health resides. This word of light beneath our skin, hides its angel from deaths sin, in January time, those cloves of cold that seek and hunt the middle road, and just like sages told distant past, ready your newness while still dead. The light of coals no debtor feeds, for you have paid them while you sleep, in January now, you feel the heat, while worlds around you cannot sleep. In time you rest beneath the snow, you will arise a better soul, and then your target true at last, in spring and warmth fight invaders back. A new world coming, surrendered deep, within the earth, there it keeps, in January!

Now fallen Seraphim from the sky that sweeps the tundra, their pain filled cries, and icy talons from winters grasp, look for the slave that’s in their path. They howl of deaths inviting tears, frozen it seems like every year, in January, now, all festive past they look for gifts to meet their masters task. So bend your hearts beneath their roots, and choose your battles for after you’re new, hold your bough beneath the cold, your song for a new world will still be told, but not in January!

You need not prophets to hold you dear, or love’s pure wisdom to bring you cheer, just wait and hide your own design, for in spring’s future it births divine. In January, hold and bend cold clear, and wait with patience to hear all’s clear. – 01.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל



The wind was absent, that burnt frozen January day.  Destiny forgotten like dusk when it happens forever in a lifetime the sun sets this way.  Life in a balance with weight to its own, left wanting as darkness displays.  No Savior, empty burdens, while I whisper inward anger turns to helpless stone.  Grace you fly, star born against a waxen sky, and in your smile there is day ending, thunder calling.  For the want of forgiveness you fall, and you are empty for such a long while.

Dusk this way for two thousand years.  Turning calendars spinning like wiccans at play.  You take all seasons, time familiar and register it as your own.  Tension, displacement, strange blood rimmed crowns upon your messiah.  Your king is lost while on his way.  Irrational faith twisted logic while irreverent children play.  Like Mattathias torn from the high place, you seek the dusk of all time, and praise the assembly you deride.  Familiars cry from places of deep, leviathans wait in frozen caverns, all watch while you pray, and they grow weary.

In interest of lines one bound to another, seals and points in planning direction.  Motion and stars, cycles turned to seasons, while syllables relay.  Word, simple thought,  likely felt, auditory to the cortex, ratcheting off the cerebral pumping vibration to the larynx, unspeakable, intangible turned spinning worlds and thought, idea upon fusion, wild angels free, the seal made the pact unbroken.  Direction shifting, summoned like the cedar of Lebanon, his left hand of judgment will leave its place.

In age that ties us, the day has not set, for we have watched while pirates preyed.  Sorrow, has seduced us, stolen most in our wanderings the destiny of resurrection.  That frost, that gate most frozen has opened on a clay filled sea, and creation that makes us intuitively immortal has seized us free.  Eden resurrected, tame Seer by a G-d that releases his wanderer who holds a key.  Resurrection by grief!

Dance inside me while geysers spray from their shelters in the ground.  Jerusalem has bewitched the sunlight outside this broken hearts gate.  Resurrected while my father smiles and what you have not is forgotten in the caverns of some forgotten dead.  Light filled tent by this forgiven sea, what was frozen at dusk has risen fire and ice in me.  The wind was absent, that burnt frozen January day.

Torah allegorical Psalm has always been my calling.  I realize the more that I lose myself in metaphorical magic, that I will never build the temple of YHWH, that is my son’s destiny, but I will summon the spells that will weave his seal, and becoming the man after my Lord’s heart in my chants and prose is what resurrects me! – DS 01/03/2014