Horsetooth (04.20.2000)


For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

There was a shudder felt last night, around the windows the wind so light. Came an apprehensive sort of feeling when things aren’t right. Said one spirit to the next, can we fly inward at 6:00 take his soul, no one is watching, they’ll just think he went. Though one might think that this is done, that a gentle man died under sun, that’s not true, that’s not the way he went on through. For according to us on site, his family that watched that night, from all of us at 12:31 came a different view.

I’d like to say that he was my captain, I’d like to say he was a tougher sort of man, all I know is that the veil was opened for what he knew. They came sweeping without conscience, apocalyptic celebration, to perform G_Ds choice of view.

So it was around the appointed time, the skies did open where a star refused to shine, for it was a pathway for wings of ancient blue. And they flew enamored with him, knowing his vestige was with them true, came they through the passage of the rocks they knew. For Horsetooth opened to them, gave them rock burns on their lack of foreskins, brought them down to escort a gentle fellow through.

And we watched him sail away of angels, through that portal new, Horsetooth split Precambrian waiting for these angels to come through. Of angels, without cause of death or torture, he lived life no one knew, and it could be such a gentleman reached G_D without a clue, for she liked him for his spirit that harbored love only Jack knew.

For when my daddy went it was of angels, through the great divide that’s bent, over Horsetooth rock, they sailed and no one knew. For it was with G-Ds own energy, that he went a child within his glee, and he passed his spirit laughing from our view.

My Dad passed away on April 20, 2000 at 12:31. When he left, it was of angels, trees scraping the side of house with complaint, and the wind rolled down from Horsetooth rock, and simply took his spirit away. – 04.20.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Secret

“Tell me a secret”? Her head bobs, blonde hair, splashing covering her left blue eye as she rolls toward me. Her right eye glistens, curiosity, yet searching looking for approval. “You should tell me one”, I blurt out, well aware she holds the power here. “Yeah, you should tell me one”, I’m not sure but I think my hazel eyes are clashing with her one transparent eye. We stare each other down for a moment, the leaves casting wayward shadows all around us, then she shakes her head, her hair flopping backwards revealing the full glory of her face, and she smiles. “Maybe some other day”, she says, “maybe somewhere else”.

I think the world has stopped in a space and time, and an echo moves from the past of rhyme, I think she comes to me, by moons and charts to spill her secrets spill them in the dark. Through a time well planned, through a glass that shatters ever wanting, come her body ever vaulting, to a place our childhood planned. A grace our eyes past scanned. Who are we to say, what takes place today, who are we to say what takes place in play. Have I told you that I loved you as the stars go by, circulating effervescence in this lazy sky. For, forever, for a long time you will be only mine, it’s the secret of my boyhood mind. It’s the secret of my boyhood mind.

Change it happens, as our face draws lines, difference applies when pain in life arrives, there or forward when a rule goes by, test inordinate of a test life supplies. Oh my friend I fly into the sky, your bird of understanding, days gone by. So now my speed increases with what the past supplies. I am falling faster, and you recognize. Secrets open from my boyhood den, mixed with thunder, of what could have been. There you see him by that tree you love, laying staring not understanding love. I have stepped through tasted rime so sweet, somewhere else has called to bring our time complete. Tell me of the secret you possess, tasting magic of my hearts unrest. Place your words of one or two and then repeat. For my boyhood I will find some rest, in my conscience my disturbance will be suppressed. Tell me secrets of what you have known, I’ll turn my hazel eyes and let you go home. Let you go home.

We stare each other down for a moment, the leaves casting wayward shadows all around us, then she shakes her head, her hair flopping backwards revealing the full glory of her face, and she smiles. “Maybe some other day”, she says, “maybe somewhere else”. – 05.26.2015 דָּנִיֵּאל


Dewey and Agnes

Dewey and Agnes, reach Opus Magnus, through grass, before the sun alights, his smile warm, and her spirit hotter. All of it before them, year after year, minute after minute, her dancing naked under moon light, while the wind blew, the fires came, and in his heart Judea sang. Dewey and Agnes upon Purim, young and new, silver and old.  Blushing children like in an Andy Hardy  movie, scripting perfect stories while the rains came, the snows plunged, and he made his way homeward to her inward heat. Dewey and Agnes in the ward, in the cafeteria, watching a child die, touching elbows, the great thumb wars, playing music, upon each other like wild children often do.

Dewey and Agnes bathing….

Dewey and Agnes touching fingers at the Synagogue….

Dewey and Agnes staring at the same white square upon the chess board!

Thistles and groves, all that life throws, who can believe in two when one fights each foe!

Dewey and Agnes, while the clock ticks, counting each breath and knowing each moment rich. Every dollar, every comfort, bought between them, while the world turns, great religion’s turn to dust, while they make love, under candles, tasting Shabbat while deity shyly watches, and then turns in blessing to build their home. Dewey and Agnes buying a Pontiac, driving a Ford, listening to Van Halen rock the cradle down, their hearts feeling the same as when Pat Boone crooned their hearts away. Dewey and Agnes in Egypt, living Passover, avoiding the angel, almost missing the dark seraph.

Dewey and Agnes bathing….

Dewey and Agnes touching fingers at the Synagogue….

Dewey and Agnes staring at the same white square upon the chess board!

Thistles and groves, all that life throws, who can believe in two when one fights each foe!

Dewey touching the grass, Agnes touching the air, both moving, score by score, year after year, queen to d4…. Check please under heaven not checkmate. The stone so grey, still warm from her touch, Agnes turns, as a woman who knows a king, and walks silently alone into the day. – 12.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Martin Begotto


The question he answers with tears in his eyes, how long is she living, what way she will die. The bed by the window still covered by sun, makes Martin, Begotto, see her so young. A bride by a portal of death drawing near, the silence of waiting, the emptiness of fear. For fifty-six years a wife by his side, he turns his back to her, she dies with goodbye. In softness of twilight, that glistens death’s gloom, he searches his pockets and pulls forth a spoon. With ashes he sprinkles and sighs with content, Martin is grieving his sacrifice spent.

Wait, Martin a question as dark fills your eyes, so much has happened and still you won’t cry? For Martin, Begotto, you seem not surprised that death is your healer, your pain now denied, and what of those ashes that fell from a spoon, what gift is your secret, that covered this room? Your loved one just passed us, your sweet Sherry wife, why do you not wallow in angry wet cries?

Martin, his grimace, a pale zippered moon, a worm in elixir, its breath now consumed. Martin an old man, who fought in a war, who lost half his sons in ways he deplores, why one of them died with strange fire in his blood, another was murdered a stabbing well done. Martin Begotto a man with a spoon, ashes of recall poured in a room.

The ashes of letters burned in the dark, from years of division, when love was so hard, his life in Korea, while she held the home, come back my sweet bunny, I feel so alone. The boys miss their daddy, they watch the war news, they walk in your snow boots, and play your old blues. The records have been scratched, I hope you don’t mind, I love you dear Martin, our laughs and our times. He’s burned all the letters of medical creed the ones spelling death with their boys deceased. He’s grabbed the deep spoon that held lintel and rice to spoon memories ashes, where Sherry abides.

Martin Begotto turns and he blinks, his life with his Sherry is now done complete, whatever he wanted has given receipt, an answer to life, that never repeats. This life is now over, the part in this room, his Sherry is glowing, she’s met her new groom. – 07.20.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Red Clover (Pappy’s Psalm)

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Pappy said closure comes rolling in clover, its red healing power relieves heat from a wound. Never you listen to crazy physicians when earth’s medicine lies at your feet. Danny my Danny the Front Range in clover is calling from Denver, toward Boulder so sweet. Thin air, red clover, infections are over, elixir of angels for free. Have you seen, taken, lost, sought or abandoned on high country highways or streets, what children are hungry or dirty for laundry when our fields are blessed and complete. The tide of depression it cleansed dirt and sand land, and taught us the use of our hands. History be given the reign which we lived in has brought a great soothing relief.

My grandfather’s eyes, like spirits in skies danced, as he further would speak. In thirty four, I could take it no more, so I fell on my knees on this land. I reached to the sky it was blue open wide and I called down the force of G-D’s hand. From clover, he answered with red to fight cancer, a tea for the living, rich nitrogen for sand. Medicinal healing, a tea, while you’re dealing with bread that you’re kneading, with red clover honey, the manna of land. It’s pure of the nature like soul’s lacking danger, a common occurrence the better to stand. We learn from another on how they seek cover, for me Danny boy, I rather just stand.

In Pappy was clover, no gloss or switch over, the pure tide of nature, the root of a man. His kisses of wisdom, the plants of his kingdom, red clover his savior, in love did he stand. He smiles and I see him, right through him, I need him, the prophet receding, in glorious perfume. My Pappy his clover its seeds never closer, a lesson for living has finally bloomed. – 07.09.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Drift


Image – Reincarnation by Scott Frederick

I think of time, of where it went, not loss or purpose, just what was spent. I lived through portals of some lost sleep, of inclement eons that fall from reach. The drift before, me of wing and sand, the psalm within key, the ring or band. I bend my spirit to reach before, to cancel images from yesterday’s door. In time and circles we always meet, unfinished caverns where deserts meet. Do you not see me, have you not heard, the day before we met on earth. Silk revolution, in sapphire eyes, a stranger beneath these alien skies. I am in search of sparks of light, I’m near the end now, and I will not die. Tell all before me, that tend to drift, the love of someone, helps you to live.

The drift it happens, beyond the breath, it searches meaning in what you meant. It takes your notice of what you think, drowns your meaning in what it keeps. The drift is tragic if you have lied, takes all your past, you are denied. For in the dreams of what you bought, you must have given to those distraught. We dodge like warriors to defeat the end, to find like sinners there is no sin. We die and go before the drift, to circle forward, to begin again. Tell all behind me, before they drift, the love of someone, helps you to live.

I was not king or royal of men, before it happened before the drift. In truth I know not what I was, I needed someone to teach me love. In time it happened I passed beyond, took sparks before me, and touched the dawn. I fell a century, maybe two more, revolved in circles right through this door. What time or lesson, I have brought forth, Hashem’s energy that binds my core, it sends me forward to find the drift, to take within me a better gift. Do tell this legend, before you go, the lost, found journey that all will know, tell all around you, that will now drift, the love of someone, helps you to live. – 06.18.2014 –
דָּנִיֵּאל

Summer wishes (The Boy That Stretched the Sunshine)

Would you place my head, against your liquid sunshine, run and taste the song that sounds just like the wind? Would you take me higher then pines below the boulders, sail in ages fashioned for me as a kid. Would you take the beat of my simple heart learning, cost before life’s pleasures, you lose before you win. Interwoven strings that weave a simple magic, lyrical spells in footsteps that sigh where you’ve been. This is brew worth drinking in signs and pints of sixes, this is Pi of kisses a mellow happy end. Reach into the mystic, follow all the markers, round and round the ashes now swallow and blend. Burn now ancient circle, invest now your senses, blow now yellow pollen and bless your find. Have you run the meadow, dreamed in darkened caverns, have you placed the sticks that mark a strange moon? Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

There are canyon graveyards, underneath a river, a bent tree on a mountain that tasted G_D’s moon. Invested in the starlight, a fallen kind of firefly, an ice cream worth a kingdom, the opposite of doom. Have you touched a young girl, felt her lips like candy, entered, asked her to dance at summer’s high noon? Did you build an engine that raced down lanes of harvest, drank a bitter whiskey, and whistled dangerous tunes? What is glory given, if not for boys of summer, when the time is over, it’s over too soon? Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

Circled on the highway, crystal in its stillness, strangeness of a summer, that swallowed our youth. There where candles bleeding, clubhouse of believing, an oath that saw us grow up, and conquer our youth. How I wished we’d savored blessed summer wishes, rain and golden fishes, that followed our hooks. Naked is this old man’s blessed summer’s wishes, the boy that stretched the sunshine has entered the room.

I wanted to replicate in a brief poem the total sensory of my boyhood summers – jeez it was a great time דָּנִיֵּאל – 05.29.2014

 

1959


How are you there, dear neighbor, why Mr. Carter I’m doing fine, did you try that new ice cream down at the five and dime? Did you see that Ms. Pickens no longer sings at church, she fell and broke her ankle, stepping off that dang ole curb? In the morning, I’ll drive her where it is, she needs to go, I know she’s frail, and lonely, and she needs our help so. Hello Mayor Phillips, I heard your cars broke down, can I give you a ride, to the business side of town. It’s the best a soul can offer in 1959, shelter me from the carnage coming down this timeline.

It could be Dr. Mike’s a rich man, I don’t care, and I don’t ask, when we can’t pay him, he still does his task. The city park needs cleaning, nobody need get upset, the boys they got together, and in no time mowed the grass. There’s a place by the river where I take my favorite girl, at times she lets me kiss her, and I feel my heart unfurl. When we decide to marry, and I promise her my life, there won’t be no one other, for this ever, she will be my wife. It could be rain is coming, in a time where devils speak but now I’m just living and my soul is real at peace.

Sharon Keeley’s theatre runs the best show for a dime, each night before she shuts down she looks at Heston one more time. She knows a dream before she sees it but it’s life just the same, the actor makes her feel like she walks in star like grace. The children of a small town walk to and fro from school, never thinking of a stranger who might want to break life’s rules. Officer Rumford is a good friend, who plays his best when the summers hot, when the church league is shy a player they just know they can call that cop. There’s a ship that’s taking water on this ocean up ahead, but for now were treading water, it’s not too high and not too bad.

At nine o’clock we just get sleepy, and we think our stars it’s late, and we drink a glass of orange juice, Aunt Louise eats some cake. In the nighttime not a nightmare, from the mayor to a child, as we enter sleep filled union with a balance and a smile. It’s a sliver of an era built on time that will not last, a year of 1959, and soon it will pass. Can you see it in a time machine built static in these words, built special in a town of rhyme, before danger strolled the earth. It’s the best a soul can offer in 1959, shelter me from the carnage coming down this timeline. – 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

Better Living (Life in Totah)


I will take you there, where the three rivers meet, where something really special built a spirit in me. In the Totah of the valley I was built with creed, my apostles were the blue sky, and the sand at my feet. My birthright was the mesa that was soaked by sun, my terrors torn asunder when the day was done. The fashion of the plain way, and the spoken tongue, the right and left of promise, deeds of praise unsung, the sheltered light of caring, forgotten cost of sharing while I was young.

A chamber not so hidden still resides in me, a place I stood my childhood still in memory. A blanket full of wisdom, not found in norm, a hand that wears the turquoise, no culture lost by storm. Sometimes when an earthquake shakes my home, I bring back better living, life in Totah there I roam. The best that I can offer in my private belief, came to me in boyhood near a Pinon tree. In the seed was Manna that fed my soul, there in by the San Juan I took control.

Now I’m growing older, and my hair is gray, I need to search three rivers where my secrets lay. Something in the water, could be stone or sand, something in the people, and the heart of the land. Sheltered by remission, where this road does lay, I will find permission where the ghost do play. Come famed muddy waters cutting channels deep, I will live in Totah while my soul does sleep. Therein lies my wisdom from where I used to play, growing better living in the Totah way. This immortal minder gifts a better day. I will take you there, where the three rivers meet, where something really special built a spirit in me.

Kind memories of the plateau’s valley’s and rivers of my childhood near Farmington, Kirtland and Fruitland New Mexico reminds my ageing soul that the cost and victories I retained in this special place as a child instilled in me better living for life. My foundation was life in Totah! דָּנִיֵּאל 03/22/2014