Rachel

Rachel

I’ve paced my thoughts, well before breakfast, the day ahead gathers the tempest, the red string reminds me believe. A tug in direction, where somebody answers, her moons in sight, and it’s under Cancer, seven years seven and in the end relief. A morning arrives, without theatre, the harvest of dawn, reaches forever. Scythes or computers, she wields me in laughter, is she a trace now, or does my heart believe. From onward breaks the creature of habit, she weeps so long, and now there’s an answer, Rachel is rising, the contract enhancer, my breath in a moment feels like a dancer. I’m thankful for Rachel, she has let me in.

She knows me a shy boy, creature of habit, watching her bathe in all of strange magic, what of her eyes has led me to come in. Never alone until this pure morning, earth meets the sun, creators of stories, all of her sounds, my work will come to end, and then again. What was the time, that she cried for me, tracing my wounds, in all of her glory, all of my life, she has always been, within. Rachel is open, her womb transparent, smiling a song, her tune aspirant, is it still morning, a great day can begin. Imminent flow, I can feel oceans, tide of all life, in sunrise is growing. I’m thankful for Rachel, she has let me in.

Wonderful arms in slender beauty, into one she is my duty, where is the captive, I am no longer here, with you near. Blue into fire, of mornings together, chasing the sun into Sefirotic capture, no longer hope, but just a contracts end, with a win. Rachel the morning is simply a beauty, changed all my thoughts, no longer a should be, better when followed, then to ever lose again. Rachel is rising, the contract enhancer, my breath in a moment feels like a dancer. I’m thankful for Rachel, she has let me in. – 11.24.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Billy Yazzie and the Skinwalker

My name is Billy Yazzie, I’m retired back on the rez, it’s an anagram of living for the breathing side of dead. I live beyond Sanostee in a dry wash dried by sun, sired by four clans of a mystery, for this tale they are unsung. In my life I’ve painted pictures on the sand that holds the soul, and I’ve sung a sacred journey for the heart that goes untold. Now the greatest of my interest is the sheep I’ve hunted for, this goes back before my singing, it’s what my life was given for. There are sheep they go a missing from a thief or a wolf pack, or sometimes they are stupid, and they can’t find their way on back. So it is I get my message on the Chapter House’s door, “Billy drive on to Rock Mesa, find our sheep we’re looking for.” It has been my greatest treasure to find that bleating sack of wool, and return him to his owner, and get my bill paid in full.

So it is there is some pyrite in this turquoise of my life, and this matrix will unravel, as my fate did one night. For unto me is stated by the four peaks of my light, that as soon as this tale is related, then my spirit can leave this life. So in circles drawn around me, drawn they there to just suffice, I begin this truthful fable, from a long night of my life.

It was the fourteenth day of December, when the open sky did close, and the snow poured down like water, and our land turned so cold. I was working on a healing way, with my big brother Jim, when the east door of my hogan opened to Grandma Blackhorse’s kid. The girl her face was frozen, and her mouth could barely move, but she cried, “our sheep our missing, Grandma ask that you come soon”. The little lambs had wandered near the canyon of the sky, and her Grandma sure would pay me, if I could find them that same night. So it was I left the small child wrapped in blankets with big Jim, and I saddled up Altsoba with my journey to begin.

1967, in the twelfth month of the year, came a behemoth from the old world in the sums of all our fears. For it was upon my pony as I tread in solid white, headed west of old Sanostee toward the canyon of the sky. The snow was drifting higher, and the howling darkness came, as I stopped to check on Grandma to tell her, those sheep are on their way. In a message from my elder in our native tongue so clear, she said, “watch out for the Chindi, but bring back my lambs so dear”. Oh, I wondered about her warning, as the snow piled up so high there were times in colder weather, I had to dismount, I could not ride. With my jacket pulled up higher, and my magnum 29, I began a call of hunting for two sheep of smaller size. I called them like their mother, with a tongue of proper rise, lilting sweeter than a springtime, inviting lambs to suppertime.

Once I thought I heard a bleating, once the wind it stood stock still, near the entrance to the canyon, with the arch sky walkers built. So I urged on Altsoba, with the tapping of my heel, and the wind, became much lighter, and the snow began to still. Then I saw the lambs of Grandma, standing right before the arch, and the sky upon them bright, and the walker dead of heart. It was Chindi of a bad man, it was ghost of past in real, and between us stood two yearlings, sacrifices, breathing still. So we stood there for a moment as the sky turned yellow, red, with this crystal world before us at the dawning of the dead. Then I heard its voice in passion, crying on a dyeing wind, and he said, “This sheep of ration, is for me for why I’m sent.” For it said, “I am a savior of the dyeing and the cost, and with me they sleep in paradise, till the blessing way is lost.”

So it was before my mother, open sky upon this man that I reached for my thunder and I loosed it in my hand. For six shots that spoke between us, for six shots that kill a man, when I looked upon the archway, there the witch still did stand. In some ancient sort of journey, on some other kind of storm, spoke my Father now before me, slay this monster within form. So as the Chindi, hovered, seeking ways to kill the lambs, it was a song of beauty, that, I sang before his hand. As it was that he did waver, turning whiter than the snow, then in singing songs of judgment, round my feet a circled glowed, and in bending form of beauty did I take my iron of war, and I drew the way of blessing of the earth that I adore. In the snow there were four mountains, that surround this holy land, and between them is a people who will not give up on their lambs.

The skinwalker begged of mercy, for it was not purified, but the blessing way of mercy, in its beauty would deny. In the balance of the arches, as the circle fire would die, I saw Chindi turn to ashes, and its badness said goodbye. In my arms the lambs of Grandma’s turned to look me in the eye, for it was my hunter’s treasure, to return them from this night. Then the sky turned dark with moisture as the snow returned to fall, and I headed for Grandma’s, in the beauty of it all.

My name is Billy Yazzie, I’m retired back on the rez, it’s an anagram of living for the breathing side of dead. – 11.23.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

הכל (Everything)


In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave birth!

A fissure of water, that before time, a raw blink of heaven that follows this rhyme, and there in the canyon, a soul of some kind, that ask for your blessing, when dust blocks the shine. I’ve climbed on the ramparts of Merovingian kings, danced with a beggar who thought he a queen, sponsored addicts in circles so round, ran through the mountains where ice makes a sound. I’ve held fallen children with wounds in their minds, traversed her body with love for my mind, and oh forever, sun ever shine, it is everything, you’ve given everything….I’m born everything!

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave me birth!

Enter the dragon, who cannot shine, earth sowed with salt, a demon not kind. A rage of depression, decision within, a kinship of sinners, a cousin of din. Its bite with a vengeance, I bite it on back, a cousin of judgment that fills something lacked. A balance of needing, of wanton pure ill, all canyons have snakes now, because of his will. I’d tell you a story, you’d not believe true, until you’d sat wanting and weighed yourself through, and oh forever sun shine, it is everything, you’ve given everything….I’m born everything!

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave birth!

Sand filters water in canyons so deep, water produces a cleansing replete, and from my seed children that produce your hand, a lifetime of climbing to fulfill this plan. I’ve held on to heroes that died not so old, with burning judged weakness, their stories untold, I’ve become a servant to those who fight back, and filled all my kingdom with those who have lacked. The canyon of your love has held nothing back, its talons and healing have broken my back, and oh forever sun shine, it is everything, you’ve given everything….I’m born everything!

In the land of canyons, division of earth, there he gave me everything, there he gave birth!

For my fellow traveler and friend Momus who is seeking everything! – 11.17.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Eric Carmen – Everything


Boulder


“Your sundial will grow weary lacking shadows in this place”!

They rode in wagons, on horses, wheeling vans, smoking high, to the base of Flagstaff Mountain this Persepolis in the sky. They moved in special symmetry on a parallel, you wonder why, and under one they caravanned, with mystery in their eyes. Said Chief Niwot, with his sadness, build your temples, “your Versailles”, there is iron of mystic waiting with the Flatirons on their side. From one, repeat this antiphon, when the wind blows in the sky, on the forty creeps a Camelot, ghost of things who knows of why. What does flow here from this mountain, 30 miles from this divide, crystal liquid from cold glaciers, blinding white against the sky.


In this place of distilled beauty, they have come to worship land, from the cornerstone of all reason, logic blossoms where she can. If it not would be for gravestones rising grey upon this butte, one would wonder if this Boulder didn’t give life at its root. Here she sits when all the mountains meet the plains that mock the sea, and she anchors here in goodness, mediating wild and free. This premise rest then in mythology, where an angel stirs in its seed, sighing blessing’s in its virtue giving promise by its creed. There by on this risen city, western gateway, earth’s degree, G-D has made in you a miracle, beauty sown and guaranteed.


They have come to see the mountains, watch the bear rise on its feet, set their feet upon this meadow, walk their way down Pearl Street. They have built upon an anthem, while the snow fell down in sheets, turned the city to a people, and one soul to be complete. Fortune, has not come with weakness, nor will it ever know repeat, for there is but one Boulder, and she is the magic suite. When there is but one city, one village, left, shining still, she will be there below Flagstaff, with her people, their love of place instilled.


They rode in wagons, on horses, wheeling vans and smoking high, to the base of Flagstaff Mountain this Persepolis in the sky. – 11.12.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל