poetry

Snow Canyon (Hallelujah)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 83 Comments


Giving thanks is that: making the canyon of pain into a megaphone to proclaim the ultimate goodness of G_d when Satan and all the world would sneer at us to recant. – Ann Voscamp

I have been incarnated for such a long time, from my birth before the beginning of all time. I never knew how powerful I was, I never realized. To be humble, has in its way its own pride. At last I come to a great winter canyon which does not give a shelter in its great snow filled side. Elijah, Elijah your blessed mantle that won’t let me hide. I am risen well before I ever thought to die, here in Snow Canyon the walls so tall they can’t contain all tides. Hallelujah! A shadow for the new year, a blight I can’t associate with from this wind-swept floor, a daemon I will not call forth. For legion calls only that from the human side, and I am destined here in snow canyon to breech the great divide. I have been waiting here from this egg my entire life, and I say hallelujah.

What is a haven, when it pushes you outside, closes in its doors and lets you try? What is a mercy that lets somebody hide, not a compassion, but covering in a life? In snow canyon you make me realize, I have earned my real lines, on my face they ride, a greater glory in this new, new time. The soul is cleaner when your shame is rhymed to hallelujah. Though snow is judgment, falling through this air, though points are moving, it’s not in time I care. My only freedom is not bound by any air. A little secret, a little find, a great big canyon, without a sign. I’ll give it to you, as the new year shines. It’s hallelujah, its hallelujah.

There was an old world some would have most find, its filled with memories both good and bad, all kinds. It keeps the freedom of those it’s keep they find. A darkness backwards, an entry most can’t unwind. I tell you memories, must be bound and tied. Here in this canyon is the presence of current time. No clocks or seconds, just Infinium of what’s right. In hallelujah, in hallelujah.

I have been incarnated, I travel through all time, I have seen me born, and I’ve wondered if I died. Still now no matter in this canyon here, with snow clearing, the coming of a new year. The stars above me the way is higher and clear. For hallelujah. It’s hallelujah.

Happy New Year!

For Susan, Ryan & Kaitlyn – 12.31.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

December

/ Daniel Swearingen / 61 Comments


“O Lord thou broughtest up my soul from the nether-world. Thou didst keep me alive, that I should not go down to the pit.” – Psalm 30:4

I remember that moment in December.

The Christmas tree stands before me in the darkness looking like a totem in a dress. It watches over me, and the gifts below it with a calm steady attendance. The house around me is quiet, the coming exhilaration putting an end to the present anticipation some three hours to the future. Though it is that magic soon comes my way, I am filled with a great and terrible dread. A worrisome moment, I would venture to say a bothersome familiar. It has always been that way. It seems at that moment it always will be. I am thirteen years old, and I am sore afraid.

You wake me in darkness, the dream still fresh. You cast yourself a web encircling, a motion picture to remember. You kiss me your lips icy cold, but always tender. Your fingers trace my earlobes, beckoning, leading me to enter. Through the frozen windowpane, the one in frost that bares my name. Not a king or poor man me, just a child flying into December. For not alone would here I be, the stars above, not shrunken, by this belief. In divinization you mirror, from all around me. Greatness tall in leave less trees, broken shadows upon the patches of crusty snow near my feet. Angels, that bless this prayerful peace, justified in grace. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I saw a child in a chair he sat, through a dark glass looking at all he saw pass. It seemed a strange moment of familiarity, like a lifetime of poses, that strike a similarity. In a question I posed in a deep, deep dream. What did that boy want to see, and was he really, really me? Where he stayed his eyes open, full of amber shine, there were thoughts and doubts, were those eyes really mine? All around that boy that was surely me, was a contemplative notion of what the world could be. It was filled with worry and a massive tragedy. Still he sat there all alone by a Christmas tree, and he moved not from December.

You lead me in a great darkness, that truthfully is at times hard to grasp. This little bit of life has been a hell of a task. I would be remiss if I were not to say, that this night between you and me. This touch, this sensitive intimacy, was needed before December. Standing here in this sacred place, my own back yard a sanctuary. The world spinning a celestial sea, the silence, the great divide closing, there is no seam. For here it seems, you would have me be, no longer going back and forth through eternity. Not a frightened child through a darkened glass, looking in terror at all that would pass. The opposite of the great tragedy, that I have always seen. Lord my Lord, you heal me in divinity, Lord my lord you choose December.

I remember this moment in December. – 12.24.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

First Christmas

/ Daniel Swearingen


“Expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles”. – Edwin Louis Cole

I cannot shake the feeling of familiarity, even though each time you come around I feel new. A loving heart filled with specific clarity, of the special kind of person that I have in you. I would strike a deal of my eternal security; run the judgment gantlet a time or two. If G_D in all her wisdom and her mercy, would let me walk through a winter snow with you. The lore of love is all around us, between life’s mountains what a view. The universe in snow in Colorado, the quaking Aspen below a sky that is blue. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes, the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

There are many who would say that it was unspoken, signs between spirits not above. A deal made by a minion who knew better? A course of instigation of not what was. For all the times we thought we were not special, for all the dread our twosome stumbled through. In all of this pain and degradation, we were hibernating, waiting in a winter wonderland to become new. In a prayer, that we have no words for, in a language uttered from the stars above. Who’s to know but us what we are given, ties that bind that make us thus. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just.

For we have not died alone, but together, while moving parts have changed above. The snow around us is a carol, sung immortal in our love. We alone have sampled heartache, as such in life our deeds have some. For how we remained as faire together, for how our destiny was done. One hand raised unto the heavens, the other tied within our love. Now we see the door opened, not a shadow do we bare, and what was once is now forgiven. As ghost and angels, hold our future in such a cold thin air. Within us both strikes a hallow, a white warmth from light’s guiding lair. We rise as one together, no need for ties that bind. The mighty storm of life that has blown at us. The change that comes the change that must. The first Christmas I really see you, the first we bind to make it just. – 12.20.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For Susan.

 

Betsalel (Shadow Man)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 75 Comments


“Look in his eyes and see your reflection, look to the stars and see his eyes, He’ll show you tomorrow, he’ll show you the sorrows, of what you did today”. – David Bowie

It is December now; all should be quiet both inside and out, and all is as should be except for the shadow man. Except for the shadow man.

He rides above the sky line in the desert of my mind, he follows me through pages I have written my entire life. He kisses lips that kiss me, and whispers “now that’s divine”. He intuits bodies as they unwind by four by sixteen time. In December he moves within me, while the snow it falls outside. It could be he is a cancer, a daemon born of rite, somehow twisting memory flowing through each time, each tide of night. But all and all he is shadow, inner backwards facing light. Summoned through time he’s history, moving rhyme through inner flight. Oh, to know his mystery, to have or have not his sight. The lovely trails he would lead me, with witness he would be me, for all the worlds above my whims, the sins beneath me, still shadow man’s inside my wound, brilliant by what he sees.

He rode me to a forest, when I was but thirteen, he showed me holes in tree trunks, where time was set to breath. For it was there in winter time, when shorn were all the leaves, the shadow man was lurking beneath his dark, dark wings. I wondered was he always inward for outward he seemed to be, and with his white teeth gleaming, he said, “look into me”. And it was that I was just a boy, unfamiliar with holding keys, the rejoinders to so many questions that the shadow man put in me. For time itself is reflection of the answers that we seek, and I myself upon this journey know there is a shadow that harbors me. Oh, to hold this white bird, a symbol of a lawful brief. This that defines the shadow man, in the deepest part of me, for all the worlds above my whims, the sins beneath me, still shadow man’s inside my wound, brilliant by what he sees.

He flew me to the present, a force inside decreed, I cried myself tears of oceans, still I was just me. An effervesce of beautiful, beside a celestial king, that was what the shadow man told me, it was all a part of me. For if there was no tomorrow come, no holes in no more trees. What I have seen would have been enough to satisfy my need. This shadow man is all I have, the reflection that is me. Ghost or spirit of a muse it occupies the we. For all the worlds above my whims, the sins beneath me, still shadow man’s inside my wound, brilliant by what he sees.

Daddy you were right about the shadow man. I think at last I understand. – 12.07.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

Ave Angeles

/ Daniel Swearingen / 82 Comments


Salvador Dali – Angels

“O’ what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!” – William Shakespeare

I watched them fly in early morning. Stern faces all, diamond like eyes reflecting a pinpoint brightness of eschatology. They pointed themselves toward the eastern horizon, daemons and angels, muses and monsters of mythology. I opened my curtain ever wider, and saw they were burning stars, blazing before the dawn. Reflecting the vitality of beginning and ending. The holiness of G_D’s names. And I wished to fly with them above November.

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a sweet day in November, with the sky an eye of blue, an occasional sun drop. Bouncing off my points of view. Woke myself to sweet surrender, of the purpose designed a new. From this vantage on this altar, laying naked before you. Cut all feelings from the shadows, those that are human accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You are the author of my adventure, between the lines of light and hue. In the numbers of error, you found me, and led me through a timeless wound. Said you, “there is higher than you are reaching”. Said you, “Loose your thoughts and I’ll show you, you”. Said you, “Care for me and care for no other, for I am jealous for all you do.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Such a force of Citrine lightning, a picture painting of gothic rhyme. All though it is written I am a little lower than the angels, still above them I would fly. Bring myself before her presence in a question and a cry. Risen in the morning, with frost above my eyes. Tear myself from self-deception, that which lies accrued. Raised my shaggy head upwards. Screamed I am made from you. You have formed me like no other, cut my soul from roughen hew. Lifted me up from this dead garden, fallen Eden, no longer new. Said you, “unto you the choice is given, nothing hidden from your plain view.” Said you, “love me, and love no other, for between us life is consumed.” Said you, “I am breath and, I am numbers, time and mystery, ever new.”

Said you, “born you were unto November, rise above it, it can’t hold you”. “Rise above it, it can’t hold you.”

Above the Scorpius, beyond all air, below frozen water, all November’s share. In staring upwards, I stare no more, for I hear the summons, it is a silent roar. Your final gesture that defines my core. Said you, “born of the morning from when all comes, and innate by my word relative to all sums.”

We fly in early morning. We fly in the morning. We fly in the morning! – 11.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

When We Travel

/ Daniel Swearingen / 75 Comments


“G_D moves in a mysterious way, and rides upon the storm.” – Jeremy Riddle

“People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” – Albert Einstein

“Who were you talking with out there in the dark with it storming like this?” My dad ask me as I enter the downstairs door. He is standing there in his red stripped pajamas trying to look grim. “Just talking to myself”, I say back to dad, lowering my eyes, although the truth shines in them. Dad just shakes his head, and then looks back at me with a slight glint in his eye as if he has thought of a wonderful magic trick. “Don’t make a habit of it”, he says, it might be the only person who will listen to you the rest of your life”.

An inch between you and me in blood and essence, by G_D set free. For you are young without line nor gray, not sure in shimmer of what to say. To stand or kneel, to watch or pray in metaphysics the numbers they play. The Dog Star climbs in lovely breeze, it passes Shiprock in this desert sea. Be still thy mouth oh child that is me at twelve to thirteen the sights you will see. In faire of something of times to come, in many years to know this sum. This night the storm that rides thy way, it carries adventure in G_Ds worst way. In such I travel, I travel far, a future present by translucent stars. Time has been mine now to pass through them, those thorny angels that raise their din.

For stand you here, and stand me too. No air or seals between you and me. This night of nights, will pass us through. This night of night will pass us through.

There stands a target, a myth ahead, perhaps its true some ghosts have said. That do you good on what is right, and some time when, from here right now to way back then. I do it now I know not how, my person sent, that spark of passion will ride the wind. To see it happen to come around, there might be sometimes it might abound. For I have seen it through all these years what was born this moment, is someday clear. For as you kneel child, me to you, the sum of thunder runs us through. In your life certain, not straight ahead, you will live it full from what now you are fed.

For stand you here, and stand me too. No air or seals between you and me. This night of nights, will pass us through. This night of night will pass us through.

Two still shadows one young, one old. The kid looks nervous, the man too bold. Antares glowing with red guiding light, the future starts this night. The peaks in the distance lead to off somewhere, a journey so bold that I would, I could share. To take this inner child who wants to dare, and fly into the sky. The storm it cometh upon us soon, righting our way until we are left with no room. The unknown behind us, with the mystery still to bloom. How the thunder booms, and how the thunder booms.

For stand you here, and stand me too. No air or seals between you and me. This night of nights, will pass us through. This night of night will pass us through.

An inch between you and me in blood and essence, by G_D set free. – 09.23.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Iiná Joe

/ Daniel Swearingen / 62 Comments

“In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn. All I want for you to do is take my body home. Well, well, well, so I can die easy.” – Led Zeppelin

“Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall).” – Gerard McMahon

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe comes around, just as the August, sun has lost its crown, and it sets itself in message, in an altered degree, sending signs of mourning for all to see. And it spills out red across the sky, sending farewell tears to a million sighs. “That’s what makes me cry”, Iiná says to me, standing just my height, dressed in the color of her grief. It is a visit of timing it is a look without a word. As if in the world of symbols, we are the witness to the earth. Iiná Joe says, “I heard it, the song you said you’d play”. I say, “You mean “In My Time of Dying“, is that the meaning you wanted relayed”. She nods her head in the affirmative, and then we both look away, just a disc jockey and newly minted widow at the end of a funeral day. Standing in the foyer at KWYK, all the world is moving with us as actors on its stage.

Iiná Joe says, “The darkness falls upon us as it fell upon my man, as he drank his way from Gallup, into the desert and the sand.” “When they found him out near Sanostee with the cuts upon his face, he’d been sitting in his pickup truck for forty nights and forty days.” It grew very quiet between us as we thought about her words, the quiet that conveys meaning from our words to other worlds. Like the transmitters nearby us, cooling from their five thousand-wattage heat. We wandered through Iiná’s pain filled loss, looking for comfort to keep. And as a boy of seventeen with all my wishes draught unpaid. I was humbled by my friend’s sharing of the greatness of her loss, and the grieve it built and made.

Iiná Joe walks around, the darkened radio studio looking at me, with her eyes filled with amber tears, a reflection of a man she no longer see’s. “Will you play the song again”, she asks. “I think I’ll wait outside, the night is coming quickly, and the chindi is nearby.” “I would not have my man’s blackness upon you, as you do for me what’s kind.”

“This one goes out to Iiná Joe”, I say as I release the cued needle to play its art. “My Navajo big little sister lost a lot today”, I say letting my voice override the magic of the first chords of finality. “From “Physical Graffiti”, I say, “Led Zeppelin, “In My Time of Dying“, I say. “Cry little sister”, I say.

Iiná Joe went her way a few days ago. She passed into the darkness after the August sun had gone down, forty-one years to the day; she visited a seventeen-year-old disc jockey to make a special request. That seventeen-year-old disc jockey pictured above thanks her for the honor, those many years ago and wishes her G_D speed ahead. There is no more to cry for little sister. – 09.03.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל