Thy Sound

“When I’m 70 I might be a man in a park just wandering around, speaking in tongues with kids throwing bread at me.” – Noel Fielding

Grammy say’s, the tongues come to you when they are ready, when you are ready, when you are old and want to feel young again. Grammy says the tongues are more than a noise. She says they are “thy sound”, and “thy sound” is a craft built by angels.

Thy sound comes to me inwardly, so clearly, when gladness has ruptured my lungs. Thy syllables two by two, six by six, languages unknown, a word known by an angel’s tongue. Thy word by Jerimiah, thy Candance by the Acts, thy burning eyes by the end of all time, when true life won’t come back. For it seems you aren’t a poultice, an error of the heart, no longer a spoken scripture, a destiny of sparks. No longer are you a witchcraft, a demon casting art, a fair soft-spoken stranger in an entertainment art. And neither are you and action, or a seal lost in sand a verb, or an adjective written by a new wave hand. No, thy sound is lovers lost in a passionate cry, born before the sunrise when the new dawn chases sky. Tongues that meet thy sound, where the host meets the sigh,

We meet when we are different, we kiss when we are young, we touch when there is darkness, we don’t understand the start. We say there is a spirit, we say we know no heart, how can there ever be life if indeed there’s been no spark. We say there is a good will, we believe there is a need, still for the want of a language, we know not how to proceed. So, thy sound I pray thee, let it ever start. Let thy tongues roll through us, let our voices hark. Fairer than the timbre of an overture start. Let us sound like passion, bodies naked stark, wind beneath the eagle’s wing, notes beyond a harp. Come into us a habitant, not built upon a seed, rather a creator who gives and never needs. Let thy sound be music, like that which has not been sung. Creation of a mother to her daughters and her sons.

Thy sound comes to those elderly, burning age away, breaking barriers handily, bodily notes that play. Thus, is creation in thy master plan, old ways fade away. Thy sound falling from the cold dark heavens, accompanying strings arranged. Thy sound is not in error, in this moving time, tongues that kiss in healing, for thy holy name. The music oh so sensual, the craft of air arrayed, the swirling of all spirits, thy sound awe speaks displayed. – 07.07.22 – דניאל

The Great American Gospel

“The desert surrounds your every step and you walk forever a thirsty man”. – Christopher Pike – Creatures of Forever

“Still” she says, “be still your craving heart within”!

The Great American Gospel begins somewhere just beneath my skin. Standing in the silent desert four yards from a railroad track outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, watching the full moon commit her greatest sin. For she shines as if to rival the sun, showing the contours of the barren wilderness, exposing its wanton skin. And the spirit speaks from the sand, the loneliness calls from the desperateness held from the deep dry well within. It says I am a great magnetic force, the gravity that speaks to heal your craving wound within. The first coming, before the second, the holiness of G_D, that never lets you go, even when you weep, till your soul is a dry cavern within. I am the wilderness of scars, always this great land force, with a night shadow, under these constellations, that tempts you in.

There is a rusty Hunt’s tomato sauce can that I kick. It hits a rock and makes a sound that echoes in the wide desert. A doorbell for the ghost both outside and within. Its colder than it should be outside Tucumcari, it could be that the daemons now have come to play. Like coyotes, no doubt the “Ancient of Days” has allowed them in. For they circle and they taunt, and they howl, as if to say “Eli, Eli, Ichabod” in this dry ocean, is the end. “Where do you now go, with what can you send”? And here while the night does move, the black sky parting, the light from those stars of Adonai, paint a seal upon my uplifted arms. Kissing like a lover from my neck, to my scars so deep within.

And I crave the touch, the unhiding of what or where I begin. For she is like a question that moves around me to where I cannot answer without craving she inhabit my every limb. And she is not in cities, or crowded rooms, neither does she know war or shame. It is the great American Gospel, that inhabits every pore of my skin. Standing in the silent desert four yards from a railroad track outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, I am with you, and you are a spirit fed familiar living time within. Still, oh still my craving hungry heart within. “Still” she says, “be still your craving heart within”! – 06.24.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Canyon by Night

Photo courtesy National Park Service Bryce Canyon

From we to I and back to me. I entered this canyon at night to see, what Henry David Thoreau, wrote by his hand freely. His words rang through my memory. “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see”.

Draw breath from here this spring filled life, by flowing river so wild in tide that moves from rock and drowns some too. Thin air that forces a mind of good. Take now thy fault that has grown so cold that guilty conscience of seeds so old, and throw it forward beneath this wash, let foamy waters take now it all. Come forward sky; drop now Gibbous Moon, let sounds nearby now vanish soon. Bring forth the ghost that hold my soul, let them drown knowing I gave them all. Let sin go now beneath my feet in this crazy water on to the sea. Old things made new, from what can be, arise in gladness, harmony.

Impale the blame that holds defeat, O tall slender pines these spikes of trees. That gather branches held in three’s, that root this canyon from all unseen. This eco-system overgrown holds spells of craft of old-time dreams, of spirits gone beyond our view, a sudden chill passes understood. For what is called from up above these rocky walls, echoes align, to bring this man by this cold stream, to swear to cleanse, and know the sheen. Thou shine above from that cold moon, Shekinah earth of lower womb, and cast my way into this stream, let all creation of creator sing. About me here where deer would stay, comes flowing ribbons in G_Ds own name. For night has come it is understood, I summon circles for what I would.

Draw breath from here this spring filled life; a baptized man would dry his eyes. For magic comes with what we do, in streams of old, in modern woods. To let go pain in canyons deep, to rise to G_D whom with we speak. From we to I and back to me, the womb of canyon the ark I seek. So, through a pathway over grown, I walked in June to find my home. I followed down by rocks and trees, while unseen spirits guarded me.

From we to I and back to me. I entered this canyon at night to see, what Henry David Thoreau, wrote by his hand freely. His words rang through my memory. “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see”. – 06.06.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Frost (The Third Lament)

The watch came upon me at three, the tenor of voices outside, or maybe in the vale of my sleep. I thought, I heard my daddy say, it’s frost outside, but still it’s okay. For trouble in winter is better than spring, your wrapped and you’re ready to weather most anything. It was a dream, or not, for of this I cannot say, for my daddy is dead, and I am in winter, and the frost how it grows, layer upon layer eating my soul. And these hollow hallways where I am not wrapped, my bones feel like the parchment, and my body is bled. And I was not ready, and it was the first lament.

Visions change as hearts do, and so it was a different watch upon a post night, before morning, but still winter. The landscape was white with patterns, I thought myself a child again, in New Mexico, raised upon a high plateau with nothing but frost, that devil so cold. There was nothing else to view. And the spirit of G_D came in lights, racing round my young naked form, cold, and baby blue. It seemed while I wept their raised a testimony, in a voice that sounded like the ghost of my daddy too. And while the frost filled me, I heard the specter, say Hashem has made you the head too. But I was not ready, and it was the second lament.

And the watches changed, for there was no one left before me, and the skies above became like copper, and the earth below made of white iron for the frost knew my name. The dream became me, and I the dream, and I thought of all the clothing I had lost, and what had changed. And I was ready, and it was the third lament.

The dream was morning, with the fire of the December sun burning the frost of the Colorado sky before me. And Adonai burned me, and the third lament was ever within me, a possession, changed and new.

Deuteronomy 28:13 – 12.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

A Kabbalah Story

“Everything comes from above, except our love”

She thinks that just maybe by changing her name, she’ll be something better, something better will stay. She’ll game all the games, a little bit more.  She’ll lose too much weight, until there’s no more.  When somethings less seen it’s hot her friends say, better not seen she’s hungry always. Well just the right face or just the right hair, a journey to somewhere, where someone will care. She listens to syllables to words that are said, we’ve all heard those consonants those verbs in our head. The game that she plays to pretend she’s not dead. Still all those same love tones, those ones that go by, the mere fleeting glances from empty blue skies. So upon a bare rock near Agnes Lake, the cold of the winter in sorrow she takes, one last look at heaven, the basest of skies, she cries out to Adonai, Hashem why is why?

“Everything comes from above, except our love”

Why can’t you say love you, why can’t you come down, compassion for emptiness, why can’t I be found? Why is there sweet rainbows some double in stride, but no pot of gold, why is it a lie, and where are the men you said would be my life, my daddy long gone, no husband for life. For thirty-four years upon earth I have tried, I’m barren in spirit, no more can I lie.

“Everything comes from above, except our love”

Oh silence, sweet silence, no word by and by, the frozen lake staring, the rocky crag nearby. She thinks to herself that it could be the time to fall to the weather, a dramatic goodbye. To be frozen solid, her breath seen for months, by high flying airplanes or angels or such. Why it could be that she is never found, that would be G-Ds payback, for not saying, not committing, not coming on down.

“Everything comes from above, except our love”

A pause of a second, above ice and cold, a woman’s reflection a thought does unfold. If little is given, how do you receive, if Adonai creates, what seed is belief, for light is an energy, that shows us to do, she thinks of what’s in her of what defines her mood. For love is the vessel, the harbor of life, the one thing that angels can’t maintain in rite. She see’s sudden answers from what, was once unknown, the light breaks the clouds, the wind chills to the bone. Oh silence, sweet silence, it ends now her day, she knows such a love for she gives it away, to Hashem, the light, the Ancient of Days, a beautiful ending to a once cloudy day. – 12.17.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

*Everything Comes from Above – Seth Breitman

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

Water (A Seers Rhapsody)

A tale underground in a spring you can’t see, a beginning of mystery that calls Galilee, in deep, call’s out deep and the waters recede, in liquid is born a soft stirring sea, a blanket of oceans, a rhapsody. Salt cries the Seer, that binds the wound, I can’t hold much longer, when there is no moon, but hush, whispers secrets that ride on a tide, the wetness is healing, it considers you a bride.

Elisheva she baptizes me, like Schechinah glory, a rite when all is brown, and autumn woos the wounded that would seek a crown. There when no direction would look but down, in pouring water, crystal sheen, so cold with leaves, there mountain spring you set no levees. A sound that cracks wide, a blue lit sky, horizon soaked, what destiny when angels cry.

Here stand I now in drops of dew, as though a tree planted beside this water, and though I view a mighty spring, what fall I see, but still this shallow shall grow deep in due season. This spirit it shall not fall here by Elisheva, and wherever this fount will flow will prosper.

A Seer now in autumn brown, a rhapsody on near this frozen ground. A liquid clear, my hart pants so near this water, this high water.

My soul does fall in awkward rhythm before your falls of mercy. Your mist does rise this lake unbinds and turning finds what eyes were blind can see. This tree unmoved has brought the truth relieved. Deep to deep this high place sea, Elisheva is an altar top, a mood of sanctity. A water found, a Seer’s rhapsody.

It waits you there in places known, where broken hearts can find a home, in places secret, niches found, sisters of water, scriptures of sound. What mourners seeking have lost their strife, found frozen destiny from drops of life, when like a Seer who found a lake, and turned his mind into his fate, and there in water a motion stilled, a question answered without a thrill. A rhapsody on Elisheva’s shores, a sound heard giving, a noise no more.

Isabelle (Elisheva) lake resides high in the Indian Peaks Wilderness near Nederland, Colorado. It is there that a Seer took liberties with Psalms 1 and 42 and in his pain found a rhapsody! – 09.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

A Prodigal Contention (We Are All Cain Now)


Someday you will find that what I surrendered was more than I own.  Dog days left to remember mythical illness, a stranger to home.  In delusion I watered your lifeline, discussing corruption a battered believer, looking to sleep.  You sought me when stars were turned backwards, when devils turned angels when souls tried to eat.  You test me like charcoal in water, purification, a mark I don’t see.  A defect of gracious relation, a crumb on the water is all I beseech.

Beginning a fog of creation, that renders deferment in balance of need.  A whirlwind of dedication, with fake visions of passion, in curses of weeds.  In mornings full of your glory you cover me, but still I can’t breathe.  This future starts in your darkness, setting high treasures that I’ll never reach.  A candle held by a madman, a gift of compassion that lights up when I weep.  I see now no preparation, a prodigal contention, a psalm of relief.

A grave now seeks strange attention, craves my deliverance, and knows of my bones.  Wild voices echo in caverns, bloodline of holiness where black ghost do roam.  I wish now the rest of a warrior, my fighting is over, and my armor is torn.  I have interest of solving indifference that killed my own darkness who danced in your reign.  I’ve raced now cursed by forever in blessed assurance marked by Cain.  You now know all my footsteps formed in behavior conceived in blame.

A rain now, falls on forever, a kiss of your wisdom, in static estate.  A place of delicate satin, reality fashions a robe of fine tone.  My baseline is given your rapture a place of redemption a shadow in hiding no longer known.  You hold me in silence a photograph etched in your goodness, placed in your home.  Belief in gone is forever, a lie of false prophets, fortification of security unknown.  I rest now this prodigal contention, a mark of my own.

Even as Cain was marked he held the mark of YHWH, and within that protection he was given the right of return.  It is within our birthright – Daniel Swearingen 01/25/2014