The Call to Prayer

“If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” – Meister Eckhart

Heed me, need me, call me please me, oh holy.

The call to prayer is my writing. A story not based in my pride. A part of me of which I am revealing, for which in fact, I know not how or know why. It is like a question that was raised to me this morning, as I saw the Colorado Mountains that reached to the sky. The words they came from compassion born from inside me, “If they glorify me above their stature, can you do not the same in word and in rhyme”.

The call to prayer rest inside me. In a place battered by hell. Deep in the valley of spirit and bone, a link to the divine that lives to tell. The story of letters and numbers, of seals and mystical grails. Sometimes uttered as sounds and music, sometimes screams and wails. It is true I have been not a temple, a prophet, or seer of worlds. Still when I pray something happens, the shadows inside me unfurl. Orbital echoes of summoning, that form beyond a divide, that whose names goes unspoken, becomes one with my creature inside. A feeling of fullness eternal, what is cannot be denied, for G_D as she most perpetual, has made me sane while the world goes crazy outside. To pray to bless my creator, the coals of her mercy inside, hallowed be thy creation, your footprint of breath carries my life. Your footprint of breath carries my life.

So here, I am a part of a missive, a call to prayer, let me praise, let me praise. The seals holding the eternal bond within me break when I open to pray. This a part of my union, between she and my life day to day. The call to prayer from the start of the cosmos, on to on goes it on to each day. How does it help to sustain me in the here and the now of this day? The answer is found in a mystery, a word from the ancient of days. “Know me to know you intensely; I am, so you are each day, spoken and born so intimately, am I not worthy of praise. Am I not worthy of praise?”

The call to prayer is my writing. A story not based in my pride. A part of me of which I am revealing, for which in fact, I know not how or know why. It is like a question that was raised to me this morning, as I saw the Colorado Mountains that reached to the sky. The words they came from compassion born from inside me, “If they glorify me above their stature, can you do not the same in word and in rhyme”.

Heed me, need me, call me please me, oh holy. – דָנִיֵּאל – 05.05.2021

A Psalm of Haunting

*”Before the mountains were summoned, or the Ancient of Days had formed this earth, that even from everlasting to everlasting, even before you were formed, that tissue that breathes in the womb, even before your eyes were the color of dark amber, I knew you, and I made a psalm of haunting inside of you, for I am G_D”

A spirit wraps scenes, builds a life around me, takes me to the mountain than whispers see. It could be music, life upon a stanza, still the answer never wants to come to me. Shadows in living puzzles, wonder without breathing, haunting of the light, that knows not sun, nor does it freeze. It can’t be wonder, grace so unexpected, for it seems the expected has been told to me. Would it take me, cause me to see visions, know the place of G_D, the place of one? Can I touch it, psalm of the haunting, lyrical adventure beyond free? Syllables of lonely, well beyond the sunset, changes in the language, a different key. Face to face with tragic, joyful noise and magic, take the ghost of many, and fill my voided sea. And then I will know, what places I should go, inside, not as I would dare project, not introspection of the elect, just a haunting inside of me.

A love that pauses, in a sea of marvel, human oh I’m human, that seems all that’s wrong with me. Are there angels, tell me whirling spirit, are there daemons, that would do as I see? Are there verbs known, predicates of worship, points of the Magen that I haven’t seen? Can I touch it, psalm of the haunting, was it there in Meeker Meadow when a November moon placed hope beyond me? Dialects of wisdom, silence oh how silent, what forms of my knowledge how it fails me, now my Adonai, when you say simply, almost gently, turn around, and see the haunting. See!

A psalm of haunting, better than a knowledge of the tree of evil, or of life what that may be. In the stars around me, six points or whose counting, love of the light, that place of swimming in a timeless sea. Language of children, simple without asking. What is found is placed solely in front of what we always see. And it haunts us so, but in truth when were not told, that’s the space of time, a psalm of haunting makes us free. – 01.14.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

*Psalms 90:2, Jeremiah 5:1, Psalms 10:1

Children of Color (Stillness)


We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”.


He prays by the garden and see’s ghost go by, and rarely does he wonder if what he knows is right, and it could be it’s an ego coming from a little child, but careful, careful doubter, it could be he reads your mind. Could it be he knows your secret of the times you hate this life. Of the time you committed blasphemy with your body in the night. So it is nobody calls you different, but this child knows your insides, and even though you lie in words, you can’t meet a human eye. It’s a little bit of faith in craft of neurons that don’t meet, but better faith in something known, than men of cloth are prone to teach. Oh he rises ever higher when he watches angles fly, and he claims he once saw Ezra measure walls that reach the sky. Oh it could be he’s autistic, or it could be he’s not real, may be doubter of this noun and verb, you’re the one, who can’t let your soul with G_D meet.


Numbers, numbers, choreographed from the start of time to now, geographic petrography, to the stars of breath sublime. Schizophrenic as diagnosis from a man who hates his mom, mental health done by neurotics from a psychopathic bomb. So it comes now from a child who counts in numbers six by odd, data to the ones and zeros, dreams of summer though there not. Is it faith or insanity when he learns to tie his shoes, for the whole world has ignored him, while he reaches for the truth.


We live now in a world of difference from elitist to the poor, where a leader of a people has an IQ of a decimal .04, and while people watch him with such awe, a child sits, in the dark, turning light switches on in Bangladesh, with a synapse from his core. Know you now these days are numbered, when one and one will not mean two, when apocalyptic waves of chaos will be broken by order new. For these children of the color, those that are now of the age, they will break this social order, bring an end to all disordered rage. Call it faith or insanity, time that has no end, for the world has turned in sorrow, and this G_D will have no more. For it is he sends his brilliant children, special lights to change his song, bring a world that’s hung in darkness know it’s love for which he longs. While a tree sits there in Eden waiting for its final end, a child takes the final bite of knowledge, and turns his thoughts within.


We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”. (Stillness) – 04.13.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Seeth is a place in mountain woods, when I was hungry I came and I stood, and there did I stand to see your face, and there did you beckon and glow. There did you seeth. A branch not a cup that came in place, and grafted my heart, I was afraid. For G-D claims his own in dignity, there is no need to run or flee, and when you reach higher than you can breathe, he makes your life larger, and gives you reprieve. And he seeth, oh he seeth.

I thought myself farther along that trail, in near a cave where a daemon dwelled. And it looked like a mirror a way of my youth, it reminded me of all that I took. I thought I must cut him out by the root, kill him and leave him there ever forsook. It was a surprise that G-D lifted me, and gave me the sight the eyes of dignity, and he said for at that moment it was he, that cave is part of your home, when you understand that, you won’t be alone oh always looking, at that moment you’ll be free. For seeth that which is you sometimes is wrong, sometimes it takes that, and mends your bone, and here in these woods come forward and see your way is my way in dignity.

So in those woods I climbed a tree, and reached for authority from heights, I sold myself to see, and then I was falling, the ground it came fast, oh speed from heaven like when Azrael my brother of old went past. I thought myself lost, just like him, groaning and lost, bound by a fawning my loud gratuitous thought. But then my arms reached for dignity, that clear decision that was born in me, from holy to holy, from sky to sea, flying above domain of wood and tree. From the midwife of spirit of mountain seed, I birthed my way forward beyond the trees and seeth rose into creativity, beyond all time to a frozen sea. Adonai, Adonai, are you here, in this blanket of freeze, do you hold several keys that will help me believe. In it all I am cold, and it’s so hard for me, said a rhyme from his lips, where’s your dignity. You are one in the wood, where light falls through trees, unified with your fear in a cave, where your heart thought deceit, climbed you high reached below, fell you fast; till you flew in your dignity. Now you stand on the edge of a vast cavernous sea, frozen here in my time for your great inner need.

Melt me, take rime from me, seeth me now in dignity, seeth me now in dignity. For I am a spirit, sometimes lost from thee, and my heart, it craves, like all that seeth, beyond and between to know you in my dignity.

Seeth is a place in mountain woods, when I was hungry I came and stood.

For it is not as man seeth: for man looketh on the outward appearance, but Adonai looks upon the heart. 1 Samuel 16:7 -04.07.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל 

Leon (Clear Water)

It’s a guess of what we are, better friends strewn from some star, and my guess is we see through a scene. Johnathon or David, placed in earth’s ring, and we climb looking for a Haiku’s end, though to find, life’s not clear, Dante’s rhyme, words straight on though this life full of sin. Raise the forest from their din, world of wonder for us friends. Though we pray our hearts are strong enough, round the world, will life be enough, we will find when all comes to a close, your eyes grey, and mine might be closed. There will be water flowing through, all our worlds will see clear water through. Clear water!

Like when children, we built a dam, tried to stop the laws of man, and they came, and tore us into two, round this world they bore through me and you. Came the rains that we could not hold on, oh my friend we cried through it all, for clear water. Where we go, the sky still comes, dropping hints, that we are not done, so it goes from your breech, you will not fall, oh my friend open up and drink clear water.

Leon dwells from day to day, setting time with words he plays, and he listens to all that goes. Ancient pulse, his brother knows, for the challenge of my lost years, I would go deep inside, take your tears, and there I’d find, nothing wasted or nothing new, just the dew of G-Ds chosen few, from clear water.

Folly makes the world were in, maps are drawn by simple men, though they make chains, we still will fly, graft our armor from stars passing by. For we know, little brother for the world were in, those of mystic, and places where we been. When we bend down to bare our heads, in the end when chaos is dead. When we touch the place of debtor’s relief, there as brothers, we will find, we will finally drink of clear water. Clear water. – 02.28.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

This poem was inspired by J.R. Richard’s song “Clear water” (video below), it is written for my friend Leon whom lives in Greece. I have never met Leon, but yet I have, and I feel sure as my brother on the other side of the world we are searching so diligently for the same thing. He might be just a little closer than I, to finding clear water.

J.R. Richard – Clearwater

I Said, He Said

A healthy planet I said.

Frank’s Red Hot Cayenne Pepper Sauce he said.

Ying than yang I said.

Judgment than compassion he said.

The full moon is bright I said.

The beggars eyes are light he said.

It is a cute puppy I said.

You are blessed with breath and children he said.

The blessing of music I said.

Led Zeppelin, he said.

War and bitterness I said.

All is vanity he said.

To know virtue I said.

There is hunger he said.

To fly like a bird I said.

747, he said.

To know peace I said.

Is there one honest man, he said.

To see your face I said.

Meet your neighbor, he said.

My faith is weak I said.

Reality is not of the spirit he said.

So many in need I said.

A sadness to talk of he said.

So many rebels I said.

They become tyrants he said.

To love myself then others, I said.

Narcissism, he said.

To find the true path I said.

It forks many times he said.

To make it to heaven I said.

You live in Colorado, he said.

To have prayers answered I said.

To not ask he said.

To study and teach I said.

To do in silence, he said.

To not worry, I said.

Tomorrow I made too, he said.

To be left alone I said.

Six feet under, with garlic, he said.

I want to care for others I said.

I want you to not care what others think, he said.

To walk in Torah, I said.

To live Torah, he said.

To take care of my body as your temple, I said.

Again, Frank’s Red Hot Cayenne Pepper Sauce he said.

To live my days for you, I said.

To live, he said. – 02.01.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Sea of Japan

Someplace in a noon day sun, a business class of flight, a man that looks a lot like me, wonders what it’s like. To look upon the Sea of Japan, and see the broken waves. To wipe the wonder from your eyes, the message in your sight. To know the drops of water rising so wet down below, were raised to you by something else, a love that grows so bold. For fascinated is that man in of all of what he sees. It is he still cannot comprehend, the nature of belief. For on this flight that rides the world, from time zone future, back, down into the water he thinks G_D is looking back. It surely is not a face of pain, or judgment of life gone wrong. Neither does it seem to say, you’ve sinned and don’t belong. And boy oh boy, from altitude from maps of days long seen, a message that traces lines into the deepest of the seas. Did you know the secret of what I learned this very day, the sea might keep its dead of night, but it gives some life away. And when the water whirls in mist and forms words in the air, a man might rub his eyes and think he’s something rare. The truth, the truth, in honesty, the sky around speaks it all, the love that rises comes right back, in water crest and fall. For what this man hails in flight across the glossy tide, is G_D appreciates my love, he holds it oh so tight. For this day long, for all I go into the world from now, for this Sea of Japan I see a miracle of how. It grows on me, as higher still, something sees me smile, and it does appreciate my love, as only light knows how. – 01.30.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Shirt (An Anecdote of Recycled Redemption)

New matter, in white, thread gleaming in dim light, a story, a tale of wearing’s now not known. What sought you this day, recycled since May, a rich man’s shirt with fiber left blood stained. St Alban’s thrift shop, for those with less than not, what just released from detox has he bought. Some slacks would be nice to go home and face the wife, her disappointment balanced with her care. His head held in grief, a drunk but not a thief, he finds his shirt and shoes, his pants with pleats. There seems now a plan to dress himself a man, to take his sober life to be complete.

There’s now this white shirt, a stitch so fine, it makes it journey hard to find. A minor washed out stain, that’s hidden and misplaced, what threads are loose are going to be okay. He wonders what king on K-Street left his queen, did she in anger draw his plasma as he ran. It matters not what, he has his own sad lot, a taste of drink has made a fallen man. He thinks of his own, his wife and child at home, his chemical need has thrown their love away. What now as he walks, by statutes and wealthy lots, the rooms of power they seem so far away. It’s all that they own, their need of power, conceals a loss of home.

He stops in Bryce Park, it’s really getting dark, he changes from his soil into his thrift shop wear. He looks to see, if his change is seen, his mind a whirl of something that is there.

What passes through his arms, a genetic like charm, from power to woe in man a place is given. Inside it so seems, what really counts is gleaned, a gift of life is evenly given. A shirt from a liege, a bullet weaned, a gift of sorts a well of royal redemption.

He turns his face gleams, unbound from chains it seems, an equal man from drunkard to a king. He makes his way home, atonement now sewn, his scar in life is seamed and now forgiven.

She waits by the way, her face alight unfazed, she knows his gait, she knows he’s seen his vision.

What road do we wear, does it seem to care, if our soul is royal or what dominion. Created the same, born to know no shame, what vice or crime you bare there still is vision. Come find your way home, wear a shirt that’s sewn, stare your breathing heart into the given.

On Monday, March 30, 1981, President Ronald Reagan was shot and wounded as he exited the Washington DC Hilton Hotel after a speaking engagement. Reagan was taken to George Washington University Hospital where before examination his thousand dollar suit was cut off of him (much to his consternation) and his shirt was removed and taken against his staff’s wishes by the FBI along with all of his personal belongings for evidence. The belongings were returned two days later, the clothing items were kept for evidence in the trial against John Hinckley Jr the following year. It is rumored that the shirt that Ronald Reagan wore the day he was wounded, disappeared shortly after the trial, and has not been located since. – 07.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Delicate Story

Graphic courtesy of

There’s a delicate story from your neighbor to the east, who just needs someone to talk to, when the shakes hit his core. He’s been dry for sixty sunsets, and he’s seen a devil’s moon, still he craves his balm of hot clear flame, and his brand of eighty proof. He went from dark haired warrior, to a craven shrunken man, when he came upon a village with a rifle in his hand. There were little girls screaming, and he shot one as she ran, that’s the story of the solider and his ghost from Afghanistan. In the mirror she taunts and teases with her open bloody wound. She beckons him to sorrow, use a rope high in your room, tie it tighter with no reason, and I’ll see you here real soon.

There’s a delicate story from your doctor’s only nurse, as she wraps her pain in lithium, stolen from her trusted perch. Lies of self that tell a story, hidden marks upon her arms, darkened armory of self-turned weapons, climbing nightmares in the dark. Modern health it tells a story, in a hidden practice ruin, tightened veins in chemical glory, chase the heroin with a spoon. That she screams in obligatory torture in the pieces that she sees, patients pass her as she’s crying, too sick of dying no relief. Solemn pledge she took of purity from the modern nursing book, her veins collapsed in flame filled fury from the needle that she took.

There’s a delicate story, when your children say please or I can, place me first before your wisdom, or the business that you ran. Did you not know G_D’s a sailor sailing conscience on degree, placing small hearts as a tempest to see if you believe? Did you not believe their story when they say they need you most, have you not given them the glory, when they try in solemnity to tell their delicate story.

YHWH breathes in beautiful stories, structured rhyme upon belief, takes a child with delicate story, builds that epic from belief. Arms of credence, perseverance, that won’t die when you’re cold, wrap you up when you’re dying, and let you in your marvel, never fading, surrender your delicate story, your worthy story. –דָּנִיֵּאל 05.13.2014