supernatural

Resa

/ Daniel Swearingen / 82 Comments


Come down upon me that which ties the ladder, that which laces the dream, string for me that which is of cord magick, that where sirens weave!

These together upon, thy mind, that upon which Resa see’s, comes the gown of which all magic weaves, summoned, now sirens cry, the coven’s treasure, now bend thee, now bend thee….

The weave born of Star Carr, near Scarborough, the thread, in calling that which loves her, that which forms her heart. That daemon which summons patterns bold, summoned stories by a play, look to me, from Yorkshire way, designs that show a sirens way, a seamstress hides away, a stich, her art, the act in play. Heart, heart, summoned Whitby’s art, the ladies by the bay, and Mina smiles…. dear Resa, sew for me a scarf. A woven Faberge, that shows young girls at play, thighs in liquid, that of oceans art, entwined together, passion by the mind. What would our father’s say, in craft we play?

Late at night in Lucy’s room, while candles spell, and legends loom, ancient myths and school girl dreams, Resa sleeps, but how she dreams. And art and patterns play, weaving cloth in a potter’s way, white and dark strange spirits play, while sirens move in thread, it weaves a song. The manor feels like summer all winter long. And when sweet Lucy sleeps, Resa takes her leave, and with her forehead high, daringly she acts to spy, with gin still on her tongue, wet from adventure the whole night long. Down straight hallways with darkened heights, those long framed windows the oceans bright, under séance, devils play, the mist of Whitby, guides her way. That by needle light, Resa scripts the bodice tight, lace and colors that make the bodies delight. Lord of light, oh lord of light, how a woman’s hands give you delight, on this night.

She is the siren, that calls with thread, the stories, passion, the witches path, the salt filled air of a spider’s wrath, colors, of legends past, Resa brings down the dark lord’s dreams. The better of all these ancient seams, spells and gardens, precious night filled screams.

These together upon, thy mind, that upon which Resa see’s, comes the gown of which all magic weaves, summoned, now sirens cry, the coven’s treasure, now bend thee, now bend thee….

For my dear Whitby Lady friend, Resa McConaghy – 06.21.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Madison Poe

/ Daniel Swearingen / 41 Comments


Through woven passages, of books she travels, from language chanted when read, comes Whitby’s lost nightmare to do what he said!

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame. A strutting woman, from a lost dim year, too many to count she can’t keep them clear. Down SoHo’s through fare, her eyes weird, the coven is waiting, her charter is clear. Every married man looks at her to see what somethings there. The women they look too, her lips they’d kiss so faire. A quenching, that goes beyond fulfillment, they watch her figure all the same, as she struts, into dark places from the past she struts. Taking weakness from their lust she struts, nothing ventured, well nothing gained…

Madison Poe, exits the library, all around her, a familiar adores, through the door touching the witch wood, through the door she has entered before. Most would say a young lithe figure, taunt in flesh, curving with flow. Most would say the pipes of an organ, voice like a dark angel, from time still untold. Victorian tom-boy, she that runs barefoot so stable, here in the mist of Whitby’s best fable, come through a book, a keyhole of lore. Prancing like pixie dust cross the marble, her laughter brings crimson, into a room. Blushing each cheek, Lucy looks onward, her father’s manor, loses its gloom. The devil can wait for longer much deeper, under the cliffs where cold waters roar, Madison Poe, has come to the table, swooning, eyes darting, drawing the room. A shadow darts, she bites from the apple, Mina laughs, the coven has entered the room.

The gloom from the sea moves its way closer, the fireplace so willing, can’t take the flume. Madison Poe, her familiar around her, goes to the window, and calls down the moon. Turning so slowly her eyes like liquid, taking her hand she beckons someone, shadows come alive in the manor, wanton figures, move in the room. Ladies she breathes, I come from lost highways, a future waiting, where we are stars, looking down upon, this moment, I’ve seen it already, the melody of story is what we are. The beginning of his dark end we are tomorrow. For I have come from books beyond legend, wraithlike my eyes have seen angels fall. Brought down to these times here at Whitby, sweet Lucy, I kiss you, my Mina, I tempt you, all night, by these candles, we could scream out his songs.

Madison Poe, enters the library, all around her, a familiar adores, she leaves for a little while, gone to tomorrow, in sheaves of paper, a mistress of witching, a latitude long. Into the future, a circle of waiting, a spinning perpetual wait. Every lost memory, sorrow filled moment, into her familiar Madison Poe does take. And somewhere she’ll enter back to her darlings, back through the library, back to Whitby, her lithe figure sliding, back to her master, your weakness she will take.

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame.…-04.23.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל

Lucy

/ Daniel Swearingen / 50 Comments


Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed.

Lucy reads literature from a Victorian age, drowning in her laces, a not so gentleman’s, not so gentle way. She watches stars above Yorkshire, and wishes on red ones, it could be that her suitors aren’t quiet the right ones. Lucy watches privileged lips in sorority affairs, the finest words of society, in London’s aristocratic affairs. And as she takes her carriage home, her mind does wander there. In spinning nights of wind shaped slopes, and days filled with sleep, a luciferin fear of church folk, the creature in her dreams. It could be, after all this time, an English rose could prick her skin toward the sky. And she will pray that what draws nigh, is Gabriel’s gift from nights gone by, a life for that eternal sigh. She sleeps in linen, and closes one eye.

Lucy’s name is cursive, written curved with bodies hinted at in sighs, ecstatic, escalation of the screams behind the night. Above her silken curtains lies a single curse, the ones who somewhere in their fear, have placed without a verse. And this could be the very night, the world stops in its tracks, when she kisses Mina and the future tears her bodice off, and kisses her right back. A startled full built lady, a dreaming little girl, her imagination in the Highland Woods at night, her imagination comes uncurled. Lucy’s dreams before the sunrise, when the tide takes what it lacks, and lashes all its strength on land before the light can draw it back. And she’ll forgo, a stronger touch, all her property given up, and in the space between the night, she’ll see the lightening in forever’s pure eye. So, close to rapture wings do fly.

Lucy walks the garden, grey hair bouncing off her high bare back. The moon above the stormy waters, taking breath from all that’s lacked. Come to me she whispers, part my liquid dreams, take me unto far tomorrows, away from chaste and all that seems believed. – 03.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Picnic (Gaither 1909)

/ Daniel Swearingen / 21 Comments


“Everything begins and ends at exactly the right place” – Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock

Oh the hills could they sing, bring the gathering to a ring, for the food that families eat is a sacrifice to where history sleeps.

“The full moon has just left us”, said Mr. Dalton with a sigh, his eyes searching for spirits as they ran increasingly by. It’s the fourth of June in 1909, in a circle near Gaither with the Ozarks marking time, the spell for memory is nigh. It was what begins a family or a friend, a neighbor wanting closure on a funeral that’s just been, a picnic in the meadow, near a grave or two or ten, and the woods of twilight’s future watches all over them. It’s the Dalton’s, with the chicken, and the Miller’s with the pies, someone whispered lightning’s there in Crooked Creek, by where little Ably Watkins drowned and died, like Lazarus he just went to sleep.  He won’t wake up and we don’t know why.

Daisy said, “the picnic brings us one under sky, the Fullerton’s a yonder I haven’t seen them, in week’s gone by.  And all of us together at Gaither, how time does fly”. All the woods around them whispering legends of epochs and by gone lies.  And the children run together, two by two they look for lore, until Ethel calls them forward unto lunch on the grass floor. And each ear she does whisper, “play and feel your own sweet worth, but keep wares that you see each others face where spirits might lurk”. “And you should not go where your unawares, for keepers will stay you there”.

Now it could be that no one looks to notice what is there, in the shady trees of Gaither round the mountain a specters lair, for it comes from layers deep, bringing questions when it speaks. Be it witches or be it spells, from the time that legends dwell. Oh the hills could they sing, bring the gathering to a ring, for the food that families eat, is a sacrifice to where history sleeps.

“The sun is setting soon”, said Joe Sylvie to his sister Zella, where she stood, “and I think I do declare, this days ending without a dare”. And they laugh and turn away, for they know they cannot say, what is family, what is faith, in the history of this place. For what begins and ends in rest, all around the circle crest, hats and bonnets, beards and bows, an eternal spirit glows. And the picture shows it best, fading faces all are blessed, at Gaither, where in coven, the families make the right place a nest.

Oh the hills could they sing, bring the gathering to a ring, for the food that families eat is a sacrifice to where history sleeps. – 04.28.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Ghost of Lucy Gilpin

/ Daniel Swearingen / 2 Comments


Hello, Hello, I have come back to see, what’s happened all these years, what’s thought of me, I thought of all the breath that was inside of me, thought it wanted loose, so I set it free!

Most of the day she listened, taking in all the shadows of the years, from all of the waves on the Colorado, to above where the eagle fly’s and nothings ever feared. She thinks that on the earth below, there could be hearts in treasured cloves, down among the trees, where aspen can’t even count all there many leaves, it matters not, for she is free. She moves from book to book, learning more and more, for everything she reads, she thinks natures teaches more. So it is at night, when her past comes to light, she goes outside and breathes, five thousand feet above Denver, she screams, a part of what she claims of setting herself free.

Judeo-Christian crimes, all of western culture, likes to whine, she says, the truth is, she’s risen from the dead, not victim of creed. A witch that seeks the upper thin air in glee, she says what a find the Flatirons touch her soul, when she climbs, so free, better high altitude without mediocrity. One spell is all she knows, from those words comes more. Gloria, without the bells, the girl in a full grown woman born, and oh you know, the witch they say is young and gray, not so true, not so true, she is older than time, for her climb, has led her to the very face of G-D, he’s not excelsis, but what light. Oh those who ask for what an adventurous sight. So she sees, then she screams, a part of what she claims of setting herself free.

The mountains move, high above the front range, all things do, and she knows, she is changing with the high air ebb and flow. Could it be, all those things that made her chained now make her free, in the light. Climb the rocky stairway flight, things unseen, the witch of the flatirons is so free, is so free, immortal all beloved of the high air sea, oh now child, G-D knows you are only thirteen, just a spirit, just a child, setting herself free. Better then, she thinks, better than to know all that’s been, or come before, better than to touch the face of G-D so high. So she sees, then she screams, a part of what she claims of setting herself free.

Hello, Hello, I have come back to see, what’s happened all these years, what’s thought of me, I thought of all the breath that was inside of me, thought it wanted loose, so I set it free!

Lucy Gilpin was thirteen when she committed suicide upon Flagstaff Mountain near Boulder Colorado in 1925. She thought herself a spirit before she died, and became one after her death, so reads her headstone in the Salina Cemetery beyond the seven hills near Boulder Colorado. – 01.22.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Dante

/ Daniel Swearingen / Leave a comment

Dante holds the music that he whispers through thyme, it smells like lemon secrets, as it enters my mind, and circles all the thoughts of word, the phonics of night, resistance is futile, why even do I fight. Well Dante holds riddles, those puzzles in me, and just like familiars, and those ghost who can see. He moves me and dazzles, and laughs while I’m blind, not grasping the candle, he just needs to light. In houses, and doorways, and double odd binds, with kisses for favors, a Daemon unkind. This spirit, apostle, just wants me to write, find fortune in secrets, a poet’s delight. He moves in the spaces my old muse died, makes fun of his funeral, and laughs at my rites. Oh Dante please tell me, of why do we fight, with words of confusion, and spells of the night. We should be together, our psyches held tight, but somehow you use me, and snarl when you bite.

Dante runs highways, through deserts and sands, he hunts in desolation, for hidden lands, and sometimes he listens, and passes a word, but often he’s silent, asleep in his verbs. Forgotten in reason, he will not take a stand, on verbiage, or letters, controlled by my hand. And often he measures, my prose, with a laugh, and shoots vowels behind me, and then tips his glass. Say, Dante I’m naked, my soul is so scratched, from hauntings and pictures, your words so mismatched. If you are forever, a shimmer of light, then be me immortal, a muse that won’t fight.

Its shadows, of answers, dictated by fright, long caverns in darkness, that bring me to sight, and Dante, it’s sudden, the life in my hands, the treasured scripting where loneliness ends. Dante he’s smiling, expression in name, and taunting my story, he says it’s too tame. No hero’s for writing, that’s simply insane. Dante’s not giving, he’s gone once again, no doubt in the Artic, just walking about, but soon he’ll be closer his coldness in me. I’ll write that indifference, I’ll learn what he sees. I’ll learn what he sees. – 05.14.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Meeker Meadow

/ Daniel Swearingen / 10 Comments

In 1989 I was falling fast, retreating from a purpose for the things that I lacked, I traveled through my phases and I moved about my moods, and I came unto the mountains just to see where I stood. I traveled to the goldmines and I danced against the stars, while the night was moving faster I pissed into the fire. I laid my body naked in a prairie by a butte, and I read Maria Rilke and I knew my spirit shook. I was younger than a mountain, begging secrets from the stars, the Colorado mystery held my riddles self-inspired. It wasn’t just by destiny, a drug induced self-swoon, that I climbed to Meeker Meadow by a dry November moon.

I’d like to say that altitude, frost blowing through the gloom, made sleep for me impossible, as Venus crossed the moon. The cold it made my sleeping wear grow weak with all despair, but slumber came all too quickly, for my body sheltered there.

It is right here in this soft tale, this tantalizing word, I’d like to share a secret now, some nouns you’ve never heard. His name is many wonders here, some call him all their own, it moves within a labyrinth of wisdom that atones. When I tell names that filled the air, in symbols rune and stone, celestial rain of Hashem’s name, a name unlike unknown. It is my place to explain its name is one held dear, a love that holds you in your pain, its special and it’s near. It wasn’t just by destiny, a drug induced self-swoon, that I climbed to Meeker Meadow by a dry November moon.

Dreams in Meeker Meadow, Shekinah from the moon, our love is held in special hands, it’s holy what we do. In vision was a well laid plan of what my life should do, what Adonai told a boy, this I tell to you.

You are not a quantity, that’s floating in this sky, a numeral all the same, this is a flesh held lie. Did I not say to Moses, name each one this day, you are each my person held, I need to sow your name. Know in disposition, the name that you have feared, it is the name that judges you, your title hold it dear. See you signs of common man, those that regulate, beware you true the rebel man he will a tyrant make. Those that would now number you, and make you all the same, they are those that fear me not, there love I will reclaim. You are a name upon this place of meadow high and free, go you to the world and name your terms, and set each title free. It wasn’t just by destiny, a drug induced self-swoon, that I climbed to Meeker Meadow by a dry November moon.

I woke in frozen silence to a higher place of lore, the floor of Meeker Meadow looked much brighter than before. A name in loving logic, placed on me from the womb, had judged me far from lacking, it held me from my ruin. For you this means a purpose, just like mine did before, your name is more than numbers, it means what you’re meant for. It wasn’t just by destiny, a drug induced self-swoon, that I climbed to Meeker Meadow by a dry November moon. – 08.02.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל