Babel


“Cause Jesus don’t save the guys
in the tower of Babel” (Elton John/Bernie Taupin)

Monday, May 3, 1971 (A Child’s Dream)

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well!

Inside me is a story, how the tower of babel fell, a dream I had from childhood, while the flowers of May they swelled. And all around me sandstorms sailed, while above me snowdrops played. Babylon, a voice is spoken, a child in nightscapes looking towards a different day. All around me stars did glimmer, cotton on wet skin, so detailed. A grove of trees by the river, where the “San Juan” wove her spell. And everywhere on each river bluff, the sandstone reached the sky, while by high places, ghost grew dimmer, the spirit screamed and cried. It was then that I stood taller in a dream I’m able too, and my small arms reached for heaven, through a maze how they grew. And an angel came beside me, oh it’s metal skin so light, and said illusion fails, said he there is no issue with building to reach what’s right. For the spirit is a spindle that always wants to climb, information of the heavens, what is, can give you sight.

In babel, I grew so silent in the dream that fell the night, watching wings of living airplanes.  “Their breathing phantoms learning to fly”, said the daemon, who is of balance.  He appears to my left, calm and cold in his pure fury, eyes of gray, a lust filled nest. Can you give your heart to Jesus the one they crucified? For that faith is not of babel, though it too seeks raptures high. Can you abandon an old story with what is across your mind, seek a place at G_D’s table, feeling forgiven in a sinner’s lie? Still a blue spot holding in me, where voices come and play. Words meaning things, in canyons surrounding. Where the soul, is never delayed. Not a token to be prayed for, covered by further blight, a rare instance, I see the throne room sapphire blazing throughout the night. Oh, this dream it covers the night.

Yesterday I learned of Babel, how the tower it fell, because a white-haired G_D in heaven, hated man’s pride, or so they tell, but right here in this vision, something different comes to me, I’m not sure of its true meaning maybe someday, I will see. Oh well! – 05-03-2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Drive (A Psalm of Daniel)

Thunderhead-Brinn-6

That Friday in November when the leaves were no longer upon us I took the drive.  Alone with the muddy clouds moving in swiftly replacing the cobalt Colorado sky I motored northwestward.  287 en route for the Wyoming line, with more than a little Whiskey in me.  A rage had been pouring above me for too many hours leading to a slow tumor of anger in my character for many days.  My shadow was no longer present, giving proof of my malice of spirit.  It was time to drive.

The moving dark current was pushing me, elevating me home.  Instinct led me to watch the disappearing sun reflect off of Haystack rock and then it was time to feel the glass bottle round against my cold lips.  Thirteen miles to my turn at the Forks.  Miles that would have me chastise each new home owner that built their tower of Babel on high dry land.  Seeking Grace, with the burn of hell’s own stream swimming in my throat I turned the leather padded helm and set my inflamed eyes on Red Feather Lakes.

My heart leads me over the volcanos and around the scorpion landscape.  Home, past Monkey Head and McNeigh Hill, to history, thin air witches, and my soul.  No snow needed this year for ghost fill this painting, past the trails I used to run, to sweet Lady Moon Ranch.   Jacob’s ladder dreams to the certainty of tires on pavement up Mount Margaret, Lost Lake to my back never to be found.  The duck pond genuflecting in twilight reaching for death before evening light.  Clouds mapping early stars above this mountain village marking the boundary of my daddy’s grave.  The Mummy’s higher still beyond, may be a drive for another day.

This warden let’s me fly, and I possess what was won before.  There by Cherokee Park, in darkness by the rock wall, while ice fell.  I became what someone once became before.  In silence near the aspens my son learned to walk, in tapestries’ of pine and an audience of rocks my daughter reached the stars with her song.  I was born here in the rocks above timber, immortal in love and judged, a small feat in the eyes of G-d.  I was cut here by demons and by compassion I was set free.  I drive on and when I twist I see my father’s blue fluid eyes glancing in delight at me.

That Friday in November, with strange darkness, and no real sound, I drove up and I was bound.  Where anger was present memory took from me and dealt with me in pleasure.  Bitter winter that detained me is broken and my return down that highway is token assurance that what I brought to the high country is lifeless for now my vision shifts and moves and I think without a sound.  That Friday in November when the leaves were no longer upon us I took the drive.