First Christmas


“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.

 

Whereby Shining

“Whereby shining, I have been, hunting Cibola, inquiring of angels, and I have found an ancient spirit in shiny metal, that brings me this winter from where I used to be.” – DS

“This is my winter song.” – Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson

Whereby shining!

He stands there a shimmer about him, unaware of our presence around him. He stands there beyond himself seeing mystery. He stands there receiving a word from the Lord, tilting his head to the left, listening. The ice-coated whispers enter his red cold infested left ear. We stand there too, you and I. Interested readers, voyeurs. Watching him. The boy surveying the steep snow-covered bluff above the ice filled river is nine-years-old. His brown worn jeans shift as he moves from one leg to another. He looks suddenly at a spot high above him on the bluff, and he is moving, climbing, and we watch him you and I, whereby shining he does go.

Whereby shining steeples in rows, frozen sand, some under snow. Climb the darkness, mount the helm, bring the shining and cast ahead. What child inside would make this climb, gathering snowflakes in his torn jeans behind. On upward, over ford, ice where no bridge, a stick as his sword. Somewhere here now higher, be still now his thought. For tracks in the snow, show something, what is not. The grace of elders, the crown to find. Saint George slew the dragon. Above in Eden, his dragon he will bind. A boy this day, O give us this day, to know, to grow, to climb on Saturday, December 21, 1969.

Whereby shining, half way to the top, a cold wind blowing in languages long sought. Each foothold a lesson, what has begun, can never be stopped. The object of mystery, the one at the top, the interest of passion, that is all that he’s got. The owl looking down says that is all that he’s got. To build legend in arid air cold, speak with ghost from society so old. A shimmer of metal from a place so high, an interesting shadow casting brilliance to the New Mexico cold sky. No time for doubt with the secret so near.

Whereby shining, the translucent moon is near. A waxing gibbous to the boy a sign is here. The icy waters of the San Juan below, he stares back at water, and watches it flow. His wooden sword it leans against his knee. He thinks he is better now, then he has ever been; the world of old has come to him. For in his hands he holds a meteorite, the sum of the heavens, and the source of his light. And from the beginning of what was him, the boy feels the light with what he holds within.

Whereby shining! – 12.10.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

January (Silence)


Grant Wood – January

“I killed my ex-lovers and buried to my memories’ grave. 
It is January and I am tired of being brave.” –
Arzum Uzun

Silence

Cold, thy name it comes to roam, a place inside from cold darkened stone. Death thy grip too, touches bone, none the less I am not alone. Life thy grip is underground, frozen tundra where still is sound. Catacombs thy layers make, graves of takers, awaiting their take. Hope not risen from bleak winds blow, a bent leaf bare aspen with ice it tows. Ode thy note it has no sound, a broken string has fallen to ground, and scarcely shows a light this day, from a distant sun, with clouds in its way. Now sharper is that cold dark bright, which comes from dead stars that own cold nights. It cuts with precision just like some tongue; speaking into shadows that nothing comes. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.

Silence

The festive moved from where love staid, retreated to December much far away. Fog and dire it moved in slow, expecting to labor were dead leaves blow. Said I so stiff, that speech came not, where is the purpose of such this month, and why should one expect much mirth when G_Ds of old have abandoned earth. Cry out some soul, thy blood will not run, for now it stands a colligated sum. For spirit, thy strength cannot fight this month, which fights a war and fights it much. The summer sun so far away, be still the tempest her warmth delayed. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.

Silence

I have heard “Bleak Winter” within my heart, where earth stood iron, that chorus enough, for in this place where rain does freeze, my soul, my core, it cry’s relief. For every judgment, this month brings clear, in darkened clouds, and silent fears. For every tear, thy need does cry, for fire of warmth beneath iced skies. Summon this now, oh here me speak, with frozen syllables of witches creed, let now this dragon clear the air, bring down this month without its care. For by thy promise, this winter speaks, broken only by a wind that shrieks. Of course, of course laid bare by such known sins, nothing persecutes like January within.

Silence

01.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Desktop (A Winter Day)

All Rights Winter by 3D

I would like to walk through that white stoned arch, dance in snow summon magic full of art, maybe just to sit on that fairy tale bench, and pretend I never have to come back.  For in this office chair, I’m caught quite unaware, but, still I think on this busy afternoon, I’d like to scale that pixie white gate, in an enchanted Arthur Pendragon swoon.  It could be I’m just a little boy.  Still needing knickers and a propeller hat.  It might of sort of happen, that I wish to be a wizard, wearing a cape and a stove top hat.  So if I look really hard into this picture, on this busy work day, that won’t give my soul unto me back.  Would you think me a foolish virgin to this life, ungrateful for all that I have?  If I were to jump into this desktop, ride the ghost line to the inner machine.  Take a ride of golden rhyme on an ice filled cathedral, fill my arms with immortality.  It could be I’d be like an angel, a daemon of the arts, a blessing you can’t see, it could be I’m in my desktop, and it could be I’m finally me.

Like Pan into the ice I’d fly deep, the snow filled green boughs spin me by, a light upon a lamp post there I see. The blizzard of all time has come in digits ones and zero sums lined, red ribbons tied by candle light, eternal sun that shines on even winter night. It could be just like this day at work, the clock stands still forever at 12:03. So much more time for play in time, to discover snow and charmed like finds, it could be I’m in my desktop, and it could be I’m finally me.

It could be in electricity you would find me, digital art, black code, and futuristic fantasy. When upon a sort of day, when the laws have all changed, and the spirits all allow us to be what we would be. For there as you felt and formed your desktop. Freed your hands from molding clay, let your virtual art be free. As you looked upon the clock, as you lit the candles true, holly holly, bush of magic, is that Daniel that I see. For there you see the stairs, sparkling, even free, summoned, by a wild eyed man, grey haired child in never land, what you see is where I’ll stand, it could be I’m in my desktop, and it could be I’m finally me. – 02.04.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

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