Heaven’s Gate (Surround Me)

The Acts of one!

He catches time in the palm of his hand, with his hair growing whiter where the old train station stands. The gleam in his eyes could be laughter or death, it’s all up to you, as you read the rest. The high land all around him rises to a rocky slope, filled with all sorts of angels, and lithesome tiresome ghost. In both of his hands rides specters of a kind, could be maps to salvation, or the gate that opens time. In the twinkling of an eye, he draws a certain plan, to take him up in spirit to where the Seraphim stand. For it stands here in Wyoming, below a certain peak, and when the eclipse covers nature, he’ll see the gate that he would seek.

Brother cries a certain essence, phantom, screams a long-lost daemon freak. Can you leave two sides of living, switch the train at certain speeds? Can you go to certain mountains, and claim them as your prize? He turns now quickly without breathing; says he, love is on all sides, for the heavens are all falling and with spells they must now rise, when heaven’s gate is found wide open, the loss I’ve gained will go inside. Today Wyoming is an answer, where the things lost go to sleep, to arise in all creation when the sun escapes it’s keep. And so, it is he deems an answer from the future he has lost. Why is it we seldom travel to the gates that have a cost? Does not the shield of all our valor, hold no reason without love, says he now to higher purpose open heaven I am not lost.

So, he treasures his arrival, and the sound of walking feet, leaving the tracks of his departure, for the grace that’s hard to keep. Goes he on without reflecting, through the gate to the rocky peak. Conquers he without bad feeling, slays he loss to not re seek. With his eyes cast not downwards, opened skies, no words he speaks. Just a thought that comes in passing, as tomorrow passes renewed, how can he survive the love that’s crushing, glowing holy all that’s new! Surround me! – 08-27-2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

G_D is Wyoming

His name is in Wyoming, inscribed in rock near the great divide, and often you may pass it when I-80 bends by twice. Through time and winters soul storms, those places where innocence dies, there runs a great contender, your hurt will be love’s guide. For high above the valleys, where the dirt does fly, when the winds come screaming, like an ego that’s been denied. Lessons in Wyoming, bard wire were Shepard died, looking for some mercy, the wilderness is unkind. In land that takes its likeness, from a lunar sky, harsh and barren in places, an American Judea find. Look closer in Wyoming, look for names and rhyme, listen to the sound of mourning from an open sky. G_D is Wyoming, G_D is Wyoming.

There are no doors in Wyoming, at least that you can hide behind, no cover of a savior, I imagine you know, the kind, for here in Wyoming a good sin can be found, right here in all this open, where rock and sky abound, and mercy comes from such a name, pronounced without a sound, gliding from the Tetons, bringing compassion down. And on some nights when no moon comes, a rare occasion in places bare, a sea of spirits rise, empty hoods white and wise, and as companions they stare at the sky, and pray for what’s not seen, Adonai, mercy please, and then for few who know, unless you’ve traveled that high road in pain, then you see. G_D is Wyoming, G_D is Wyoming.

Medicine Bow Peak speaks lightning from the other side, telling those who hear it say, it’s time, all of nature is tied, to a pattern diagram, intersecting to the head, earthly kings and queens will never find, what’s in Wyoming. Would you bend and say, take my fears away, travel down I-80, under darkened skies, ask for the intersession of the hoods that rise. Seek the mercy there, coming through the wildest air, and then you too will find, such a great wonder of time. G_D is Wyoming, G_D is Wyoming. – 01.17.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Drive (A Psalm of Daniel)


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.