Trust is a whisper from the moonlit house near me, there so close to the mesa near the tree, there by the stars of the Navajo sky, there when I was eight did I watch shadows move by. Nenahnezad a long incline backwards whirling dervish sounds that formed my mind, daemons, my friends said, those figures from the den of time. Boy she whispers my throat so dry, here I am, in the sweet by and by, bring your sneakers, come here, life is nearby.
By moon a statue, that looks like me, by ever longing, lost in a sea. A silent world of wind and keys, numbers swirling by night so free, a small boy I stand, I stand by the tree, and look possessed in sweet conjunction harmony. Of all the high ground around me, just the house, asking me, to enter free, a white boy on the Rez you see. Pass young one without hesitation, do not hide, bring your empty spirit, take the glimmer filled ride. A ray of full moonlight comes and goes, I sit out by the cottonwood and watch orbs flow, it’s daring I would say, that one could reach my heart, and take me far away.
The house it travels to my many dreams, it follows me to this very day, under moonlight while the presence does play. There upon the bluffs so high, where my childhood played and was so shy. Near the back of that old school, in sandstone, alone where specters rule, skin walkers of the other side, a small boy standing just outside. That old house at night near the reservation school, Nenahnezad, myself fulfilled. To stand upon sand so cold, by there that cotton tree, the moon to blackness come over me. To watch and feel an invitation pass, at eight years old, it touched my flesh. To know it’s there to see it real, the house it waits there now, after all these years it waits for me still.
Trust is a whisper from the moonlit house near me, there so close to the mesa near the tree, there by the stars of the Navajo sky, there when I was eight did I watch shadows move by.
This is a true story. When I was eight years old, wandering around the BIA compound at Nenahnezad, New Mexico by myself, there was an old house, made of stone, empty, but filled with something still. On my travels at night, I would watch it, orbs moving from room to room, beckoning, calling. It still calls me to this day it calls me. The picture above is that house. May be you too will see it now, for I think it waits for all of us, someday. Some enter before others, some wait afraid to enter in. It is our childhood, that circles, and the specters inside would have us enter in. – 02.21.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל