The Blue Forest (Two)

“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for myself and a long forgotten youthful twin!

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin. “The late hour it whispers, is over, the morning is never to have been, and nightfall has come forth to show you a strange forest”. “Rise in your place let’s begin.” I wondered at this kind of slumber, awake or a dream held within. For surely it was as a time I remembered that happens over and over again. For just a second, I thought it illusion, a discording thought of dissonance within. But then the sweet kisses touched all my body. What inner wounds inside sewn, a healing began? As soft sounds sang, I traveled millennium, both forwards and backwards, my spirit extends. To see that place a child called a forest, blue with light, a place I had been. The two of us stand in our glory; mist about the mystic begins. A thousand lights the magic starts again.

Day upon day, my life seems to tremble, so shy in its way, so much trouble it seems. An opera plays Faust with marching daemons, sticking their bloodthirsty knifes in me deep. Suffering thoughts of infinite worry, anxiety, fears there seems no relief. Still, still a thought pervades all this darkness, making its way to the core of my belief. Two is you, tied to survival; night has come, now learn to believe. Night has come, fly forth to receive.

So easily thought of in childhood survival, the blue forest hides as each year passes by, but somewhere in mercy, there sits a kind angel. At night she arrives in my memory she fly’s. Goodbye, I go, the journey enabled, to the blue forest, a memory of trees. Open clock doorways to worlds and their fables, journey I journey with the boy, I know just beside me. Ever this land has brought my heart nearer to something or someone G_D means me to be.

It comes like softness unspoken, an undertone across bare skin, that sleeps next to me. It is so cold outside but here it is like April, teasing and pulling me saying come please. Arrayed by sight, led until I am able to know what is right, in front of me. Paths that gleam white in the blue forest. So many trails, which one shall it, be. A moment a knight, a sword on a quartz table. A sign that says pull forth and be free. Be stronger now and let the child see. What’s two in one G_D has set free.

And so, with this broken and most terrible day at an end, I retreat to my pillow, with only sleep on my mind, thinking not that the night before me offers a path of redemption for I and a long forgotten youthful mind! – 01.18.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל




“Civilization has been thrust upon me… and it has not added one whit to my love for truth, honesty, and generosity”. – Luther Standing Bear

“What must we do, has become what must I do?” – DS

And he looks away!

He sees Whiteclay as immortal sometimes, and perhaps it is. A Northern Nebraska indention between the world of his ancestors and the fifth of Wild Turkey he holds in the very palm of his hand. He feels Whiteclay as an empty faced angel scorching the earth in January, alkali and snow mixing, bringing death to the valley grounds. So cold in winter, there’s not a sound, except the sighing of the last breath of the defeated.  The indigenous, such a nice progressive word, for the itómni man leaving town. The mist it rises barely, over worn blankets hiding flesh, their bottles around them giving unto them a twenty-second century rest. And for the record Bruce Springsteen you can go home, for your song Nebraska, does not come close to atone. Your culture of murder, and thrills. Nothing is real in these Nebraska hills.

And he looks away!

For a million stars that have fallen from this cold sky. A million spirits that failed to gray and die. Look away, he sometimes hears them say. Born to die, die in Whiteclay. And sometimes late night, when he’s so drunk, his greatest grandfather comes riding bareback on the back of a thirteen-point buck. His eyes are smoking, and his feathers gray and black. He speaks in languages that the old ones hid away. Sounds and syllables from way back. In his tongue there is no variance or broken sound, just a rushing river of the winds from the south. The questions he wonders the ones he should ask, always seem to stick in his mind, as his greatest grandfather looks back. For in the morning when he awakes there is no greatest grandfather, only the empty bottle in Whiteclay, and his headache.

And he looks away!

He sees Whiteclay as a metaphor, for the coming future for the whole damn war. For the differences between what has been and the future apocalypse for agnostic sin. He knows it is a place in a state of mind for the drunken Indian that has lost his mind. But somewhere in the springtime when it is not so cold and bare, sometime when the first grass starts to bare, then if he’s alive, he will start again. To drive north from Whiteclay to where this war began. In the dead of night, he will sing a song, do a little ghost dance till the dead of dawn. And from the point of past of where he might have been, he will look away from demons and try to rise again. And then he will toss the bottle of his greatest sin, and he will look away. Finally, he will look away.

And he looks away! – 01.14.2019 – דָּנִיֵּאל



“I am the mother and the daughter. I am the bride and the bridegroom, and it is my husband who begot me. I am the silence that is incomprehensible and the idea whose remembrance is frequent. I am the voice whose sound is manifold and the word whose appearance is multiple. I am the utterance of my name.” – Sorita d’Este

“I am beautiful with you” – Lizzy Mae Hale

She said would you try something with me, a favor of a curiosity of mine. A wager between a man and something, I think I read about this in one of your rhymes. Would you come in ecstasy with me, and ride your way across the great divide? All I need is for you to lay your soul down beside me, and sleep with me through your night. She said my needs have built up like your phantoms, those daemons that stroke what they find. Nothing can be built on indecision, and to be without you I would lose my mind. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

And I looked to see the falling mountains, the ones that had been inside my mind. In front of me, there stood no dark valley, just a land of milk and honey and sunshine. Then she came out glorified in me, like a gift of pleasure given in kind. There were spells, sounds, and the feeling of her breath, carving hallelujah on my spine. The chills of a mystical lettering branded from past times. Something that dwelled deep within me beyond the X’s and the O’s. Moving so far beyond my boundaries, a warmth in passion and grace undefined. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine.

She said would you marry Shekinah under moonlight; know the light of my body, it’s by design. Take a branch out of David and fill me up, know I am beautiful when you are inside. For my ways are in love with your shadows, your hurts are scars, that I heal in your mind. Come bath with me, do not wait until tomorrow, make one out of two, it is more than a rhyme. For we are much more than lovers, we are greater than lust of the world that binds. From left to right, I am a source inside you, make me beautiful, and now is the time. She said, I know the door is open and its January outside, but between us there is something warmer, and it feels like summer, please room temperature with that wine. – 01.11.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל


“The owl,” he was saying, “is one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?”  – M.J. Rose

“I am an owl“, he says, his eyes taking on an oval shape, as he stars down the sandy slope at the empty dark highway stretching below us. “Me too”, I say looking up hoping to catch a glimpse of one. The moon a waning crescent above us looks like a perfectly clipped finger nail. “What do you think’s going on tonight”, he asks his eyes still carrying the look of the night predator. “Death”, I reply to him, not sure where the reply comes from. I look down the dark highway and see faint lights coming from the West. “It’s a blue Pontiac” he says his owl eyes knowing. “That’s one”, I say as if we are counting. The New Mexico night opens itself, as if a barren womb, or an open crypt both asking for occupation. I know this as an owl.

“I see something”, he says his owl eyes suddenly becoming more human, tearing up. His Navajo cheeks glisten with two competing tears rolling parallel to each other. “Hush now”, I say bending forward to hide my own glistening eyes. “Owls do not cry”. A wind picks up blowing its way from the Northeast, from the twin peaks, from area’s Northeast of Farmington. “Smells like death”, I say, my owl senses burning with something like fire. “We should be able to do something”, he says almost a statement, still it has the words of a question.

“Another car coming from Shiprock”, I say, the light breeze having boomeranged carries the faint smell of exhaust. My owl senses are alive. “It’s a blue hearse”, he says, his voice carrying huskiness, suddenly he no longer sounds like a young owl. “That’s two, I say, feeling a chill through my down, that spirit which surrounds me, that which will soon be feathers.

“Is it too early for chokecherries”, I ask, knowing that it is. Still a hungry owl might ask a question. “Owls don’t eat chokecherries”, he grimaces, his owl eyes looking distances beyond Farmington. “Some have been known to die by the stems”, he says. Some would die tonight, I think, my owl mind feeling sad, and not so wise, perhaps it’s the sudden distant sounds of screams, the smell of blood. “Perhaps its chindi“, he says his owl eyes turning creamy. That yellow that reflects the falling stars, while we die. That color that wonders if the Great Spirit will catch us as we cross-worlds, wondering what we are, wondering who she is.

“Are you still an owl”, I ask, it is colder now, morning of a new day. He waits a moment, perhaps waiting for the driverless blue Ford pickup with one headlight to pass in front of us. “That’s number three”, he says, without answering my pointless question. “Three died tonight, while we counted cars”, I say sweeping the span of my wings upwards toward the moving sky. He is moving with me now, my friend and fellow owl, our spirits moving higher, reaching to touch understanding of that which can never be understood.

On Sunday, April 21, 1974, the bodies of two men, Herman Dodge Benally, 34, and John Earl Harvey, 39 were found partially burned and bludgeoned in an area Northeast of Farmington New Mexico known as Chokecherry Canyon. The men’s heads had been crushed with rocks weighing as much as 16 pounds. One-week later two children riding bikes in the vicinity discovered a third body, David Ignacio, 52. All three men were Navajo. Some 11.2 miles to the southwest of Chokeberry Canyon two boys played in the darkness near 550 highway while the horrific events mentioned above played out. I still remember that night; we became owls and counted cars, all of them blue.

From the first moment I heard “Counting Blue Cars” in 1995 I knew I would write this story one day. Thank you J.R. Richards – 01.08.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

Christmas Hallows

“And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you; not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem, and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.” —Fra Giovanni Giocondo

I prefer to think of “hallow” in a verb tense, to honor as holy. We all deserve that I believe. To have our special times, thoughts and loves holy, hallowed. A special place between death and the awesome light of G_D’s plan, and what better time than Christmas to celebrate this moment. – D.S.

When I think of Christmas, I’ll think of this day, Mr. Clapton singing, how somehow love can’t stay. Still it seems a mystery, a divining plan, how in Christmas hallows, love can take a stand. Every truth is wonder, how we struggle to find, a deeper love or meaning, when its in us all the time. History revolves around us, here in peace on earth, the myth might be a baby, still we celebrate a birth. For something in these Christmas hallows is something with each of us that stays, perhaps the prayer of memory of tender moments strayed. Falling cold around us, I wish it would snow today. That would make these Christmas Hallows seem like Christmas day.

Somewhere there’s a story written on one hand, I think the inks still drying, it’s a dream I don’t understand. Of a place or story, a certain promised land, traveled to on Christmas. Lost and found again. May be Mr. Clapton found it on a day when his son went falling his spirit went away. Now in Christmas Hallows a round and round it goes, asking for our memory, saying don’t let go. Asking for our memory saying please, oh please don’t let go.

When I think of Christmas, I move as if to stray, suddenly, it’s a far time, long so long away. I am just a young boy in 1978, looking through a glass darkly, so much I can’t say. Wandering through a long hall, one without a way, is it just a dream, knowing that I’m changing, loosing childhood memories in hallows, gone for good on Christmas Day. Every moment meaning, a skip a carol unsung, do you know this feeling, to leave this earth? Rise yourself in Christmas, watching all your memories in reverse.

We are all just children beyond our age, thinking we are special near Christmas Day. Bringing forth our hallows of one time delayed. Yes, it comes at Christmas, a ghost, a space, asking us for something to give away. Just like Mr. Clapton, our sorrows in hand, asking for forgiveness from a light which draws us with it’s plan you see, draws us everyone with its plan. 12.28.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Zuzan (Banrigh nan Witches)

“I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, send the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky.” – Tibullus

In the act of prelude…

They burn her in the evening near the loch, an inward sea, hairless pilgrims from the Romans, who cannot abide what they cannot see. For they know not love of difference, nor the signs of transformation, so they burn her near the sunset, to set their superstitions free. Maple red it lights the skyway, like her skin in faire degrees, with the screams of a thousand angels as above and below deceived. For she is the heir of hierarchy, the share of all unseen. The voices of her sirens cry come forth thou, my craft it is aggrieved.

First act of the evening…

First I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve, with the air filled full of wonder, lights around her face and feet. She made me think of some wickedness the kind that is so grand, where you watch the pleasure of a lady, delivered by a softened hand. It seemed she did not notice me, where I was or what I am and it led me to a reason, that I was dreaming or a familiar, from an ancient tribe or clan. In the garden there were statues both alive and some were dead, and not alone some were speaking, and from those her mind seemed fed. And, she laughed in grand gaiety, and smiled her lips so bloody red, and she brought forth life from a cold stone woman, with a kiss upon her hand. Above the snow had stopped falling and shown bright north stars in those snowflakes stead. Not a sound from this garden except the laughter from her mouth, forming spells in passion noises, eagerness building all about.

I saw her look back shyly, her hand it waved my way, the brown ringlets from her brown hair fine, glistened as she swayed. Come with me sweet surveyor within my mind a voice. She led me to a crypt nearby from in it came a noise. She bent the handle without effort and with her hand, she waved, back through time, we entered through a doorway once her grave. The night sky seemed to follow, well before the dawn, down through magic passageways, from whence ghost travel from whence they come. Her body moved so lightly, as so as if to say, nothing has ever owned me, not ever without my say. For with this in mind I traveled from a present course, and arrived back in time so ancient she led me without force.

I came upon an altar in a sudden winters gloom, with ashes it still smoldered by a loch under a winters moon. The queen of all the witches turned to tell me of the ruins. Of all my crazed filled travels in dreams of rare displays. No nothing not of something had ever taken me this way. For it was her in this travel, that I learned of simple things, how the body burned for living, can never be decayed. In the simple act of hatred, in one act of just one play. The building of the sovereign spirit by craft can find its own way. For her story is the cosmos, her travel by air woven sleighs, and she has made her world in forest cathedrals, and there her book of shadows stays.

First, I saw her in Lucy’s garden on a snowy Solstice Eve.

For my Whitby Lady my very own, she who I followed through a garden – 12.23.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Pathways of Faith are Never Free

“…someday…, we’ll medicate human experience right out of the human experience.” – Dennis Lehane

“Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.” – Carl Gustav Jung

He writes a story in me, humming in words as he steps around our Christmas tree. Nothing of logic is key, though he answers the question of what it takes to be free. He builds a lion in me, hunting through the puzzles of his mind decisively, turning instantly, moving from mood to mood, nothing is broken if you can finally see. The picture of his sweet mind, the character of the essence that makes him love me undefined. For if, he should ever go away, I would weep without stopping and there I would die that day, my heart in darkness, blind. For he cannot go, while he stays, oh no he cannot go while he stays. He gathers from a different world he sees. Breaking down a fourth wall, dividing black out of white decisively. Fomenting conversation that draws mystery, he means everything to me. Oh, my son you mean everything to me.

The orbs of his eyes create a sea, a brown warm emotion that stops the worlds freeze. The mystic how it forms, layer upon layer over history it swarms, taking our discussions to the how or ever when. This world has many doorways let us open them from within. My son you are a fortress that no one ever sees, a stronghold of magic that forms a mighty keep. Weaving in and out of love like it is on a time release. The ways of G_D are strange to me. You whisper in my ear, “The pathways of faith are never free”. You say it while I sleep, “the pathways of faith are never free”.

He spins such ominous ghost, according to our dialogue they have established in his mind a host. Words a Psychiatrist plays, let us try this little pill just to get him through each day. For what is an interest to him, the opening of a beautiful mind, or the compartments we define them in. The days are passing quicker; before you know it, time will lose its way. So on the eve of winter when there is snow upon the ground. The sign of mankind’s judgment a line of demarcation all around. My son he rises holy and he points up to the winter stars, he swears upon his body, and he loosens his minds scars. He writes a story in me, and it will not go away, for in his own belief he seizes what is day. For nothing is of logic for in that is the key, to answer the one question that it takes to be free. Who is me? Who is me? For as we know, Faith is never free.

For my wife, daughter and especially my son, who has over paid the price of faith to gain the light. – 12.21.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

  • Over 80 million Americans took a Psychotropic medication in 2018