Elisheba (1911)


Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds.

A soft touch of air lights down on her shadowed nose, in the coldest of winter, in best of her dreams, she climbs through the storm, and counts as she goes. The seams of her thoughts the daemons take hold. Blonde locks of her hair freeze to her cheeks, a character flaw, when she’s not pretty and neat. The gentleman waiting, her husband some said, cares not for her soul, like the one enclosed, in memories of light that she’s had. One hundred and ninety-nine steps, steady not led, a shiny eyed specter, a past that’s not dead. Her eyes on the goal, somewhere, she knows, another world it waits, so different, then Whitby. There beyond the reach of her still living breath it flows. She’s still not a princess, a lady of class, yet now all those whispers tell her instead, she’s the queen that’s unbridled to ghost in her head. A wanton fire in need of the king’s bed. The whisper’s say, he’s just ahead.

An unmoving light in darkness, reflecting on the snow, the empty still, still darkness, not empty that, she knows. The Abbey a high place, a graveyard for the mass, the place her grandmother Lucy taught her of the pact. The contract in the shadows, the moving of the blessed, the points that part the curtains, when there’s nothing to hold her back. She thinks herself, an angel now, no broken wings, from her past now, no memory how he dragged her cross the floor, and beat her till she cried, the blood it ran, to something outside. They came those specters how they replied. Tore his thickened bones, with a curse they moaned. In your coven’s name, a culture oh, our sweet Beth your designation we claim.

She moves past stones her face now clearer, the whirling snow of judgment with her. The clouds they break, and all things are with her, now. And through it all her history heard her, she thought them lost, but how they drew her to this final place.

And Beth she calls the Daemon down, from this lost Abbey, the howling sounds, and from across the space of time and grace, her life of bruises becomes replaced. Elisheba, come and be my bride.

Open thee skies, come down, come down, open thee skies come down, where silence sounds, where silence sounds. – 05.23.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Morning Sun (1989)


I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun!

She came over Burlington, over that plains township on she rode, and pointed beams like the crown of the French lady in the New York Harbor, there upon the Colorado plain she strode. And I stood there in my bare feet on the back porch of my keep, and on Mother’s Day I watched the sun tread heavy over all who still would sleep. It could be I thought about the world turning, each soul reaching for what would not make it weep, but no not me, not me. I rated this the best day, watching something this way come. A day star raging magic spinning, oh life, in age we are, how far in age we are! Adonai, my love Adonai!

A barren testimony, a fire that seals the heat, upon this morning riding, the virtue, the seeds of earth do reap. A G_D that rides a chariot, oh angels staggered leap, by count of six and two they come, summoned by this fervor fashioned so deep. Upon the South Fork River with waves that wait to hold spring’s tide, the morning retribution of something born in wayward skies, Adonai, my love Adonai! The snow it piles behind me, much higher than the earth, the rage of all the heavens, the judgement of all the earth. Upon Long’s Peak, a thunder, a sound in May it flows, face your cold for battle, for upon the western wind the sun flows, upon my sunken cheeks the light it glows.

A circled revolution, a night has come to end, upon the plains, their rides a ghost of springs heat, and winters end. A witch of convocation, a word of mornings din, and there and here before my life, a fire it comes within. Like David before his last rites, a younger olden whim, the rotating earth has brought the sun to begin. Adonai, my love Adonai!

I thought about her, as I had thought about her so many years ago, up there upon the mountain, before summer where she strode, the morning sun! – 05.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


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


Madison Poe


Through woven passages, of books she travels, from language chanted when read, comes Whitby’s lost nightmare to do what he said!

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame. A strutting woman, from a lost dim year, too many to count she can’t keep them clear. Down SoHo’s through fare, her eyes weird, the coven is waiting, her charter is clear. Every married man looks at her to see what somethings there. The women they look too, her lips they’d kiss so faire. A quenching, that goes beyond fulfillment, they watch her figure all the same, as she struts, into dark places from the past she struts. Taking weakness from their lust she struts, nothing ventured, well nothing gained…

Madison Poe, exits the library, all around her, a familiar adores, through the door touching the witch wood, through the door she has entered before. Most would say a young lithe figure, taunt in flesh, curving with flow. Most would say the pipes of an organ, voice like a dark angel, from time still untold. Victorian tom-boy, she that runs barefoot so stable, here in the mist of Whitby’s best fable, come through a book, a keyhole of lore. Prancing like pixie dust cross the marble, her laughter brings crimson, into a room. Blushing each cheek, Lucy looks onward, her father’s manor, loses its gloom. The devil can wait for longer much deeper, under the cliffs where cold waters roar, Madison Poe, has come to the table, swooning, eyes darting, drawing the room. A shadow darts, she bites from the apple, Mina laughs, the coven has entered the room.

The gloom from the sea moves its way closer, the fireplace so willing, can’t take the flume. Madison Poe, her familiar around her, goes to the window, and calls down the moon. Turning so slowly her eyes like liquid, taking her hand she beckons someone, shadows come alive in the manor, wanton figures, move in the room. Ladies she breathes, I come from lost highways, a future waiting, where we are stars, looking down upon, this moment, I’ve seen it already, the melody of story is what we are. The beginning of his dark end we are tomorrow. For I have come from books beyond legend, wraithlike my eyes have seen angels fall. Brought down to these times here at Whitby, sweet Lucy, I kiss you, my Mina, I tempt you, all night, by these candles, we could scream out his songs.

Madison Poe, enters the library, all around her, a familiar adores, she leaves for a little while, gone to tomorrow, in sheaves of paper, a mistress of witching, a latitude long. Into the future, a circle of waiting, a spinning perpetual wait. Every lost memory, sorrow filled moment, into her familiar Madison Poe does take. And somewhere she’ll enter back to her darlings, back through the library, back to Whitby, her lithe figure sliding, back to her master, your weakness she will take.

She moves in pieces, a wanton frame, dressed like a pirate, from a long past fame.…-04.23.2017-דָּנִיֵּאל

Justice


“For I know,

He would not encumber me,

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother!”

The Hollies

Justice,

Passover is over, the journey self-begun, with whatever, the need my back can bear the sun. The gifts from someone, the borders for some, I am so blessed now, how can I not know you and not know someone, that looks like me. David’s inside me, Daniel too, I look in your eyes tortured, I see them both there too. And G_D’s not a menace, though it could seem that way, especially when your lonely, your physical body, no, maybe your soul, drowning in disarray. But look here, see these footprints, they seem to be mine, they have harbored death in curtains, but never made them a shrine. For here in this physical, this spirit made blood divine, I will carry you, in justice you will shine.

Justice,

The ark is a pyramid, built by a tribe, entombing lost glances of present purpose left behind. Addictions and lost thoughts, a happy hour too, but your built for displaying the light, apostle in you. it could be compassion, or justice in a strange flame, but when you look downwards, I’d asked you to explain. What purpose is living, when living is bad, when all you’ve been living in darkness is sad. Nay not it’s a gospel, say now it’s a creed, and justice in principle is what you can receive. And I am your brother, if your far or near, and we are together, as the end of time draws near. Not really a fatalist but something is near.

Justice,

Passover is over, the wilderness nigh, I hear changes calling, I must be strong.  I’ve my lost principalities, my stranger nights, looking toward the Jordan no water in sight. But then the  door has opened, our destination has moved in, and forward you and I in promise, we build justice, it’s carried, upon our sin. My promise as we walk, through fame through a flame, with lightning around, that dark cloud above the tabernacle, the sons and daughters of G_D’s name. I will carry you, as you carry me, in justice with all cuts and bruises, my name will be inscribed in you, as yours commits mine to the same.

Justice!

For my friend Sheila Lev-Rani – 04.18.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

On the Morning of the 16th


From the summit:

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.”

You love me, you created me so, to spin what’s difficult in my soul, to crush the shame in all its despair, Adonai, my Adonai you have brought me home. The judgment, that self-judgment that, wants my name, it wants my freedom, all my breath, these things you will not allow it to have. My G_D I do not cry out, as some have done, for here above lightning, in thin air, you change me, you bring me home.

I rest like a homeless man against a skyward overpass. An afterthought of the world that has asked for payment past. The lines upon my forehead match the different paths I cast, and just like a long-lost dream, the angel comes at last in spells the angel comes a craft it comes, and takes me home. We climb through the years of life, some good and some with taste, the after bitter lingering it’s not too much to take. I look back through this journey, my power is lost in stress. And I see the gauntlet just ahead, no Jesus, just the light, and love is taking me home.

Their rest upon the spring flow, just on Deadman’s pass, looking down at Red Feather, the place where my daddy rest. Their breaks a sudden trouble, with wind and lights and all G_D’s ways, with music that makes the dead play, and brings me home.

A moment for a wayward child, turning questions, with thoughts gone wild, is this Easter Sunday, or just a game? A breath of air a simple sigh, a homeward journey, in linear skies, an April blessing shoots in colors across the Colorado sky. Just us here, a spirit claims, just us here now with no religious games, there is no easter, there is no pain, just you and Adonai. Just me and Adonai.

It could be g minor, in four time, a drum kit playing, maybe it’s all in G_Ds game, maybe a lack of oxygen so far up here above. My Adonai at last you have come. And here I rest and touch the timberline, the place of high thin air. A genuine place of lullaby, where witches and darkness, turn to bare, all that is not modest from worlds below, and open place where what is ancient, says this is your place.

And here at home above skyline, my soul is shared between loose lines, and what is heaven is his flame, burned beyond recognition, blessed be, in more than seventy-two names. I rest like a homeless man, against a skyward overpass, that holds my name, and there in my Adonai is home.

“One could say a vision, one could say a plan, one could say a drunken place, where poets despair. One could call it anguish, a schizophrenic dream, maybe a last supper, some said it was Easter, or so by date they claimed. I would call it truth, a Passover, a strength in words that maybe I shouldn’t share, but how can I not, for it is home, out of Egypt and at last home.” – 04.16.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Mina


Mina’s back from America, sitting alone, in the dawn of the gray, her features are sharper than ever, her lips drawn back, with nothing to say. The steamer that brought her to Whitby arrived as quiet as a ghost, a gentleman’s folly for asking, what part of the journey the lady liked most. There’s changes of noticeable character, figures of dress that one should note, a spot of dried mud on satin, also her bust lines much tighter than most. Oh Mina, a matron has mentioned, your eyes have such devilish gay, says Mina, while she is still moving, at night down your body they’ll stray. A gentleman who stops by for calling, who eyed her while she was still in school, makes his visit much shorter, not sure of the discomfort, her sharp wit makes his lust a fool. He arrives his hair salt and pepper, and leaves with it so gray. His steps stumble throughout the garden, he’s heard to mumble, the woman is not so chaste.

Lucy stops by for biscuits, her flowers and dress in taste, what new fun did you find in America she whisper’s, and do I look okay? Mina plucks at an orchid, that sits tendering a tray. She brings it up to her red lips, and murmurs, tonight by the cliffs will that be okay, and oh by the way! He mentions your more than the cost of a fine gem, a singular sin in taste. He said it all in a moment, translucent as always, the case. Mina laughs as if she’s uttered a dark joke, her eyes dash down her friend’s waist. I’ll offer you more of the rest of his wants tonight, by the cliffs I can’t wait.

A shadow filled mist comes to Whitby, a steamer it moves back to sea, four glistening eyes watch from cliffs overhead, aghast at what they can’t leave. A Baphomet moment around them, immortal a spirit treatise. Mina’s back from America, the visit has sealed a found creed. – 04.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל