Mahogany Rush


It is starting to rain now, the jagged tops of the Flatirons disappearing in a Mahogany sky, swirls of vapor dragging down across the Boulder valley, the other world, is coming to Boulder in the rain!

Mahogany rush came through the May evening, just before it began to rain. The brown clouds move slowly over Boulder decreasing my heartbeat in its place. Indulgences of a figure moving quickly, giving moisture to my mouth, and then running slowly, with wetness, cold fumes are running south. A minute of amber liquid, not certain a chocolate stout, and outside it moves to rain. And all along the Front Range the rush came, sweet mahogany, a lower feeling, more stories moving from thunder to grace. Most of the time I see disappointment, a great deal of the time I feel blue. Matters not though really for in Mahogany I see truth. And truth is an answer that’s mellow better than youth. Only once in your life do you feel young enough, to know you’re really you.

Mahogany rush filled all the sky, crushed my ego in my view. Came sweeping through the St. Vrain grail, in glacier waters so blue. Said she wanted me forever, but first I must be new, like that of a young man seeking, that greater point of view. For life has an answer, when sometimes you do not have one clue. So, fill me with your storm clouds, and rain a story in my view. For Mahogany rushes me into heaven, draws its pictures in the rain, this back and forth endeavor. I feel somehow different, what is it I have gained. Though I may have my reasons, though I may have my pride, still I will tell you in dusk filled redness, mahogany rushes still inside.

Mahogany rush was naked, in the streams of a mountain side, a bad side of goodness, that laughed when I cried. But still she took me to her, and nursed me and made me try, for love is softer than silence, and sex is a man whose soul is tried. And sometimes the steppes of Longs Peak, brings me to its side, says the ghost of mystery, look to my clouds underside. For rain it is your mystery, words your heart without lies. Let all my mahogany rush gasping from out your inside. From out your inside! – 05.31.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

Advertisements

Sisters


Before there was Stephen King and “The Shining“, there was the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, and three sisters from Georgia who made a holiday in July of 1922.

Tessie say’s Elsie, it’s such a warm day, much warmer in the Rockies, the sun’s closer they say. Mary holds her dress high to step over a stone, say’s she, it’s not the land of cotton, but I don’t miss our home. The air it’s right for small talk, of what should have been, a bit of gin drinking, with tonic mixed within. Beyond the western terrace, the valley golden lays, behind the haunted walls of luxury, the rocks climb to where eagles stay. The evening grows much closer, as evenings always do, Mary looks at Elsie, what’s a girl to do? I’ve just been so lonely, since we left our boys, do you think they miss us. Hush dear now, says Tessie, they really have no choice. The sisters watch the sun set, crooked down it strays, Elsie says to Mary, it reminds me of our ways, as it goes towards Grand Lake as it goes away.

Tessie hears “Claude Debussy”, the piano in the dark, something from the ballroom, where music is an art. “Nocturnes” playing softly, while near her sisters lay, it’s been a day in Estes, where no one knows their names. Shadows play so distant, from a different time, once upon a small town, when all in life was fine. Outside time is moving under stars that play, someone mixing magic along the milky way. All is where it should be except a dark shadow on the stairs. A moving fist of darkness, a dameon of past care.

Elsie wakes to sunrise, a coldness in the room, her sisters are missing, for a moment she holds a fearful swoon. What if they decided to leave her here alone, and travel back to Georgia, to let the boys be not left to roam. But that would be so silly, for together they have strayed, and then she hears Tessie giggle from the doorway, and she’s okay. Another day in heaven, up where graces stray, up where a guilty soul, can hear angels say it’s okay. For here they are just sisters, women joined by heart, never would they let each other suffer from another’s harm. What they have together, muses in a way, better their sin forgotten, upon this sunny day. This sunny day.

Tessie say’s Elsie, it’s such a warm day, much warmer in the Rockies, the sun’s closer they say. 02.03.2018 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Covenant (Safe and Sound)


The angel entered covered up as all bad angels do. Disjointed thoughts in spider webs, so no one understood. Came he swiftly in the form of rapid movements and times, carrying life’s nothing’s, rhythms or what should really rhyme. Came he all of confusion, bringing violence in his name, possessed he the soul of the innocent to destroy and to maim. Oh, my son you are the victim of a cruel unusual joke, played upon your gentle feelings, your mind gone when you awoke. Came the fire of rapid synapses, over running neurons spokes, and your defenses fell a writhing, when the demon in pictures spoke. Showed upon the canvas of the inner child in you. A world that is burning, dragons, while reality spins from view. Human beings pulled apart, while monsters call your name, faster spinning thoughts they come, while the doctors diagnose blame.

Oh, my precious son, I’m helpless to mend your screams and cries, even Adonai, has left me, left me only here dried eyed. I look into your mother’s eyes as she holds you in your pain, the resolution repeated loud in safe there is a way. We repeat it through the path of broken thoughts and nightmare weaves. We keep you in our arms at night as the fear refuses to leave. The motion of a moving shadow seems to bring such terror, such cold. G_D my G_D you are so quiet, have you gone away, all we hear are platitudes from Facebook people who play their silly games. I thought by now, you’d come on down in roaring promised rage, delete the noun of madness sounds, and help us face this day.

Well my son, my precious son, the promise seems delayed, another day in Hade’s tomb, while madness has her way. Nothing really matters now, for what is lost was never found, we reach the place of no sound, but whispers we have to say, “safe and sound”, our love, “safe and sound”, today.

A dawn it comes as November’s sun, and your mother’s eyes look my way, the tears they pour like a river draining from a storm-filled lake. Somewhere in this broken house, within this finite place, a power of one is seeking how; in truth, we find the way. Safe and sound is the gift now found, from what we cannot pray. In this moment, quietness comes, and in the silence plays, oh my son, my precious son, you are okay. Above me whispers a voice, I am the same, in all silence, I am the same, safe and sound still here today! Still here today!

The angel took a quieter exit, covered, as all bad angels do! – 11.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For My beautiful son who fulfills the covenant!

The Harrowing of Hattie Killabrew

O’ terrible willow bent willow, born shady in back, taint not one star found you, by here near this shack. no sunlight, established or daemons begat, your seed from beginning, the hollow is black. The chorus of the sparrows has died by the crows, what used to be feathers has whitewashed to bones. The spell of the valley is from what this witch mourned. Her time born in living by mankind is scorned.

A great ream of pavement has woven its way, round the township of Pindall toward the valley it strays, it brings standing water that spills from the hills, and swamps Hattie’s back yard in the hallow so still. She thought herself dead, when the tractor came by, asleep sitting up in the year of Azrael, in 1925. She folded her cold fingers round her churn by the door, and pulled herself upward from where she sat so straight back, her bones so sore. A new U.S. Highway called 65, to Hattie its changing her life, comes her anger, its changing her life.

Round circles, embedded in oaks to the sky. O’ terrible willow bent willow, tattered and tried. The new moon brings darkness darker than before. Old woman seen, striding, then gliding cross the frost filled hollow floor. She hisses, “I’m harrowed” as she passes each grave, the ones in the clearing, filled by eons of age. The road crew from Harrison their fires burning bright, the smell of their lightning, tells something not right.

“Come Shemyaza”, “come Azazyel”, “come Amazarek”, with sight, bring “Akibeel”, “o host, taint a star fall, this hollow this night”. The stillness is closing the clamor and din, of faces round moving, the arrival of wind. The dirt dug grows closer, where men sing their songs, all wide eyed and laughing within. The one that leans forward and studies the flame. Sees in it his childhood, his lifetime of pain. “Come Danel”, “come Jazele”, “come hazeel” with pain, bring “slipknot”, “o host let blind eyes see shame”.

A great chasm opens from which comes the roar. The hollow grows wider all flames nothings warm, the road crew from Harrison gleans wisdom not born, the waking of nature, the eye of the storm. The twisting of tractors, of steel into earth, the hallow comes forward, and takes of its worth. The defect of ignorance has brought men, no more, the highway transitioned a mile from this lore. An old woman turns and walks backwards her feet tired her back sore.

O’ terrible willow bent willow, born shady in back, taint not one star found you, by here near this shack. – 10.25.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Evangeline


“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. – Arthur Conan Doyle

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. He’s speaking before her feet can move, the frosty air seeping from his twisted and thin lips. “You’ve dreamed again, haven’t yu “Eve”, bout that place, I heard yu singing about it, while yu did service to the lad’s. The service makes her shiver, the large bodies close to hers, eyes blurred, the smell of death and Opium on their breath, the reaper coming forth. The reaper coming forth.

From the Private papers of A.C. Doyle (a synopsis) – Saturday, June 7, 1890

She sings like crystal, with her eyes stark bare, looking towards something above us all that’s maybe in darkness there. The chandelier turns above her swaying but will not fall, my Louisa claims there’s soft skin writhing in each glass tear shaped swollen areola bare. I’m amiss at my judgment to think this maiden is earth, something turns with her vocal’s that makes my loins burn with thirst. My friend Stoker should be here to witness of what we see, the east enders crying before the angel of super naturality. All around the Haymarket, the air is so thick, her majesty, Victoria, asleep in her mist, of wonder that weaving, while this phantom sings. Evangeline oh poet, in me the hounds of Baskerville scream.

An act in two parts, she says between stanzas and times, she works magic in cunning, between high notes that climb. This lady from Whitby that knows all my mind, her wanton eyes searching, above north, for ladders I shall never climb. The fates have done risen, in graveyards sublime, her soft cockney voice inviting the audience, those around me so refined. It seems I can’t think straight, the melody is like a web, I look over at my Louisa she’s not breathing as if dead. The song of a night bird, falls around my company. Evangeline in her movements, what is she, I wonder what is she?

Her gown is luminous liquid, that runs high from her thighs, the gasp in the theatre, when her arms sway from side to side. Her enchanting voice, with lilt and so fine, and then she lowers her tones, all the world is entwined. Oh, magic sweet magic, from where does she arrive, I wonder of her outcome, this night so divine.

The chandelier lowers, calling deep unto deep, she mounts it, with her voice rising and touching. Her tenderness, comes in rushes, and I a doctor who have seen the arctic cold, cannot explain her frozen touches. Her frozen tender touches. And she rest me, and all torment becomes beauty, while she sings.

Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. A different time perhaps, as all times are different. Sail me home to Whitby, Evangeline whispers. Her frozen breath crosses things unseen.

They pass the Roman tunnels; that place from long ago. The crypts sail by in the damp air. She looks at Uriah, “that was a long time ago she whispers, a long time ago”. “Aye, he says, all is different now, still, he says, still…. – 09.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Red Barn (Cold Cold Heart)

Cold, cold heart!

On 14 just toward the bend in the road, toward the prairie grassland, where wild banshee’s roam.  On 14 there where there is an old farm, guards the opening of Sheol, stands the old red barn.  So I stand here alone, and I feel the hot wind, of a thousand voices, of a thousand sins.  I think some are within, and they sing all the same, if they be in or out, they say don’t you please want to stay.

And I wonder to myself, as my spine turns into chills, would the moon upon this night turn my fate into a kill?  Would my soul go deep inside, where it might be never found, would my actions be a coward, could my future be never still.

Cold, cold heart!

I suppose the red barn once upon a time held hay, or just a horse or two, before the devil came to play, and made the barn pay its due.  It could be just inside near the hooks, where the sheep would lay, there was an unease about the future of darkened days.  And standing in this sun, and standing still I do, I can’t but help but think, what it is about this red barn that made a mad man do what insane men do.

For Sharpe he was a wise man, who started on that day, with his face as red, as a dying star, to do his wife and friend away.  And he ran his Ford from Ault, with two hooks in the back, and he drove on down 14, to take his missus back.  For Sharpe he was desirous to have what was lacked, to bring the spirit of divorce to bring it to a fact.

Cold, cold heart!

In his eyes he saw a red barn, as magenta as his face, and inside of that old red wood, lay his wife upon her back.  And Sharpe he pictured murder, oh he pictured his friend’s back, moving up and down upon his dear wife, in their passion they did not lack.

So I stood upon the highway with the sun burning red, and it showed the paint was peeling from the red barn where Sharpe attacked.  And it seemed I heard the screams now, as the hooks came raining fire, or it could be banshees laughing, as they brought the dead on back.  And I thought about my thinking, of waiting on the moon, to see what would happen, or think what if it could.  And I moved myself transfixed then, not determined in anyway, and thought maybe it better to wait another day.  So I drove on to the highway and I headed my way home, and I passed an oncoming Ford pickup truck, with a man looking onward.  His face was red, and his eyes were rolled on back.

Cold, cold heart!

Eddie Sharpe murdered his wife Edith and best friend Drew, in a red barn that sits off of Highway 14 near the Pawnee National Grasslands on Monday, August 8, 1960.  The barn is said to be haunted, and it certainly appears that way to me. – 08.08.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Virginia Dale (Soaked)

She stood at forty-nine, just a sprite on the ninth of May. Well she stood like a banshee a bride denied, before the moths flew about colder still near the Wyoming blue, on the Colorado side. Just a ghost watching cars go by. My Missus looks over, says” it seems a little colder”, meanwhile Bruno Mar’s sings about his oh so selfish ways. I look and see the church at the Dale, the witch she pleads stay with me. I’d like to tell you as you read, I’d like to paint a picture of what I see. For the ancients from the highlands on the other side, those silent that only speak after they have died. Say they come and know the spirit as their soaked, as their soaked.

We drove on for a minute or two, I turn to her, “did you see her too”? She looks away and cry’s, the tears are so hard to find, for there at Virginia Dale, lightning falls, and tears the vale, of rocks and wind and trees. The spirits ascend and so do we. And driving on to the Forks, 287, turns from the North, and all of a sudden we look and we see the far end of heaven the host of banshee’s, crying out, you will never leave, and I know. I’m soaked to the bone, I’m left in a flood, of the ghost I see. For there in Virginia Dale, in the bow of the highlands, where heaven does dwell. For some say heaven’s gate, most would say have you had more enough then you can take. I look to the Missus and say, can we forsake. Life and all its monetary dreams. Can we stay here where Cantor’s can’t sing, and no religion dwells. Especially that church we saw in the Dale. And hallows will ring, and through the thin air we will fly and be soaked.

She stood at forty-nine, a siren, rhyming, where mountains do climb, and just by Virginia Dale, she soaked my soul, and she left my mind to dwell. I look to the Missus and see, she’s lost in a dream, and what hurts, is I can’t tell her I see, it all too well. Were lost and Soaked in the dark rim of rock that surrounds Virginia Dale. Eternity left with stories to tell, eternity left with stories to tell. (Soaked).

MF …lost his wife in a car accident outside the Virginia Dale, Colorado Church on Highway 287, Friday, May 9, 2014. It was raining. He died from complications from the physical injuries he sustained from the automobile accident one week later. He claimed he saw and heard his missus, as he passed before his Rabbi’s eyes, and his final word was soaked. – 07.10.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל