PRAYER OF MONTEISOLA

"Franciacorta- Lago d'Iseo" Pier Paderni

(Author's Note: Monteisola, a magical island on Lago d'Iseo, Lombardia, Northern Italy, where according to legend of the Theta Universe*, possesses magic powers of enlightenment, creative thought and imagination. It is thought to be a rejuvenating source of artistic abilities, especially abilities that have been lost through successive lifetimes with their attendant catastrophes, vicissitudes and travails.
Moreover, as legend relates, Monteisola is known as a spiritual concourse for displaced ancient peoples of past or lost civilizations, such as Celts, Gaels, Peoples of Danll also known as the Tuatha Da Danann, Etruscans, Minoans, Phoenicians, Norsemen, Sumerians, Egyptians, Persians, Afghans, tribes of the ancient India sub-continent as well as gnostic sects of various civilizations through the ages. It is said to be protected by a mystical race of artists called Orizzonti Aperti, or Open Horizons. Present day Italians on Lago d'Iseo refer to them as Kings of Fantasy. Their purpose is to safeguard and carry forward the ancient magical path or way which is the light and inspiration of all artists.
*Theta Universe refers to the spiritual universe of thought and spiritual beings.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Monteisola!
Return to us beauty again.
With your love again
show us how to love.

Steer us to our creations
which is our light
to lift us from darkness
and dream again.

Guide us to truth,
the gift of endowment
from our Creator,
that in such a knowing
again we shall be free.

Teach us the world of illusion,
the actual from pretended,
the spiritual from material,
the immortality of our souls.

Thus
imbued in the Arts
and swept across the lands,
freedom shall reign again
and spiritualness be
our splendor.

Wherein,
there is clear life
brimming with wonder,
and thus created
again and again
as much again
will be forever
a world without end.

Amen.
~~

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

A SONNET FOR THE SEASON

"Magic Tree" (Watercolor Francis Don Daniels)



It's the season for giving. What gifts to give
to friends. Printed money buys but shallow things.
What belongs to you and me in those things for sale?
Just wondering, for if nothing, are they ours to give?

Vogue brands and names, haute jewelry and jems,
e-gadgets, smart phones and pads, I-Thingamajigs.
Herded shoppers foraging the isles for bargains,
dated no sooner torn from the shimmering wrap.

Let's kick old agreements, "Go Green", "Buy Local".
Spread out our wings blankly into the wind
like seasons touch the hill and groove and sea.
Embrace each other in subtle thoughts and dream.
Is this not the string of pearls we want to purchase?
Don't quibble; make the exchange. It's our cash to spend.
~~

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

SOUTH FLORIDA CHRISTMAS

Tropic air settles
on the cheeks
like a warming kiss.

Wafting breezes,
palms and clouds
float with ease.

No twinkling lights,
no snow-laden trees,
no wood-crackling fire.

Days warm and long,
nights balmy and free
sweeping us away
in a dream. A gift
from the Christmas Muse
to exotic lands.

Hard to imagine
how Santa does it
amid such props-
no chimneys to slide
and Rudolph's Gang
in humid temps.

Almost forgot
it's Christmas
and would have
had it not been
for the sea gulls
singing carols.
~~

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

INSTANT CREATIONS

"GONDOLIN"

Like mirrors looking
back to forgotten paths,
laughing
loving
dreaming
dream's food
images de javu.
~

A magic carpet
thoughts ride
endless colors
endless skies,
timeless momemts
worlds unknown
but known.
~

Spirit of Light
Goddess of Night
whose starburst flush
my eyes,
could it be
my old home,
my friends,
my loves,
my life.
~

What piper this be
who guides me here,
what god he serves,
what rite.
~

Naked
in the sound
stripped and bare
free formless form
I am
floating
in air.
~

Cross twinkling lakes
and bamboo stream,
drenched
in winds
of unchained melody
and love unbound
by space
and time.
~~

The title of this work "Instant Creations" is taken from the musical work by the same name created by Pier Paderni and Andrea Ortu. "Gondolin" is included with the permission of Pier Paderni as well. You may visit each of these creative artists at:
http://users.libero.it/index.html, http://users.libero.it/andreaortu/timebandits.html

THE TIMELESS SPELL - L' ENVOI

And so went the tragic love between Papys, the lost sailor of the seas, and the mysterious siren.

So heart wrenching and harrowing the account, it is said that all who heard it became speechless, dumbstruck or tongue-tied, unable to utter a single word.

What meaning and awareness could two people have for love. What potential for greatness. What cataclysm of disaster.

And to this very day, the tale is passed just as it was when first uttered from the lips of Papys himself.

Following his revelations, Papys made a solemn vow to alter his faultful ways and pledged first and foremost to honor committment to love.

It is unclear where Papys encountered shipwreck. Some think as far west as the Great Pillars is where he met demise. This may well be true, for Papys making his way back out onto the seas, joined up with the wandering Sea People, estranged souls like himself who are thought to be the lone survivors of sunken Atlantis.

Together they sailed for two harsh years across the open seas in search of a new home. Finally, they reached the endearing land of Phrygia, a sunny peninsula extending from Hellespont to the protected waters of Propontis and,in the direction of the rising sun, to the hidden waters of Pontus Euxinus.

They named their new home Dardanus.

The days passed and life slowly was more livable, though happiness remained elusive. Then on one sunny, balmy day as Papys was riding the flickering waves of Propontis, as he was dreaming with the billowing sails gently breathing to the rhythm of the wind-he saw again-the crystal eyes. The crystal eyes he should never forget.

The stare, piercing his every inch of being, pervading him with the same charm for which he agonized and yearned. Abruptly, he turned away, not wanting to look. Not wanting to be tempted. But some things by nature we cannot change. Unable to keep himself suspended in pretense, he gave in, turning to his leeward side and the omnipresent glow of the crystal eyes.

And there in all her wonderous glory and unspeakable beauty stood the naiad, Clyromneme.

No words of sorrow were spoken. No gestures of propiation. No utterances of apology. It was as if the world had started over.The old ended and a new one begun. The magic that had been lost, suddenly returned.

From that moment on, they never parted sight. Trusting themselves once more, Papys and Clyromneme were wedded man and wife.

They spent magic nights on the moon-illumined waters of Propontis among the dreaming islets, recounting the stars where thry once lived and the secrets of the old ways of living and being. By day, and at the zenith of summer solstice, they sauntered the hidden strands and off coves of Pontis Euxinus where sunlight dappled within the rock, pebbled sands, loitering to the magic tales spun by night stars the evening before. There they dreamed. Learning again the old ways that had been forgotten. While along the enchanting shores of Biga, they practiced their games of whims and fancy and making love.

As the days passed, their love grew stronger. Clyromneme found herself with child and gave to Papys a son who they named Troas.

Papys and Clyromneme taught Troas the secrets of life they had recovered, and Troas following their example soon rose to become the great Prince of Dardanus.

Troas was wise and good. He ruled the Sea People by the Golden Rule of Love. And the Sea People flourished and prospered and succeeded to heights never before imagined. Their numbers increased as more mortals and naiads, many of whom had been set to siren ways, intermarried and followed the secret path.

Some claim the Sea People never die and are immortal. Though they live, they are no longer recognized, for they live as spirits drifting like the winds. Some, from time to time, assume forms as they wish, but unbeknownst to the mortal world.

According to tales of old salts, they became immortal because they came to understand the secret of how love makes up the woof and warp of the Universe. In the same way that contrast between land and sea becomes a unity of one planet.

Though some accounts by old salts suggest to having heard the shrill siren call along cloistered fiords, sheltered firths and secluded bays where some sirens yet choose to remain solitary among the fishes and coral, not a single soul to date has been lost to the treacherous, craggy coasts.

Thus goes the tale of The Timeless Spell, its trials and tribulations, and how it was overcome.
~~

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels All Rigts Reserved.
Thanks to Susi Galloway for her permission to include "The Siren's Lure"
with this writing. You may view other of Susi's fine art works by going to
http://susi-galloway.artistwebsites.com

THE TIMELESS SPELL - THE EQUATION

THE SIREN'S LURE


Pictures winged
in three dimensions
before my eyes,
dartling
one and then the next
a panorama of existence
soaked
with emotions
I could not explain.

A glimpse
first here
then there,
a familiar likeness,
while others
too odd and strange.

Was this yet
another conjure
of the siren,
or the quandry
of modern man?

The pictures flashed on
as if to tell the story
of the hourglass-
a cinematic journey
of whom and where
I'd been.

Places vague and unknown,
persons with foreign tongues:
Universes anongst the stars,
worlds cast somewhere beyond;
A man devoted to the Arts,
A man who's waging wars;
A man of indelible strength,
A man of pitiless flaws.

Before my eyes
plunged
impinging pain
of the lapses of life.
Before my eyes
poured
the meaness
I'd become.

And her face
the tears
gently trickling
in tiny beads
down her cheeks.
The sadness
in her crystal eyes
that now
pangs
my tortured heart.

No matter how hard
I tried, I
could not stop
the onslaught of pictures
revealing
in blatant color
my frailties, deceit
and lies.
Until,
at last,
I reconciled
the upheaval
of my transgressions.

A dichotomy
as clear as
duty and omission,
as clear as
the artist
and the thief.
To realize my pain
and suffering
came not from her resentment,
but from my own demise.

That my wounded cries
were of my own affliction,
the hourglass
my empty sands.
~~
Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.
"The Siren's Lure" used with the permission of Suzi Galloway.
To view other of her fine art works you may go to
http://suzi-galloway.artistwebsites.com

THE TIMELESS SPELL-AN EKPHRASIS

THE SIREN'S LURE




Woman
of infinite beauty
eyes of crystal
and celestial body
horizon where sleeps
the eternal sun.

Goddess of Seduction,
Sorceress of the Seas,
a thousand lips of kisses.
Immortal seed tempting
love and charm
like a dream you came to me
and I fell into your arms.

Out on the blue deep,
I, but a lone seafarer
when you came.
So shrill the siren call
I could not tell
the sky from the sea.
Endless hours of hope and despair
driven by your lure, is it to end
without your love-

To be my Calypso
bound
to the Earth
revolving
black to gold,
tracking
with the seasons
the oceans' ebb and flow
to end upon the jagged shores
of the lost and gone,
kept as your pawn
my captured soul.

In the hourglass
the sand that flows
is me, from
life to life
in a timeless spell.

Lost
on a desert caravan
I roam the dunes
of ancient time,
withered and parched
and mind awry,
forlorn
of your magic waters.

What man or immortal
has betrayed you,
so bled your heart
from ill-promised love
that with resentful will
all men you scorn?
To suffer the pain
of your broken heart;
To be the fuel
for your sadistic love;
To burn and be
your redemption.

And now
leaving me
as between
Scylla and Charybdis-
the machine existence
of modern man,
despoiled of native sentience
to endure living by drugs
and surigal means
and worship
the gray mattered brain.

Return me
to where you found me
out on the deep blue sea,
as the fishes
who swim at you side
or the coral
who color your reef,
to live in the waters
of your crystal eyes.

Woman
in my mind
the hourglass flows
only for you.
If only I can keep
this heavy heart adrift
lest it drown
in its sinking sadness.

Woman
of infinite beauty.
~~
Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels. All Rights Reserved.

Many thanks to Suzi Galloway for her permission to include "The Siren's Lure"
with this writing. You may review other of her fine art works by going to
http://suzu-galloway.artistwebsites.com or sgnarts.imagrkind.com

IMMORTALITY

It seemed strange
that I should know you
before we'd even met.

How do I explain.

Or
how to keep
an honest face
no trace
of withholding.

Or
an anxious heart
eager
to spill its stories
of things then till now,
hushing it
from musing aloud.

And
places far away
I must admit unvisited,
yet speak wildly about
as though
were natively bred.

Words like "surreal"
or "deja vu",
do they get
me off the hook,
or add confusion
to sanctioned glibness
belying
the truth.

Of a magic in the world
of immortal being
few given to understand
not from lack of senses,
but estrangement
from freedom's sails
to waft the universe
of thought.

As on a poet's lips
dreaming
to the melody
of his breath
and wandering
in wildernesses
of silent creation.

To wake to find
the life of dreams
today is created,
but live
in another time.
~
Copyright Francis Don Daniels 2010.
All Rights Reserved.

THE FIREDREAM

(Author's Note: In support of the aspirations
of the Havasupai Indian Nation.)

I feel wild again
like those wild and wooly days
we chased the buffalo
and the nights slept
beneath the stars.

Even,
my heart runs wild-
wild with hot emotions
of tomorrow's deadly hunt
and challenge to live.

Within the campfire
resides abandon
recounting
the path lost yet still worn,
the mixed metaphors
hovelled in ash-

The winds of gathering strength,
the quiet of calm surrender;
The tempest of violent flame,
the hush of dying embers;
The mover of earth's destruction,
the maker of new existence.

And awakens the firedream.

Wild with imaginings-
visions
of the Great Spirits
who make talk
above the mounds
they lie.
When one day
I, too, shall hunt
the great buffalo
of the sky.

And fearless
will I be, upon
the broad wings
of the bright and shiney bird
who nests on the dark
clouds of night
streaked
from the deep
like a fallen star.

"COURAGE IN THIS LIFE IS
GREATNESS IN THE NEXT."

For now,
I must cherish
the sayings
of the Great Fathers
as I cherish
the warmth of the campfire
that keeps my heart
alight, and dream
on morning's fresh odors-
wildflowers drenched
in gouts of dew.

Conserving
all other wild feelings
when face to face
with the buffalo-
face to face
with the will
and courage
to live.

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

A POEM FROM MY POCKET

I wait for you
where the sun sleeps
and the moon laughs
at the night stars
trying
to out do each other.

In the soft sunlight
of the morning
when tulips waken
from winter sleep.

In the glistening dew
that bathes their faces
and with fantasies
blushes their cheeks.

In the living drift
of pollen and bloom
pronouncing
the season of creation,
I wait for you.

With spotted-winged monarchs
drunk like gods on nectar
making rounds
garden to garden.

With the ebony twilight
tucking in the sun
from a day of summer work,
prompting the night jasmine
to let out its charm,
until, the sun yawns
stretching itself out
across the broad sky-
I wait for you.

By golden fields
brindled in cocks of hay
for four-legged dwellers
where it is home.

By the trelliswork
sloping along the lane
and towards the stream,
the leaves rust and gold
soon to shrivel and die.

By the gathered vintage
marvelous to the eyes
and joyous in the stomping,
but pricking to the mind,
I wait for you.

Beneath the naked trees,
the bare fields,
the sulking sun
who barely whispers hello.

Beneath the smile
the frown that grows
with each chilling frost
and each swing of snow.

Beneath the quilts
pied with tulips and hyacinths
made with a mother's love
though warm-
I am cold-

On the porch
of far away places,
in the window
of imagination,
at the door
opening
to the soul-
to go with you
through the seasons
of dreams.
~~
Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

THE PLAYINGFIELDS

My world
what does it mean.
Is it only this playingfield
of Earth?


This body
that bears a name
saying it's me,


or something
more intimate
as the spirit me.


The game
of make believe
when we were small
seemed
so easy to play.


Remember-
when you played
in the yards
with friends or alone
imagining
yourself a Knight,
Damsel,
a King
or Queen.


The wonder,
the freedom
of those moments
that seemed to go on and on.
as if there were no time, no time.


How all
would banter
back and forth
exclaiming their imaginings
to be the best-

I can hear it now-
"No! Let's play Knights!"
"No! Mine's better. Let's play Pirates!"

(Look at my universe.
Can't you see it?")

When the playingfields changed
by others more powerful
who by age or status elected
to tell others what to play.

In places like schools
and churches and chomes-
and rules- agreements marching
to the beat of the clock
going
tick-tock,
tick-tock.

To grow old and arthritic
our youthful bodies
once fearing not
a leap,
a risk.

But now to feed
on daily prescriptions
just to stay even
with the next
tick,
tick,
tick...

And pray to God
our souls to take
to the banished worlds
cast beyond
where meaning's trapped
on the playingfields
of our dreams.

You say,
Why do you write such sad verse?

Very well.
Say no more.
Look no further-

than for your Pirates,
your Kings and Queens
who wait for you
on the playingfields
of your dreams.
~~
Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

BERRIES AND THE WINE

Take my hand.
No, no don't let go.
We'll fly the heavens high,
sail the oceans far and wide.


You and I,
we go together
like colors and the rainbow.


As we sleep on sugared sands,
the wind and waves
refresh our dreams,
like sunlight warms the earth.


For they and we
we go together
as salt goes with the sea.


At dawn
let me take you in my arms,
two souls fusing worlds,
two hearts beating as one.


For yours and mine
they go together,
one blood
in space and time.


One Universe.


Like berries
and the wine.
~~
Copyright Francis Don Daniels 2010

THE FORK

I stand alone
in a state of nature
in an open field
on a mountaintop

beyond tghe fork
I paint the frailty of spring
dream in subtle glints of snow

when all the while
to tunes of the wind
I sing.

I stand alone
in a garden of roses
in a flooded marsh
on a pebbled shore

beyond the fork
I'm a giddy bumblebee
a stoic-stanced egret
a weathered dream treasure trove

and to riffs of the wind
I sing.

I am the joy
of sentience
of all things

a fleeting space
a touch away
fron infinity.

In the other direction
matrices of signs and symbols
equation predicted nature

all-encompassing
Nobel Laureate stuff
Einstein and Pavlov
invalidating
all who dream.

Engineered nature pegged
to sets and subsets
urges and fixations
instincts and reactions
suppressing the spirit.

Identity
a single lifetime
pinned to a body
of certain death
and no future.

Rock, planet, atmosphere,
plant, ocean, animal,
man, child and gene
disemboweled
the same and soulless.

The woof and warp
of a world
fleshed machine.

Like Frost
how glad I am
I chose the fork
less traveled.
~

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.

I Cieli di Novara

( Author's Note: These lines are inspired by the magical band of the Summer Of Love of 1967, It's A Beautiful Day, and by the magic skies of North of Italy, the great space where dreams play between the snow-capped mountaintops and the warm, blue Mediterranean Sea. )



I miei occhi
e il mio cuore
sognando
con i colori delle nuvole

matuare
nella fontana di cristallo
dei cieli di magica
di Novara.

E sono nato
e sono libero
impaurito nessuno piu'
per creare le mie fantasie.

Il mondo gira in tondo,
la neve copre il suolo,
gli alberi dormono dolcemente
nel letto di inverno.

Ma solo,
l'uccello bianco canta
il suo sogno,

volare,
alto con le nuvole
volare come me.

Quando, tutto subito,
il sole fuso la neve
a ha scaldati gli alberi,

ed il vento
scorrere
come un fiume,
scorrere le ali di magica.

E l'uccello bianco vola
la montagne,
i mari
ed i cieli di magia

dove
per sempre,
errare i sogni.
~~
Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels
All Rights Reserved.
~~


The Skies Of Novara


My eyes
and my heart
dreaming
with colors of the clouds

growing
in the crystal womb
of the magic skies
of Novara.

And I am born
and I am free
no longer afraid
to make my dreams.

The world spins round,
the snow covers the ground,
the trees sleep softly
in the winter bed.

But, alone,
the white bird sings
her dream,

flying,
up high with the clouds,
flying just like me.

When, suddenly,
the sun melted the snow
and warmed the trees,

and the wind,
flowing
like a river,
flowing with magic wings.

Now the white bird flies
the mountains,
the seas
and the magic skies

where
forever,
wander our dreams.
~~
Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels
All rights Reserved.

Gypsies Like The Wind

The bracing air eddied
past the sliding glass door
left ajar at the corner of the room,
as I scrambled to retrieve

the swirling pages and clips and nicknacks
upset by the sudden flurry, thinking
a visitor may be calling, or more likely,
the gypsy wind looking for respite.

I eased my way through the opened door
out onto the porch, and as I imagined,
no night callers there, nor
any reason for concern, when I heard

a peculiar stirring in the wind.
Not cries or voices familiar or unknown, but
faint rumblings, quaint and curious, with power
not unlike a magnet, drawing

me closer and deeper into the night.
Giving in to the charm, I
dawdled along, the sounds as my guide,
stronger and louder, until

a few blocks hence came the park,
the one I often haunted
on winter evenings like these,
where on the teardrop-shaped pond,

fringed with hunched cypresses
bent over from years of devoted shading
the waterlilies and grasses and reeds,
and residence to a chorus of riant frogs-

each one in its own way was my repose.
And grandest with full moon and starry sky,
as glancing moonbeams shown
the waterlilies sleepy faced-

hallf-opened, half-shut, tuckered out
from a full day's pose, giving their all
waiting up for the gala- and,
the cypresses, their shadows whiffling

across a silvery-glazed pond, conducting
a jocund choir of amphibians.
Though hearing them go on for hours, I
never once laid eyes on them, too shy

or scared to show themselves, hiding
somewhere deep in the reeds, blending
with the floating pads, unsure
of address or stay- as tomorrow,

when construction crews break ground
on a four-laned highway straight through
this amphitheater that's now called
home.

And where will they go-
the lilies and reeds and merry music-makers-
when this moon-illumined slough's no more?
Many years it took the cypress trees

to shape their bending love. I'd forgotten
tomorrow was the day. I
wanted to- wanted to forget
even the joys of this night,

the impermanance of this world-
that we are gypsies just like the wind
with home somewhere else not yet found,
lest we ever regret its ending.
~~

Copyright 2010 Francis Don Daniels.
All Rights Reserved.