Anticipation, Retrospection, and a Time to Be

The shift of December into January reminds me that Time is a fickle friend. The adage of, “time flies when you’re having fun” does seem to apply more readily at my ripe old age. It confounds me how, as we age, Time seems to just meander through the woods without our consent.

            For example, at four I was anxious to attend school. I wanted to learn and share “best friend” charms. When Time allowed the change of class structure in junior high, I felt a shift away from childhood. Happily, I waved goodbye to the naps and innocence I now cherish. At thirteen, the angst settled in as I began to construct an identity. I desperately needed my mother but just as readily pushed her away.

I was elated at eighteen because I was finally legal and could vote. I dreamt my life away on Sunset Boulevard at twenty-one. Ages twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four were left in a neon stupor between varying county and state lines. Twenty-five I rented a car legally for the first time. And suddenly, I woke up. I was married, had a house, and children. I wondered, when did this all happen and could I have a mulligan on those missed naps?

            Time - the ineffable measure of experience. Everyday we rise and ponder the monotony: our jobs, mortgages to be paid, pets to feed, children to take to school, a dinner to make, or a business meeting in the evening. This culture we live in demands production. It seeks immediate gratification. It can leave us wanting, wishing for something better, brighter, or happier tomorrow.

I recently discovered that we seldom grant ourselves the permission to be present, to enjoy the everyday gifts from Great Mystery. Be it the laughter of a child, the sun’s warmth on our faces, the air wafting across our visage, or enjoying the company of a loved one. We spend enough time anticipating the future, trying to mould it. We spend enough time looking retrospectively into the past, wishing we could change it.

What if we tried living for today’s simple delights?

Margaux Cauldren - Pintrest

2014 © DNKG  Anticipation, Retrospection  and a Time to Be

Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

The black mirror glistens

as golden flakes blow to rest

and turn to die

The audience burns

against the still green backdrop

which Spotlight commands

A canopy of Amber

sentinels the halcyon scene

as tears roll down, kissing shale

Following the Mozz

2014 © DNKG

Thunderous Echo upon Vacant Heavens

Echo and Echo...

it Echoes

You knew all this

before

You knew all this

as if

condescension 

somehow aids,

pacifies.

Heartache

stifles the fire

that burns and turns

and turns,

that viciously

and aggressively is

stepped upon, extinguished.

With an entrance, with a smell,

with a look, with a touch.

Push through with

Charlatan's smile.

The Phoenix

bathed in cinders

stranger to Rebirth.

Fire, from whence it drew life,

now suffocating, relentlessly

Choking.

A prisoner to its myth,

to the pages of its Creation.

All eyes watch.

All eyes cast Judgment.

All eyes turn away.

Gasping, now wingless,

Mighty Phoenix,

stifled by the clutches

of its own doing

Of the Echo and Echo

that Echoes

You knew all this

Before

You knew all this

But did you, in your innocence,

count on this?

© 2012 Philip Pryke

2014 © DNKG Thunderous Echo upon Vacant Heavens

Beautiful Differences: How Travel Changes Life and its Perspective

Traveling has been a near obsession of mine since I was a child. An all - consuming fire was ignited when I became I teenager atop the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France. Now, an intrepid explorer, you can find me in various states or countries in one trip: packing in rich cultural experiences, speaking with the locals in their language, and savoring local eats.

An appreciation for differences is the subtle gem of my travels. In my recent trip to Italy and Greece, I was fortunate enough to meet and make friends with individuals from all over the world. I felt like an infant as the murmur of languages enveloped me. I learned about the unique beauty of their lands, their pride in their countries as well as their dismay in the politics of their own towns. Each shared stories of their childhoods, of their favorite beaches and cafés, and their thoughts on American culture. Each story was different but homogulous to the next. Souls brought together by a common yearning; strangers yet kin.

Traveling reminds me of the fragile, harmonious dance of Humanity. We all create the beautiful tapestry that is our home, each contributing to its towns, flavors, and essence. I feel fortunate to be surrounded by the abundance of differences. I relish in the opportunity to listen to the narratives of new friends, fellow travelers, and the occasional misanthrope. It is an honor to bear witness at the junctures when their relatives graduate from college, as a significant other receives a promotion, when they welcome new life, or while we embrace them during a loss. I feel privileged to know their stories of courage and survival, tales of immigration and emigration, and rebuilding life by sheer will. It is humbling to be in such energy, such Light, that I return home a changed woman. Each time.  

Let us be as new explorers with fresh eyes this Season of Miracles. May we be reminded how, at the core, very little distinguishes one human from another human, an “us” from “them”, or a visitor from family. Sometimes all that bars us from accepting each other is a cultural oversight, a language barrier, or a simple difference between the Humanity that connects us all.

2014 © DNKG Beautiful Differences

Lost and Recaptured: Tales of Love Unspoken

Any similarities to individuals living or dead, real or fictitious is purely coincidental.

Lost and Recaptured: Tales of Love Unspoken
Perdido y Recuperado:cuentos de amor tácito
Perdu et Recouvré: L'histoires d'amour tacite

Series one/Serie Uno/Série Une: 

Love's Forlorn Call: To respond or let it Extinguish

Llamada desesperada del amor: para responder o dejar que se extinga

L'appel désespéré d'amour: à réponde ou renonce

Letra #1
Hola hermosa bella, yo mi llamo Andrés Rodrigo Rojas. No hablo bien yo, por eso te estoy escribiendo. 
Yo soy un soldado muy lejos de mi país en España, aquí en tu ciudad.
Te quiero preguntar cómo te llamas? Eres tan hermosa, no sé si eres una princesa, o una Reina? 
Con tus ojos tan mágicos que mi pierdo cuando mi midas. Tu cuerpo se parece tan suave, 
sus labios miran tan dulce como el miel de los abejas.
Lo sé que es un reina de este país y por eso nunca vas a querer estar con un hombre como yo. 
Y por eso te voy llamar la reina de mi corazón. 
Así como te amo, nomás te quiero detener Y en mis brazos.
Tuyo en amor,

Andrés 

Lettre 1

Bonjour Monsieur Rojas,

Il a été quatorze nuits depuis que 

votre passage sur la propriété de Son Majesté.

Votre mots, Ambroisie des anciens et passions

qui alimentent le feu, je m'emplie de curiosité.

Les information de votre lettre m'a j'eté plus

profondément à l'Ombre de Son Majesté,

taciturne et méfiant à tout les hommes

espagnols, authentique ou non.

Mais plaisir profond, arrive ma Dame, sa fierté

et amour pour le ciel Andalou peint. Vos mots

tombent sur la peau...comme la soie pure, doux

et pourtant, sensuelle. C'est l'accent peut-être.

Pardonnez-moi, mais je dois vous dire que ma Dame

encourage un rendez-vous seulement pour sa amusement.

Ce n'est pas pour moi.

Vous m'avez appelé une Reine, mais Reine, Je ne suis pas. 

Je suis juste une femme qui cherche pour

le confort et être consolé dans un monde brisé - la haine, 

la guerre, mes pleurs; C'est trop lourd à porter.

Tous le jours, Je cherche pour 

les bras qui peut remplir mes jours et mes nuits, que

la lumière de la lune se répand sur la terre, la rajeunir.

Ce qui vous vous êtes senti, dans notre bref coup dœil, 

n'était rien plus que l'ardeur. 

Je suis digne de plus.

V.M. Maison de Habsbourg

Letra #2
Buenas noches mi reina. Mí hace mucho gusto para ver tu letra. No sabía si mí ibas a escribir. 
Mi da felicidades que mis palabras te dio curiosidad. 
El pasión que tengo de dentro necesita un salida, quiero ese salida será usted.
Hablas del cielo de mí Andalucía, pero lo as visto en persona? 
Cuando vi a tu sonrisa sentía cuando yo era un niño jugando
en la playa abajo de las estrellas en el verano de 
eso maravilloso cielo de Andalucía. 
Y por eso lo sé que no es lujuria que siento para ti, 
es un amor que mi quema por dentro. 
Si el pasión que siento por todo mi cuerpo era nada 
pero lujuria que Dios nuca mi da la oportunidad de amar! 
Pero contigo puedo sentir un pasión creciendo por dentro, 
un pasión que no pude verte tan doloroso, con este guerra. 
No vas a necesita a buscar brazos ya, porque encontraste los míos yo te puedo detener para siempre. 
En mis brazos siempre vas sentir segura, 
en mis brazos vas sentir fuerte, 
en mis brazos vas sentir cómo no hay nada mas mejor que estar conmigo. 
Mi reina, dieces que no eres reina, pero a mi eres la reina de mi corazón. 
Y si eres justo en que ameritas más. 
Y por eso necesitas dar mi tiempo para enseñar te la pasión qué ameritas. 
Te espero su respuesta, con tanto amor!

Andrés 

Lettre 2:

Monsieur Andrés

Il a été un mois depuis la dernière lettre. J'ai cru que la sentiment des votre lettres ont dit était mort.

Mais, je découvre que votre sentiments sont amplifié dans cette absence.

Parceque, les lettres que votre mains avez créé sont venu sur ma chambre ce soir.

Les lignes du poème frappent sur le caverne de glacé de mon cœur.

Les mots ont été comme ça de la soleil sur mes joues apres le pluie

Quand je touche les papiers, je pense sur la sensation de la peau contre de la peau, le parfum de un homme et une femme, totalement en amour.

Je rêve de rien plus que la nuit ce fantasme deviens une réalité.

Jusque-là, J'attendrai pour votre rèsponse.

Et, parceque vous avez été patient et doux quand j'ai refusé vous donner mon nom, Je vais révéler à vous:

Je m'apelle Vivienne Mylène, Maison de Habsbourg
Protégerz! Avec votre vie. 

V.M., Maison de Habsbourg

2004 © Genevi143

English Translation

Traducción Inglés
La traduction Angalais

Letter 1

Hello beautiful. My name is Andres Rodrigo Rojas. 

I do not speak very well that is why I am writing you this letter. 

I am a soldier very far away from my homeland in Spain, here in your city. 

I would like to ask what is your name? You are so beautiful 

I do not know if you are a princess or even a queen? 

With your eyes so magical that I lose myself when you look at me. 

Your body looks so soft and your lips look so sweet, like honey from the bees.

I just know that you have to be some kind of royalty from the city 

and would never want to be with a man like me.

And for that reason I will call you the queen of my heart, 

and with the love that I have for you, all I would like to do, is to hold you in my arms. 

Yours with love, 

Andres

Letter 1

Good day Mr. Rojas, 

It has been a fortnight since your passing upon His Majesty’s Estate. 

Your words, Ambrosia of the ancients and passion fueling fire, 
fill me with curiosity. 

The news of your letter has left me deeper in Shadow with His Majesty, 

taciturn and suspicious, even of the most genuine Spanish Gentleman.

Pleasure, befalls my Lady, her pride and love for the painted Andalusian skies.

Your words falls on the skin like silk, soft yet, sensual. Perhaps it is your accent.. 

Pardon me, but I must say to you that, my Lady is encouraging this tryst solely for her amusement.

I am not a Queen. 
Just a woman who is searching for comfort and solace in a broken, bleeding world - hate, war and my tears. 
I search for the arms that can fill my days and nights, 
just like the light of the moon scatters over the earth, rejuvenating it. 
That which you felt, in our brief glance, was nothing more than lust. 

I am deserving of more. 

V.M. House of Habsburg

Letter 2

Good evening my queen. It makes me very happy to see you letter. 
I didn't know if you would ever write me back. 
It brings me much pleasure to know that my words stir curiosity in you. 
I have this passion within me that needs an outlet and I want you to be that outlet. 
You speak of the Andalucian sky's but have you ever seen them in person? 
When I saw your smile it made me feel like I was a boy playing on the beach 
under the stars in the summer under those marvelous sky in the Andalucian. 

And because of this, I know it is not just lust that I feel for you.
It is a love that burns deep within me. If this passion that I feel all throughout my body is nothing but lust,
I asked that God never give me the opportunity to love. 
But with you I can feel a passion growing within me,
A passion they cannot see, this pain that you are in with this war. 

And you will not have to look for arms anymore because you have found mine.
My arms will hold you forever. 
In my arms you will feel safe. 
In my arms you will feel strong and in my arms you will feel 
like there is no better place to be than with me. 

My queen, you say that you're not a queen but for me, you are the Queen of my heart and you are right to say that you deserve more and that is why you need to give me the time to show you the passion that you deserve. 

I wait for your response with much love. 

Andrew

Letter 2

Mr. Andrés, 

It has been a month since the last letter. 

I believed that the sentiments your letter expressed had died. 

But, I discovered that your sentiments have only amplified in this absence, 

Because, the letters that your hands created came to my room this evening. 

The lines of the poem knocked on the icy cavern of my heart. 

The words were like that of the sun on my cheeks after the rain. 

When I touch the papers, I think of the sensation of skin against skin, 

the scent of a man and a woman, totally in love. 

I dream about nothing more than the night this fantasy becomes a reality. 

Until then, I will wait for your response. 

And, because you have been patient and gentle when I refused to give my name to you, 

I will reveal it now only to you: 

My name is Vivienne Myèlene, of the House of Hapsbourg.

Protect it! With your life.

V.M. House of Hapsbourg

Oct 31 2014 © DNKG & ARR Lost and Recaptured

edited: 3 Nov 2014

White Chalk from my Black Jacket Pocket

I am a shadow of the night

a calm air upon your door

the haunting whistles rustling

the leaves outside your porch.

I am the moon's glow,

the howl from beyond the trees,

a shimmering eye from the forest

that chill your thighs.

I am the darkness lingering

under your chair, in the peaceful

space of your coach,

waiting for that perfect moment 

to writhe out. 

As you fall.

Fainting.

I am the second glance over your shoulder

when something feels uneasy and your

Spirit stirring self, silently, 

successively spots Source's sight

and yet

only to be taken by goddess' dark flight.

I answer the moon, the stars, the void.

Between, you think, lies very little.

For in the Sun you cannot see how

I beam and shine, like Sirius diamonds.

You desire this side, when darkness calls. 

Perhaps, I prefer the shadow of the night,

the silence of my halls

where creativeness falls and

Death is found whistling the

leaves outside your porch.

2012 © Yuriy Mironoff

2014 © DNKGrauman Chalk from my Pocket

Through Omaha Eyes - Walking The Red Road and Discovering its Lessons

Home 
of The Free, The Brave.
Of BBQ pits and beer
lazy days
work free
bubbling over
with children screaming
bicycle streamers
bells chiming in unison
"the parade daddy!
The parade!"

Swirls of light
leave shivers upon
the skin.
The bangs
echo off the mountain
peaks, slowly
being swallowed
into the trickling
flow of the
river,
shaken awake.

There,
in the still,
tall Birch
does he sit.
Listening
to the crickets,
the shrill of the
fox, and the
scream of the
eagle.
There he sits.
Looking out into
to the burning sunset
of iridescent pinks,
oranges, and yellows.
His heart
flutters.

"America.
How does it come?
Where does it stand?
Lost in Shadows
Assimilated.
Watered Down.
A non-specific
genus?
Pride? Proud of
what?
America?
What is America?"
He burns...

"Proud to destroy,
land that I
cherish?
Proud to annihilate,
life, the lives
of my brethren.
They of Cree, be of
Choctaw, Quapaw,
Cherokee.
A Nation
proud
long before
British legs
'claimed'
soil that never
was their's
to be
taken.

Proud to re-write
the tribal history
of the Tongan,
Kānaka Maoli,
Sāmoan,
Māori
peoples.
Anakala, Anake
Tutu
devastated at the
loss of its last
Monarch.
Ursurped without permission.
Misappropiated for
generations
by white stock holders.
Destroying... 
culture
language
people
by
Pen,
Film,
and
Tongue.

What is America?
An open door for the persecuted.
The beaten, the hated.
For ancestors,
Irish potatoes were death.
It meant a land of sustenance.
For ancestors,
Russian Tsarist were captors.
It meant a land of deliverance.
For ancestors,
Polish pogroms meant decimation.
It meant a land of Hope.
What is America?

What is America?
With is streets
filled with
Homeless,
drug ridden
barrios
and swollen
with the
declining health
of its patriots.
What pride our
governmental body
has for its people!
Rejoice
in the
Pride.

America,
as you struggle to eat,
as you stuggle to sleep,
as you struggle to keep
your menial job,
as you struggle to pay
for your child's
needs.
America.
"Give me your tired,
your poor
Your huddled mass
yearning
to breath
FREE."

What is America?
Capitalist Dream.
Corporate Monkey
Launderer's Scheme
Dybbuk's Dream.
Playful Slumber.
Pardise, Lost.
Rousing Thunder.
Quiet Wonder.
Disappointment.
Beacon of Hope.
Beguiler of
Dreams.

All of these?"

He asks,
with pale gray
eyes,
sincere
in his movements.
"Can you say,
with out
equivocation,
America the Beautiful?"

Where do I stand,
ill-aligned
Where shall I be
with only me?

© 2014 DNKG Through Omaha Eyes 

Let Creation Set You Free: Cigarettes in the Night

In the late hours of
the evening
with screaming, crying,
and labored breathing
Hands of
lightning zinging,
the Mind
busily working,
yet drifting
still disassociating
along the trestles of my bed.

The sway and bounce,
bustling, and teeming
the radiance
of Life,
silently quelling.
Apis, a Monarch
reduced to worker
reduced to slave
eviserated to
gangly being,
a ghost
invisible
along the trestles of my bed.

Once upon a time
where feet once
dangled,
gilded and laud;
where shadows met contours
embracing their
stage;
a juncture of
movement and space.
A silken body draped
in satin
and candle lit spill,
enchanted
by the rhythm
of breath
along the trestles of my bed.

Within satin sheets
and dimly lit
walls bound
by universal
secrets,
unwritten or whispered.
Holding the mysteries,
betwixt and aligned
of rapturous
revival
and static, idle nights
shrouded
along the trestles of my bed.

Thrashed and wasted
spirit and heart
waiting, wanting
for a portent
to warm, to heal
to know all is not for naught.
In the broken
starlight,
with detached eyes
through disheveled hair,
the waft of cloves
and burning
cigarettes
clouded
along the trestles of my bed.

Waiting,
Ever
Waiting
along the trestle of my bed.

In the twilight hour
of the Sun's gentle
rising, the wind's light caress
finds defeated brow
in hand.
And, the susurrus of
sweet, balmy dew
echoed
a fire kindling,
for love and hope
that is
only found
along the trestles of my bed.


© 2014 DNKG Cigarettes in the Night