Thursday, July 24, 2014

Community Comportment: Cogitating Global Disenchantment

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
dancing and frolicking
in palaces for patricians,
where the
granite and stone
mirror its
icy hearth.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
indifferent
with sighted eyes
that bare witness
to the outstretched
arms and bodies,
sooted black
like the
cavernous vaults
that house
apathetic hearts.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
as a bountiful
earth teeming
with orchards, fruits
of the Divine
now transformed
to a wasteland
of oil riggers,
sky high risers, and
Flesh abandoned
on the shores.

What would our
Mother's say
if they could see
us now,
as people lie
slain in
streets, bazaars, fields,
from rockets,
or guns, or bombs
sustained on
egotistical
hatred.
Coordinates for peace
dissipating
in a world
divided by
"Unity".

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
ravaging lands
to cache bootless
treasure
from the decrepit
and exhausted.
Automatons
with electric wires,
buzzing displays,
programmed to
HALT
thinking,
perceiving,
feeling.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
squandering
our lives
under sheaths of golden
brillance
While the streets scream
and avenues bleed,
We, a heartless
shapeless mould.

What would our
Mothers say
if they could see
us now,
picking sides
like children do
to answer a man's call;
rather than rising
with arms of love
beckoning, prostrate
for Divinity
to enter us all.

© 2014 DNKG Community Comportment: Cogitating Global Disenchantment

Monday, July 21, 2014

Let Creation Set You Free : Poetry

Hair

I love the way
you wear your
Hair,
soft and coarse
all in one

I love the way
you dress your
Hair,
with pins and bobbins
of every kind

I love the way
you tie your
Hair
taut along the crest.
It weaves and wanders
along the
curvatures
of your supple
breasts.

I love the way
you style your
Hair,
perfectly perfect
with tendrils and
parts
provoking my 
lustful blood.

I love the way
you let your
Hair
fall long around
your waist
slinking and slithering,
a sheer teasing.
Come. Post Haste.

I love the way
your wisps blow
softly in the breeze.
Just like the grass
against the white
bark oak,
burning against
its leaves.

I love the way
you let your
Hair
cascade against
this pillow case.
Its perfumed beauty
drifts in the air
elevating me through
Time and Space.

I love the way
you relax your
Hair,
glimmering in the Sun.
Reminding of love,
this carnal act,
that keeps my
heart undone.

© 2014 DNKG Hair


Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Bound to Aged Narratives: One Lens into Multiculturalism - Poetry

The Cloth

Lights
burning,
sweat dripping
down
my brow.
From my pedestal
upon the rostrum
quenching the
fiery souls with
the expiration
of Genius:
thought to
pen to paper
to soul
of those
prostrate
at my
toes.

He stops me.
By the
EXIT door
he stops me.
"Sister, man
poet goddess...
Can I borrow your ear
for a short time,
just a time,
to bend your mind
to speak my verse,
a verse that
I think
you will want
to know,
to hear."

Upon a feeble barstool
in the recess
of the dimly lit lounge,
I acquiesce
to a beseech
of prose that clanged
of the streets,
of the knuckles of the
the pauper,
of the turmoil of
his people, stirring
up his racial, sexist
slurs of how
"you" will
"never understand us."
I hearken his
Rhapsody,
reverberating,
slowly reverberating
into every
scintilla
of my
Essence.

The thunderous hammer
of my feet hitting the
ground
silences his ballad
like the Samurai's
blade
rushing effortlessly
through.
I stoop down
and offer
my hand,
"Brother, let us
talk frankly,
in the sight
of the
guileless moon.
For Pain
is root
of this
Soul's
volatile
undigestable
croon."

Amber light glow
and lemon
scented air
floating Magnolias
the celestial 
black pair
Silent magic held in
ghostly Spanish Moss
breathlessy immoveable
over stoic waters edge
The resplendent
Oaks,
cryptic on human
loss
Finally,
encountering
first
light, pure,
irradiant
sensuously
beckoning for 
The first time.
Orbs of green,
or brown and blue
seeing,
feeling,
breathing,
innocent
curiosity.
Vision
imbued.

"Let me speak Brother,
volumes from my
heart, speech
and words lie
heavy.
Yet they, the
vehicles for our
start, musn't belie
the truth.
So
souls breath may
be reached,
so
souls blood,
intermingled,
assuages the Pain
deep within
the bowels
of our
strongholds.

Look at me,
orbs of chestnut,
searching,
mystified.
Look at me,
ringlets of seduction
Golden Reverie,
enticing.
Look at me,
lips of eloquence
existing
while simultaneously
expiring,
fearing.
Look at me,
a Caged Artist
creating,
so you
may free
me.

Oh Brother.
Can you see?
Be it not
my hair color,
my eye pigment,
the tone of my
Skin.
Be it not
the hue of my raiment
nor the shoes I frolic
abound
nor the vocalizations,
scorned and
involuntarily made,
from this
demarcated
dolorous
crypt.

Be it not
the land of my
fathers.
Be it not
land of your
mothers.
Be it not
the God of your heart
Nor the goddess of mine
Be it not
A land, a parcel 
Upon which we share
Given to Man
For all to share. 
Oh Brother,
if you could see
with my eyes.
Color does not exist.
Race does not exist.
Sex does not exist.
'-isms' do not exist.
Labels.
Useless
Labels.
My skin cannot
define my
world, it will not
define me,
it will not define you.
Can you see?

We. We. We are.
The woven cloth
co-created
by the same Divine,
dipped in different colors,
spread across vast Times.
See it, splashed with
heritage and beauty?
Feel how the
Breath of
tantalizing aromas,
stretching
across the
Four Corners.
Awakening
faculties
left in quiet
slumber from
lifetimes
ago.
  
Oh my Brother,
you may carry
a cloth of the South,
and I,
a cloth from the East.
Perhaps our yards
are separated by
eons of fabric.
Yet,
We. We are.
The same fabric
The same cloth
triumph, rejoice
embrace me.
Let us sing
dance in joy
shout our
prose,
high to moonlit
sky.
Let our feet tap
to the beat
of our internal drum,
Let our hands,
our bodies
swing and sway to
smooth beat
as we celebrate
our
Humanity."


© DNKG The Cloth 2014









Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

A rush of pain
the flux of dread
creeping in,
up, and around
An unwelcome veil,
choking
stifling,
silencing,
freezing.

A perilous question;
Do we give in? Do we give up?
Relinquish and let go?
Do we stay, grapple
through the night,
persevering because
the Fighter must fight?

With a tiny float
in the limitless sea
facing countless dangers
from above, from below.
assess, assess, assess.
Heart racing, heart slowing
confusion and panic.
Convergence.

The life line is cast
hope sits in the water
it only needs to be touched,
brushed by another light,
 a life, a being
to have success.

Eyes meet
for the first time
light shines.
A boat drifts nearby
gazing, smiles,
huddled in warmly,
room to spare,
"You're going to make it.
Just hold on..."

The black oblivion
swallows them into the night
and here
in this limitless sea
do we wait
for the perilous question
to answer itself:
Do we give in?
Do we give up?
Relinquish and let go?

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Canyons and Chasms: Facing the Unknown

As I gazed out of my trapezoid casement windows, I noticed a tiny red-throated finch sitting alone in the laurel tree. It flitted from branch to branch struggling to master the art of flying. I judged the bird; after all, birds are innate flyers my mind mocked. It flapped and flailed from the windowsill to the branch, to a leaf and back to the windowsill. It came to the highest eave, fluffed its plumage, and burrowed its head to rest.

This beautiful creature reminded me of an important spiritual bridge: embracing the unknown. When the finch rose this morning, it did not know whether or not it would return to the nest a successful flyer. It did not know whether it would taste the air of freedom or remain a prisoner to its current predicament. All it knew was its present moment.

We are all consumed with moments of unknowing. Intrinsically hidden and tucked out of sight, at the base of the unknown, is fear. For our finch, we imagine the fears it may feel. Perhaps it is a fear of falling, of being damaged, or even of not knowing where to go should it succeed.

Life’s journeys are demanding. As humans striving for acceptance and love, we place additional pressures upon ourselves to perform better and stronger than ever before. We push ourselves to cross into the unknown before we even have a chance to slow down and explore what that unknown is. We leap into chasms and canyons without bottom and are filled with dread when we realize how deep we are in.

As I ponder this, a gentle peck upon the window pulls me back into the present. I smile and realize that even from our chasms, when faith is hanging dangerously by a thread, the Creator is always present. It is in these tiny moments where cultivating gratefulness triggers a spark of hope. Like the path the finch traverses, crossing those unknown paths means simply reaffirming our faith in that spiritual Source which is greater than ourselves.

DNKG Unknown © 2014

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