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

The Worth of a Grain of Sand

A woman is walking down the warm coastal shores. She feels the sand between her bare feet, cold and dry. The wind picks up and the zephyr of the sea lovingly caresses her hair. She smiles at how it simultaneously manages to take her breath and worries away. Her hands gird her barren shoulders, chilled by the sinking sun that is dissipating into the black oblivion. Her eyes tenderly locked on a couple sitting atop the shore embankment, a silhouette frozen in perfection.

Upon an heirloomed blanket that her Bubbe had given to her as a Bat Mitzvah, she sits and inhales the salty shore air. It was the first time in years that she had noticed the sky and the pelicans soaring overhead. The voracious wind surrounds her and cleanses her body unlike ever before. Staring out into the hypnotic swells, vibrations rouse her skin as the surf kisses the shore. She allows her heart to match the rhythm of the tide.

As the bon fire roars, she gathers sand within her hands. She walks alone by the bay admiring the eternal birth of the moon from its watery home. The stars illuminate the sky, and she begins to remember. She recalls the stories of her grandparents’ treacherous emigration to these exact shores without anything but the clothes on their backs. She thinks of grandaunts and granduncles that mutely wore jagged numbers down their arms. One look at the moon transports her to countless hours spent making challah and learning to kindle Shabbat candles with her mother. Cupping the sand close to her bosom, tears rolling down her cheeks, she realizes that each grain holds the story of her family.

As she unfurls her grip, thousands of grains of sand scatter her memories into the sea. Transcendentally, she realizes that family and her spiritual connection to them can never be severed by death. Each grain reminds her that through exploration and adventure, one discovers how to connect with the heart of the universe; to the Divine itself. It is a welcome flush from the unconscious repetition of modern living.

 © DNKG 2014  Worth of a Grain of Sand

Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

Untitled

Vision of the past
swell inside her heart
the shadow of a broken dream
a life shattered,
imagined to have been perfection

a quivering lip and shaky hand
are the only visible signs
of scars left unspoken
perhaps its the revenge
that keeps her questioning
or perhaps its the atonement
that keeps her cold,
a poisonous house
in which none could grow.

standing alone in the dark lot
staring at the lights, enter the rain
her mind returns to that night
when eternity changed for her
she waits anxiously in the cab
legs shaking so rapidly
the rhythm annoyed

waiting, aching, scared, petrified
dark, dark and disgraced, she disappeared
the whispering glow and painted graffiti
were witness to her opprobrium;
shadows encroach on her
laugh at her doom
laugh at her future now destroyed
laugh at the choices she must make

Sullied was the fibrous essence
tainted in the Dogma of 2000 years
confused, conflicted by instinct
she sits on the curb
juggling...

emotions, thoughts, corporeal responses
he, in all his love for her, he
stoops along her side; embrace.
"Everything is going to be okay"
he whispers unassuredly
she lies, "I know"

weeks pass, the fatigue noticeable
her advisors and associates remark
performance is poor, "you're not yourself"
she witnesses change, he can see it to.
Afraid of excommunication, terrified of execution
paralyzed by the Present;
FROZEN
with no time to waste

Snow falls upon the roof. The world is quiet.
In her silence she waits
In his arms does she seek refuge
only to pull away
writhing on the floor, hiding her face from the pain
tears of self-loafing, relief, and despair fall in the carpet
her hands the only bloody witnesses to existence that withers away from her

Decades pass. Lives press forward. Recollections Fade. All but one.
In the recesses of the shadows of her lies a memory
branded on the most damaged part of her soul.
Shame. Embarrasment. Hate.
Years of guilt that cannot be unbound
She cannot save herself.
She is trapped in a cesspool, dying and re-dying everyday

Vision of the past
Bondage of time, being set free
meditations on the heart and mind
heal the clouds that darken the day
pink heart in hand with "love" it is written
a simple sigh and a tender phrase
repaired the damage from eons ago.

Death, demise, execution- Perish
She saved him
only to have him
save her
so that she could save him
again with her last dying breath.

He utters,
"Warrior Mother.
Never change your colors.
Until our next lifetime.
I love you"

DNKG

Untitled © 2014

Threading a Life: A Woman's lens

Threading a Life

            The inner workings of a woman’s heart are complex. It is constantly evaluating, analyzing, and loving among the other innumerable tasks a woman places upon this muscle—a flexor of life force that never ceases to amaze. If one were able to delve down deep into this spiritual stronghold, one would find a beginning that is muted and surrounded by darkness. It is in this humble moment where I find myself reflecting on the archaic sagacity of Woman.

            A woman is like the beautiful lotus blossom that sits atop a glistening pond sharing its radiance, its glory, and gift with others. Few are aware of its dark and arduous beginnings and far less are aware of the fortitude needed to push through to survive a turbulent stage of awakening. Even more astonishing is the wisdom of each petal—unique in how and when it opens, unveiling its brilliance only when it feels ready.

            Each woman is an artist who weaves the tapestry of a lifetime guided by heart and nurtured by soul. The Jewish woman has brought herself through a bitter dawn, evolved into a pillar of strength for her community, and weaved her legacy in the Textile of Time. We can see the Jewish Woman’s tapestry come to life when we pause, breathe and reflect.

           The earliest woven threads come from Sarah, our first matriarch. Her unwavering belief in prayer, sage-like wisdom, and vision of change demonstrates that faith and patience are powerful tools in times of uncertainty. The complexity of our tapestry continues with Rachel, whose untimely death symbolizes the first selfless act of unconditional love a mother willingly gives for her children. The weaving shifts phenomenally with the entrance of the Rebitzen, Malkah of Belz. Her spiritual wisdom and courageous work as a prophetess became the steppingstones for modern women to turn quelled silence into passionate oration. And the threads continue through the loom, in current day Israel, with the twenty-five year struggle for religious pluralism with the “Women of the Wall.”

One question remains: how will you weave your threads into our collective Jewish tapestry?

DNKG. Threading a Life -Adapted from my article published in the Kehillah Magazine - May edition 2014 ©