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

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