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 

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