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

Let Creation Set You Free: Secrets of the Cedar Cellar

In her silent cedar cellar
upon a warm, smokey floor
back settling upon
the burgundy spirits 
holding
her aches, joys,
dreams and curses.

She, in empty hands, asks
"Am I not enough?
Am I not woman enough?
To what do I owe this
malcontent, this disrespect,
This. This. Just.....this...

Be it true, that
the grime, the dirt
the stains on the floor
or the crinkled bed linens
dictate my
unworthiness
of being
Wife of the Year?

Be it true,
the piles of clothes,
sink of dishes,
the shedding dog,
the muddied children
and tearful baby
dictate how I am
unworthy of
Mother of the Year?

Be it true
in the mirror, oh, that mirror
which haunts and laughs
at the lines, wrinkles,
the cellulite - uninviting;

Be it true, that this body
which bore children
that receives your reprehension,
is just a memory of THE body
existing in the broken fragments
of the psyche refusing
to take form, proclaiming:
YOU are not worthy of being
a Sexy Woman."

Soft tears roll across her pink skin
carrying the pain of decades,
beading upon the amber cedar.
Arms hiding her vision
breathing in and sighs,
"Am I not enough?
Am I not enough you?"

She trails
"I am enough for me.
But, fail so miserably for you...why?"
Faintly, she chokes,
"I am enough." 

A sudden warmth enters
like first sun on dew
He, hearing her heart's sorrow,
conveys lovers words
through muted lips
and begs forgiveness, renewal
before first bird's twitter
along the willow's branch tomorrow.


© 2014 DNKG Secrets of the Cedar Cellar 

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

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