Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

Without Notice

They see you standing there
tall, firm and resolute.
They know you will weather
The Storms
for the rings of the Rind
reveal your inner strength.

They see you standing there
bright, budding, and creating.
They know you will yield on
The Lives,
for the seedlings surrounding
are the scion of this forest.

They see you standing there
shading the lovers whose season of passion
is concealed by your arms and legs, twisted.
The Secrets
for your eyes alone bear witness
to the lust we all share.

They see you standing there
burning, emblazoned, a sweeping rekindling
halted in time to preserve
The Moments.
They relish in next year's glory
while you prepare, cleansing
your days in the chilled rain.

They see you standing there
barren, naked, and vulnerable
with nothing left to offer.
The Lamented.

A white blanket is the only solace given
in the dreary dead of night.

They see you standing there
tall, firm and resolute
they believe you have weathered
The Storms.
Your covering lie on the ground, supported and loved
by only the green moss and water wells
that, from the depths, nurtured your
solo existence.

They believed your deeply sunk roots would survive,
"you're so beautiful" and

They walked on...

If only they could see the heart of you, perhaps then,
they would understand your stoic example.
If they could see the heart of you, perhaps then,
they would understand that in your dying,
you gave them life.

DNKG Without Notice 2014 ©

Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

Lovers Secrets

Oh you, Shadow in the Corner
with every exhale leaving
a darkness o'er my cavern
it clangs within my breasts.
Your warm, life giving Flow
now spiraling into frigidity,
once brought me to convulsions.
Your Peak...FROZEN
Your Valley...SILENT
Your Curves...UNEXPLORED
Do you tease? Do you jest?
Or simply mock?
It won't be long now
Secret Lover,
before I traverse your every
nook and cranny.
Are you ready for me?

DNKG Lovers Secrets 2014 ©

Why the caged bird sings: A personal poetry tribute to Dr. Maya Angelou

In a world torn between color,

lived and learned between the

black and white hues of 

Everyday. 

a Mother, a Trailblazer, a Poetess
born from the strife,

Who gave rise from the ashes.

Who gave birth from a watery grave.

Who gave voice to the other caged birds.

In a world still torn between color,

lived and learned between the

sophisticated hues of grays; 
between religion, politics, and social strata.

Everyday

a caged bird sings

a mighty song it sings of its own.

A song inspired by the original bird

who feared not; who sang and sung 

Until its lungs no longer could,

Until its breath, panting, matched its heart,

Until its heart sung to its content,
Until its light was borrowed by the Great Equalizer.

And what have we birds known of

atrocities of Time? 
So many, too young,
to know the Power of her rhyme. 

To what atrocities have we accounted for
of broken bodies

of lost loves

of fragmented hearts
of saddened homes.

Would we brave the burn of the tyrant, 
so courageously stare down the eyes 
that abhor without knowing why?

Would we, so valiantly? 
Just to sing our song,
a song of Release?

That caged bird lived her love,
so all others would know what living a life of love meant. 

That caged bird loved when love seemingly wasn't an option, 

 so all others would know love could heal all wounds.

That caged bird healed through the prose of her life, 
so all others would know how. 

Why does the caged bird sing? 
She sang for her. 
She sang for you. 
She sang for me. 
She sang for love. 
She sang for the tough life.
She sang for sanity in an insane world. 
She sang for colors like her.
She sang when being human wasn't humane.
She sang for freedom from oppression. 
From enslavement. 
For us, as Humankind.

She sang to survive. 

She sang to feel alive. 
She sang because it's the one thing they couldn't break. 
She sang because it's the only thing they couldn't take. 
She sang because her song had to be sung.

I understand why the caged bird sings
in my heart and in my soul
she sings and sings and sings
for that is what a caged bird must do
to breathe, to live, or to die for its
songs

I know why the caged bird sings.

DNKG  Why the caged bird sings: A personal poetry tribute to Dr. Maya Angelou ©

Mind Games: Getting in the way of the process

At my laptop, I watch the cursor blink. I sense its mockery as I search in vain for something that will stir the heart. It seems to already hold the secret prose to which hasn’t even been created. It stares at me from that blank page, reading me better than any friend I have ever had. It sees me writhe in pain as I wait for that light bulb moment to satisfy me, for that flicker of wisdom to spill out on to the page with unbridled fury. It sees my desperation to keep that internal fire from being extinguished.

I punch the letters on a laptop and a code of black and white are set into motion. Perhaps my indiscriminate tapping will make magic, I jest to myself. A cacophony of keyboard clicks resonates off the walls, growing louder and louder. Push, go, propel forward so that the core is constantly churning. I feel it, like a symphony coming to its coda after its final aria. PAUSE.

I glance down to reveal the masterpiece: a blank page of spaces.

And yet I sat in silence, in a wildfire that was all consuming. I find myself at ease with the profound realization that my cursor has gifted me. I embrace the moment where there is nothing. When I am frozen. A time of ease and no worries. A time without retort or argument. A time without suspicion or judgment. A period of not knowing where I am headed, where that path might take me, or even if it that path was “right” or "wrong." It felt right, “right now.” 

There is something beautiful about a white canvas with a story yet to be told.

DNKG
 © Mind Games: 2014

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 ©