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Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Each of us is the author of a unique story called, "Spinning My Cocoon: Reaching For My Wings." Individual "life threads" are unique in circumstance, but the same in effort to redefine destiny vs acceptance of fate. I have fallen away from fate and chose not only walk the rocky path, but search for clues to understanding under each stone along the way. We each choose our path and the level of difficulty. We can fight the inevitable or we can learn to use it as momentum to carry us to distant shores and new resources.
Don't let daily tasks and hurdles distract you from the end prize. There is nothing like the weightlessness of flying free without any mortal anchors called regret, resentment, hate, worry, etc....
So spin those silken threads of mental order and understand that chaos is just unrealized piece of the puzzle. You will make it, unless you choose defeat. You have the quill in your hand. You can dip in the inkwell and add to your metamorphic being, or you allow the winds of uncertainty to carry your inked feather to a dark place and remain lost and in search of the power that burns within you.

© April 30, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

NOTE: photo is random internet find

Friday, April 26, 2013

Dancing moonbeams at the chateau

 I am on my way to see my girl at the hillside chateau. I feel like a schoolboy again. Nervous and yet vigorously energized. My feet tried in vain to keep pace with my heart. {{{quiver}}} Perhaps tonight a kiss. We shall have a drink in the last booth, the only one with a window that is not painted black. Although it had been darkened so the Gestapo cannot see the candle-light and semi-festive atmosphere, they found the place anyway.But they do not bother the keeper, so long as no American propaganda is spoken.
I will find her easily; she is the only dame in the place that the candlelight dances in the eyes of. I sat one night and stared for hours as the candles grew dim in her eyes and the glowing streaked down her face with each tear. She is so beautiful. I am lucky to have been shot down in the area. And if Geoffrey and his lady had not pointed me in this direction, I would never have met my childhood love. Amazing how destiny seems to work out.
As I enter cross the threshold into my “escape,” I see the fire in her eyes. She smiles and moves toward our booth. It was “her” booth,until I came along. {{{smiling}}} As we touch hands, the bartender brings our wine. He moves away and we turn our attention back to each other. Our love is spoken without words as we gaze into each others eyes, souls. I wonder what she is thinking. Perhaps the same thing as I; “When will this damn war be over?When will the world find peace?”  We turn and catch a glimpse of the moon through the tiny crack in the glass. A tiny beam of moonlight screams into the dark chateau and dances on the table as the band starts to play our song.  We take a sip of wine and then step to the dance floor dance. The night has begun…

© April 26, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

NOTE: photo courtesy of PaM

Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Children are accused of daydreaming and they admit to vivid undertakings. Here is my daydream from two days ago while working a jackhammer through an endless layer of limestone:

{{{rata-tata-tata…}}} The vibrations of this jackhammer, combined with the blazing heat, and the smell of crude oil as the powdered limestone pours from the hole I am digging, demand an escape. I lean back a bit pull off my goggles and safety mask., chancing to take in a long breath of hot Texas air, for relief. Ha! None found. The humid air is something along the lines of attempting to breathe water. Oh well. “One more blast oughta get me there,” I say aloud. {{{rata-tata-tata…}}} I lean into the hammer to get a good bite and hit a pocket of fine powdered limestone that engulfs me in a cloud of dust. My eyes burn, my lungs refuse the assault. But I am no longer under the Texas sun, I am in the skies over France in the summer of 1940, in my Grumman F8F Bearcat, affectionately referred to as “Papa Bear,” engaged in a dogfight with enemy planes. The “rata-tata-tata” of my machine-guns was part of a memory of being home and working my construction job in Austin, Texas. I do a quick visual check of my bird. She seems fine on the inside, although getting a bit stuffy. I check and see my pic of my penpal, “Habibati,’” still tucked into my altimeter. What a miracle if I could actually meet her while in France. She and I had been corresponding since we were pre-teens. Had it really been 17 years since I received her first letter? {{{ting ting ting}}} Whoa! Back to the present. The enemy were showing no mercy. Searching the skies I realize the plume of smoke is emanating from bullet holes in my engine. Oil streaks across my cockpit canopy. My plane has been hit and is burning. I need to set her down. The heat is intense, trapped in this small flying war machine. I look below to see only trees. My only choice is to bail. I always hated jumping out of perfectly good aircraft, but now I realize why the practice was necessary. I gently tuck my lady’s photo in my flight jacket and yank the canopy release. The acrid taste of smoke, the dampness of oil droplets, and the tongue of flames from the burning engine help make this an easy decision. “Bonzai!”

~more to come~

© April 22, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

NOTE: photo is random internet find

Sunday, April 14, 2013

I Have Compared...

I have compared thee to a flowering bloom;
to the enveloping warmth of a majestic sunrise;
to the beauty of dusk as it gently pulls the twinkling curtain over our eyes;
to magic beams that enchant from the moon.
All fell short of my desired end to weave a literary cloak of words for thee to don and fly upon the winds into eternity. Letter by letter they crumbled to motes of dust and faded into the past in the stead of complimenting your radiant elegance. {{{sigh}}}

My soul wanders the ethereal corridors of the heavens in search of the lost tome of love with desire to master the tongue. The longer your smile resides in my heart, the closer I come to the perfect peace of immortality. Once again, I find myself strolling amongst the wise in the Celestial Gardens, relearning the harmonic beat of the cleansing rains that dance upon the Sea of Love’s surface. The concentric circles converse with my heart converging all memories and touches of love throughout all time into this moment.
As the gentle winds caress the trees and lift the leaves on high, I hear the forgotten words that I seek for you. {{{whispering}}} "son~tai' elassa qen~tai~rasa' paahn~raaaj...”
These words have no mortal meaning; they are a feeling beyond human understanding. The nearest words that can attend this feeling are: “you are God’s love alive. a treasure of perfect beauty.”

© April 14, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke ofthe Arctic

Monday, April 1, 2013


When angels fly, do the winds whisper of heaven?
Is sanctuary offered in the shadow of a wing?
Or strength found n the storms of an eye?
Are they summoned by the cries of mortal man?
Or unleashed by the powers of the Mighty?

Heaven knows not…

When angels cry, do the rains heal hidden pain?
Do the sea covered islands reach for the sky?
Can the tears wash away the years of yearning?
Is “ebb and flow” chaotic or circumstantial finite?
Do rising tide lifts all ships and save the timbers burning.

Heaven knows not…

When angels die, do they fall from the Creator’s hand?
Are mortals souls harvested from discontent within?
Is the kingdom purged of unheard questions left unasked on high?
The beauty of the garden lives in you, it was not lost with Eden.
All the beauty from God’s breath is kept within your sigh…

Heaven knows not…

© April 1, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

For my Muse: Heaven knows not it lost an angel of unknown beauty. Within you, this I see…
I praise the Heavens for the gift of you, it gave to me…

Psycho Elephant

I am not a sycophant
Or a psycho elephant.
Do not lie to gain favor
Nor claim to be a savior.

I am not a sycophant
Or a castle occupant.
I am, I am what I am
I do not like green eggs and ham.

I am not a sycophant,
Or a witless tyrant.
I will not promise seven feet
Or indulge in self deceit.

I am not a sycophant
Or a dreamland merchant.
Say what I mean, all that’s said
Not words to enlarge your head.

© March 13, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic