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

 

 

OUT OF PLACE MOMENTS

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

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

HEAVEN KNOWS NOT...

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

Scatter-brained? Who? Me? Nah!

The level of focus in many has left me in awe and desire to possess such clarity of thought and loyalty of attention. My mind is a barfly, a busy bee, a social butterfly. I have never really possessed complete control over my thoughts. From playtime to school time, I have always battled to control the reins.

Sitting in the classroom throughout school, I saw more than a room full of student-filled chairs; my mind was constantly jumping from pencil to desk, chalkboard to floor. "Is there chalk residue on the board? Will it give the poor girl in the 2nd seat of the third row a sneezing bout today? Will it harm the bee that landed on it? Will the chalk block its pollen picker-upper? Who will get the duty of beating the chalk from the erasers after school? Last time I did it, I spelled out my name. And then I sneezed for 2 hours. Was the floor cleaned? That little 6 inch long sliver missing near the right end of the chalkboard...is it filled with wax yet? Wax! Did I blow out the candle at home? I don't want my house to burn down. Ladybug, ladybug fly away home, your house is on fire…Fire! The little girl in the third row that sneezes has red hair. Like fire. All the other kids have dark hair except the boy in the back of the class. He has blonde hair. He sits in a different chair every day. He says he is half Cherokee and half French. I wonder if he mixes the two languages in his mind. Mind! Mend. Did my mother mend my mittens? It is getting chilly outside. Mittens. Kittens.  Kittens in mittens… "

That is my curse. My mind never stops or slows until I am in the presence of “her.” My mind slows and my heart speeds up. My heart takes over as driver of the mind and I write of “her.” Of Love, of the Goddess, of God’s poetry perfected.

Modern psychology calls it co-dependency, I prefer to call it free spirited and focused for perfection. The quacks want to dose me; I tell them I am high enough of life and nature. Their drugs mentally maim and kill, nature heals and inspires. I will stick with the madness of freedom over the genius of control. 

© March 16, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

The goddess in you............

Many ladies that inspire the bard in us fail to realize the magic they possess. The power they have over creation. The intoxicating presence of their essence that stirs a troubadour to great lengths to have audience with said lady.
These ethereal enchantresses guide the minds that power the inspiration bleeding thru the souls and onto the parchment in the ink flowing through the quills. They are goddesses. We merely the vessel of translation, attempting to honor them with mortal words, because we have forgotten the melodies of love that we once expressed in the halls of the heavens. Only a gaze, a brush of lips, a touch...can near the magic of that lost tongue of paradise.
Ladies, please forgive our mortal attempts to lift you back to the high thrones of the heavens. After all, we are only men. Accept our words, feel the love in our eyes as we gaze upon your beauty, let our souls embrace as we kiss, and know that our hearts are one as we dance (with our quill and leave a trail of ink upon the parchment stage)?

© March 14, 2013 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic