Leaves of the Andes

Fed by the sun, watered by the rains

The cells of the leaf become alive with energy

Along the roads within the Andes!

The magic of the world captured within its

       chambers, of gathered light—

A civilization built within each leaf.

Engulfed within are ancient tiny creatures that

       ingest the sun—

Each building their form, with fortresses of

       thickness, shape and texture:

Tall, small, thin, lobed. Each filled with

      art and poetry…

11-9-2012 (3460)

Dedicated to Dr. Jesus Pomachagua 

Window, of the: Woodbridge Demon (1984)

Something is out there!

Where?

Out there!

Out there where?

Outside the Window!

What?

The head of a demon!

Something there, outside the window, where?

The head is there, right over there!

No, the lamp is there…

No, the lamp is not there, not where I see the demon; the demon is over there…

What’s he look like?

He’s wearing a hat and the eyes, wide and deep pitted, lit up!

Nothing more—?

       (the apartment is three stores up)

He’s right out there (pointing), can’t you see him?

Like as if, in front of me?

Not quite, now he is gone!

The head and the face of the demon gone: like vanished?

You didn’t see him?

No, sorry, but I do believe you Ma!

       (she trembles, — it’s an odd moment)

#3456 (11-3-2012)

Operation Neptune Spear (The poem)

The Engines roared of the two helicopters,

With twenty-three SEALs and one CIA

The Black Hawk I, its crew’s chief slid the door open

The wind buffed against the men

On a tall wall overlooking the compound,

Black Hawk one crashed—into the courtyard

But it didn’t infringe the plan,

Thus, only frustration came! They were

Chasing the man called Osama bin Laden:

Ahead of al Qaeda (the Base)…out of

Jalalabad, they had come, beyond

The boarders of Afghanistan, to Pakistan

Pushing Operation Neptune Spear:

The Assault, was to be on a neighborhood house

In the city of Abbottabad: the fugitive’s home.

The plan, ‘Kill the man and anyone who tries

To stop them…’ Not to say, it was said that way,

But that’s how it was read, I do believe…

And good reddens to bad rubbish:

(The latter being my saying of course).

But first came Ahmed al- Kuwaiti, like a caged animal,

With an AK 47 in hand, bullets, and shrapnel

Flew here and there, everywhere:

He was assigned to be bin Laden’s savior, but

That didn’t play out!

And he went down, like a clown, perhaps to Paradise,

More likely to Hell!

Leaving his wife (Mariam) and children behind!

Now it was Bin Laden’s time…

Let me see if I can make this rime:

Holy ...uck, he got shot in the head:

He laid there by the side of his bed, like a dead duck:

His blood and brains seeped out of the side of his skull—

Twitching but dead, convulsing but dead—

No more to be said…!

Then he was shot in the chest—god forbid,

He was deader than dead!

And the SEALs went back to wherever they come

From—and had a good crash, if not laugh, I mean rest:

Ate a hearty breakfast that night: with whiskey

And rum and beer on the side, and had lots of

Milk and cookies in morning for their briefing

While Obama the Great U.S., President, for the day

Had his way; was full of pride thinking what was next

Oh his merry-go-round check list:

How about the 2012: “Campaign?”  I mean,

Presidential elections…?

Note:  Dedicated to the Team of SEALs, who dared the great feat of ‘Operation Neptune Spear’

May 1, 2011 (#3437/10-2-2012)

Clash at De Sierra Lumi (English and Spanish)

English Version

Clash at De Sierra Lumi

(Heroic Action)

During the battles and clashes  that took place in the Sierras during the Pacific War,

between Peru and Chile, 1881-82, there were  those specific days,

 in specific cities and locations, heroes were born,

this was one of those so called days, in the district of Comas,

called :  “De Sierra Lumi”…

(Dedicated to the city of Comas)

Rocks fell from above the cliffs

onto the Chileans below

(in Comas)

The old, the bold: men, women, even children,

Tumbled those large stones over the cliff’s edge—;

Below horses and mules, with packs 

On their backs and Chilean Soldiers, all

Tumbled in summersaults to their deaths—

(All the Peruvian civilians had united—in

this one quest, at Sierra Lumi: to rid the

Chileans one and for all, from their breasts…)

Note: Written 6-7-2011, 8:00 a.m., while having breakfast with Mayer Jesus Chipana of the city of, Concepcion,;

 inspirited by a painting on his wall of the battle of Comas. Poem originally written out on a napkin   (No: 2948)

Versión en Español

Enfrentamiento en Sierra Lumi

(Acción Heroica)

Durante las batallas y enfrentamientos, entre Perú y Chile, llevadas a cabo en la Sierra de Perú,

durante la Guerra del Pacífico, entre 1881 y 1882, hubo días específicos,

en lugares y pueblos específicos, donde los héroes nacieron.

Comas fue uno de estos lugares, donde los pobladores, hartos del abuso del invasor,
 se enfrentaron a ellos en el cerro Sierra Lumi, 
sin tener más armas que las piedras del acantilado.

(Dedicado al pueblo de Comas)

Rocas cayeron desde la cumbre de la colina

sobre los invasores chilenos que volvían

luego de saquear y robar a los peruanos

(en Comas)

Los ancianos, audaces, hombres y mujeres,

incluso los niños, cansados de tanto abuso,

Empujaron esas piedras grandes desde el filo del desfiladero;

Abajo, caballos y mulas, con carga

En sus lomos,

Cayeron también—a la segunda cima

¡Hacia sus muertes!

(Todos los pobladores peruanos se habían unido en esta misión, en Sierra Lumi, para eliminar al enemigo)

The Bishop (Double-haiku)

To see what man is

born to, a Bishop should: eat,

sleep—and, above all:

work–, as his enslaved

brethren  does! Then he’d learn

and then, he can preach.

9-8-2012/#3420

Note:  The author for a good portion of his early life worked in foundries, factories, fast-food, and construction; during the second part of his life he worked as a soldier for a decade, along with being in a war (Vietnam); and then as a professional counselor (Psychology); now as a poet and writer, which he started at the age of 12, and somehow maintained on the side intermittently writing whenever he could, all his life until the forth part of his life allowed him to write full time.   Thus, he walks the walk, not simply talking the talk. Even God, in the form of Jesus Christ did this: walk the walk.

Haiku of the Bear

The bear and the man

They both steal for pleasure, thus:

Are they not brothers (?)

9-8-2012/#3419

When People Understand

When people value

one another, they speak frank

as if they’ve known

each other, all their

lives…; thus, with my two prized friends

I leave it lay there.

For: Dr. Jesus Pomachagua (Rector of the UNCP)

& Lic. Dimas Aliaga Castro (Mayor de Huancayo)

9-9-2012/#34121

Old as Old Stones

Now I am old and old stones must be modest soon to

be covered by the blowing dust,

And autumn leaves in the corner of some cemetery;

With yellow, pink, white and red roses in the glow of dawn;

With black bats of night flapping home before dawn on their

       Wings

Death catches us unprepared—we’re like sitting ducks,

So I must be honest and modest. It might be better to let the 

       roof burn and walls crash

Than to write this poem; but fear that not—I will write it.

All dissolves, even solid continents—and quiet rocks, even

       powerful bacteria;

Our time on earth is but a quick rubout.  The whole affair an

       episode in the life of the earth.

So I will finish this poem, speculate the private thoughts of a

       flesh bone-splintered mind

And share with you a glass with flowers in it that flourishes…

One of a few:

When my children were children the white clouds leaped.

I honestly do not know which day was more beautiful.

Now, twenty, twenty-five years have come and gone—

I shall only see these days in dreams, flashbacks,

       and it does not matter,

It does not hurt; they will be there.

And when I have been rubbed out,

And they have been rubbed out, and the whole human

Race has been rubbed out—and all that is left are storms: Mountains, the moon, dawn and twilight, and perhaps a few

       birds; I say this:

“Those few years while they were young will have more of a

       beautiful meaning than all that that has come before it, And Gone after it.”

#3388 (8-8-2012)

Swinging on a Tire

(Minnesota, 1959)

I used to swing on an old tire (when I was a kid),

Roped around a thick branch of a large tree—

In the empty lot we called, Indian’s Hill:

Going faster back and forth—then with one

Leap I jumped off, flew to the ground—

I’d grow still and look up:

The jump did not hurt my feet or ankles

All that much, but the will to do it again

Was lessened, but I’d do it again, and again.

It’s kind of how my life’s been.

#3369 (Sunday) July 8, 2012

St. Joseph’s Shame (A poem)

Saint Joseph was ashamed he wasn’t a better father, 

to have allowed his Son to be born in a stable—

Yet, it was more important to know his Son was safe, fed, sheltered, and loved!

In a like manner, I was ashamed not being able to

have been with my sons, during my recovering—

Yet, it was more important to know they were safe,

fed, and sheltered!

They were always loved, even if they didn’t feel it!

#3338 (4-1-2012)

For Cody, Shawn and Zaneta

Strangers to their Fathers (A Biblical Prophecy Comes True)

If time was a measurement, than all that lives today, can reap what was prophesized, two-thousand years ago—for I have lived it,

But removed out of its sight—

And now the world lives with it, especially the United States.

But elsewhere, Peru I see it a lot…

(they have even come to the point of allowing their children

to do whatever they want, so they’ll not live, and wonder off).

The hate of parents, the hatred for parents;

“I hate my parents” they say, whisper, think.

This bitterness one does not outgrow

It is like stone, mortal enemies of flesh blood and bone…!

It must be neutralized, naturally…

Real hatred, it is a silence, where dying can be bitter.

It is prophesized in the Bible: that in the latter days,

Parents will be betrayed, unwanted, hated by their children.

The venom for parents will be strong, hypocrisy pounds.

Thus, it becomes easy to hate, where there is so little love.

Parents will die a thousand deaths because of betrayal.

A boy and his father, we are still young

Joyfully laboring to make a home, find a house!

Endlessly enduring…fire destroys the abode!

Yet I keep on teaching the way of Christ!

Stopping all one’s addictions to make a life:

To show the children, what is right—!

Bent to the books; throat for throat, fighting with the devil,

To become more than what fate had bestowed…!

Yet in due time, prophecy foretold, will take hold.

Sons and daughters, strangers to their mothers and fathers:

This is my legacy…

This is love restrained, it is painful, but it is real!

And who can we blame? That’s the name of the Game!

†

“A wise son maketh glad his father…”  Proverbs 15:20

“For God commanded saying, Honor thy father and mother…” Matthew 15

#3350 (5-9-2012)

Dedicated to S, C & Z

I do believe the Holy Spirit is going to heal and restore many children back to their parents, bringing them together, I am not sure if this is my fate, but  this is of course, my wish, if only they will heed the call of the Spirit. Shattered hearts are hard to mend, especially the despair and confusion they’ve endured. 

Blood and Moon Haze (A Prophecy in the Making)

I think of you as a great Divine King, your throne is of gold and pearl!

As you look down from your throne room, past our moon of stone

And high walls, to block the sun—I see on the horizon blood and haze

Not far beyond, in this cosmic dream…

Yet you are merciful—yet I see you will soon send death to the world

And little, to no eternal peace—

Thus I see the greatest earthquake that could ever be laboring 

To strike out, throughout the United States—pale as an out of breath

Hunchback, shuffling within a labyrinth to escape; thus, mankind

Will be frozen with fear awakening in the middle of night

Awaiting the aftershocks, tremors, daily, under fear and dismay…

The massive earthquake with stretch the United States

So the papers read throughout the world: Asia will be stunned! 

Its newspaper readers…I see them, one by one, clustered, under the sun!

Miraculously stunned at what God has done! And they can even hear

Death tapping at every door ten-thousand miles away;

And only you with the keys to the vault my Lord of Lords—

You are the arbiter.

The fates of Europe and Asia—will also see the blood, and moon

Haze, signs in the heavens, in the cosmos; hence, the moon will

Turn red causing periods of darkness over earth’s surface and for you…

You the meanest minds of time, and the cunning, the dirt of the

World, they will come for—

The opulent treacherous demons, harlots, the great promise, Death!

Your cousin the devil, he is here and he is coming to your door—

And Death behind him, will mourn no more…!

And to whom men turn, Christ warns!

There will be an earth shake, triggering numerous earthquakes—

And the scientist will not be able to explain,

Only supernatural intervention can.

Look for the blood and moon haze!

Millions will parish, the pale saints, the lions in the desert, Wall Street!

And the eagle will fly with one wing…God willing!

And if we do not turn and bow down our heads, no one will be fed;

Death will straggle with tricks and cunning, with scorched lands

And dread. Gold and silver will buy no bread, only land will be valued:

And therefore, all I need to say has been said.

#3349 (5-9-2012)

Note: In the book “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon” 2002, the author writes about the visions he had in 1984. Many have come true, and now he writes his poem of the one yet to come, that he foresaw in one of his visions, a reminder, they are not all fulfilled. He says “I do not need to account for my visions, they have all come to pass, and so will this one, so don’t ask for justification, the results have proven them correct.”

Review of the Author’s Work

“For those readers that might be interested, much of Dr. Siluk’s poetry is done in semi classic narration; that is to say, in a constructive format that describes a sequence of events, or recounts one.  An example might be an epic or a poem that tells a condensed story of a heroic deed or event.  Thus, it becomes clearer for the reader, whereas much poetry today—each word, and each image has several meanings, so thick it has layers of synonyms, consequently, making it harder for the reader to  make out where the poet wants to take him or her. In Dr. Siluk’s poetry, this is seldom done for clarity sake, and readability, so it can reach the bigger audience without having to carry a dictionary or thesaurus around.

      I can say on another positive note, the Poet, Dr. Siluk some of his works can be considered reminiscent of ancient Greek Poets, or writings, such as “Victory the Mad,” “The Fifth Moon,” “The Lost Millennium,” “Conte de Green Knight,” or the “Soldiers of Nirut,” among many more, epic style poems.

       In addition to his many styles used in his over 3300-poems (among sonnets, haikus etc), he uses Poetic Prose, blank and short verse, more often than not. He also has inferred on certain occasions, ‘Metered verse is not necessarily a fundamental part poetry, nor does poetry have to have meter in it: a flow yes. In fact, meter was forced upon poetry by man, thus, it is not natural.”’

Book Review: Finnegans Wake

“Finnegans Wake,” I can tell you what it is all about in a nutshell; I mean people have been trying for seventy-years to figure it out, it’s obvious, so very, very obvious: first of all you have to be Irish, like me to understand it, it is a drunkard writing down his memoirs in a half daze when he comes home from the bar.  James Joyce, outlined this in “Dubliners,” one need only look at Mr. Farrington, in “Counterparts,” where the narrator says (Joyce):  “…his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle…he struggled on with his copy…Blast it! …He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley…” We see in Finnegans Wake, this same fellow, Mr. Farrington, hard at work on Mr. Joyce’s manuscript. Realizing he spent seventeen years on this project, it is sad to say—too bad he didn’t take a lesson from Mr. Farrington’s boss Mr. Alleyne; he should have gone back to writing Chamber Music, poems, or those poems in that little booklet called: “Penyeach,” which I think, Mr. Farrington penned the name, yet they read so charmingly.

       Let me quote a sentence from Finnegans Wake, and then you’ll understand why the book has not sold well, and never will, but first let me say this: I do realize  the book was written in what is called stream of conscious, and it really goes beyond that.  It is of a family, and the father or husband, is sleeping, I guess, and he has two sons, I guess, and a daughter, I guess, and a wife that would like him to wakeup I guess, and go for a walk I guess, and I do realize that there is possible a dream going on here, and he has created his own language here, in all 600-plus pages, and that the essence of the book is not the plot, theme or insight, because it hasn’t any, so it must be the rhythm of nonsense that it is weaved out of. So with this understanding let me quote a readable sentence? “Otherways wesways like that provost scoffing bedoneen the jebel and the jpysian sea. Cropherb the crunch-bracken shall decide.” Now realizing the man is sleeping, the father, let’s not use character names, since each character has a thousand names—different names on different pages to include the wife and the twin boys: I repeat, the person sleeping, is dreaming, or half  sleeping, and I think is dreaming.  Dreams are not like this, although they are chaotic, they are not as hideous, nor do they talk at night in such a way (Joyce uses this, or infers it is Night Talk; that day talk or thinking is different than the night, I think in Mr. Joyce’s world, night really means drunk talking and thinking…) as he writes them out here, in sentences as you’ve already read, it only gets more confusing, and you have to lean his language. To read and understand one whole page takes your entire mind and soul, and good decipherment, is it worth the trip—no!  

       On another note, this is no reconstruction of night of the soul talk or a dream state, so Joyce would have one believe. Incidentally, there is a letter that seems to swing from one section of the book to the next; it’s like a wiggly tooth, good for nothing, not sure why it is even there. And his puns were expensive for book that makes no sense. Perhaps it is better to relate the book to his family, than to anything else.