An Old Dirt Road (1958 -1962)) A Poem on Reflections))

An Old Dirt Road
1958 -1965

By Dennis L. Siluk



Some how I think, but I’m not sure, perhaps it is just me,
we all go back sometime and try to find that place in time
that says in your mind: “I wish I was back there!”
Or “Yaw, those were the good old days.”
Or “How did I get here, from way back there?”
I guess I could go on and on, but you get the picture,
Some things we just never forget. And it is surprising
what they can turn out to be, for me, an old dirt road.

(When I went back there, it never changed,
it remained the same, after forty-years!)

If you’ve ever felt like that, listen up, focus,
you are not alone, I was a soldier once, a soldier, in trying times
it was back in sixty-nine, from Fort Bragg, to Germany to
Vietnam, to Italy, and them some, but the Old Dirt Road
where I grew up, along side of it,
I never forgot, and as I used to walk it to its top,
I’d talk to the Lord, then catch the bus, go on to school,

Yes, oh yes, I can see myself walking through my backyard,
jumping over grandpa’s fence, or walking around it,
way back when; up that old dirt road I’d go,
to Rice School (it isn’t there anymore; nor did I attend it,
it was just at the top of the hill when I was young);
along the edge of the road, some houses still remain
some gone, some renovated it seems; still old barns,
turned into garages, as it was way back then.

In those far off days, I suppose in the 20s and 30s,
it was used for buggies with horses (the Old Dirt Road);
in my time, back in ‘58, a few cars, and my young feet.

It was a rough and jagged road; no car could have gotten down it
completely, not all the way, not without endangering
its under structures, floor boards, tires, shocks, and so on.

I loved that old dirt road, and now that I think of it,
possibly part of the reason could be, it served me:
almost traffic free, gave me time to think,
I was at peace; it was just Him and me.

As I walked the old dirt road, back in 1958, perhaps to ’62,
I was but eleven-year old when I started, back then.
I’d pick out a piece of grass from the side of the road
(a weed) like my mother used to do, put it in my mouth,
walk up to its top, and talk to my angel friend,
Jesus too, some forty-years ago.

Yes, be it under the sun, rain or snow, a simple piece of grass,
on an old dirt road, talking to God, listening,
answering His questions,
they were simply ones back then.

Originally written 9-2001, complete 11/8/2001 (put into poetic form 3-31-2007)

Box of Old Photographs

Box of Old Photographs

There is a season—(a time) before you die,
you know you are dying… a decisive eclipse
sort of….
You open up the box of old photographs,
ask, “Which ones do you want?”
Knowing time is short at best.
You don’t fuss if they take them all
they’re not sure why—!
(Because some one may have to erase them.)
Each word you say is fainter, more certain,
less laminated—;
you can now see the end, the dying sunset.

#1778 3-24-2007

Mans Dying Sunset

Mans Dying Sunset

There is a season—(a time)
Before you die, you know
You are dying… a decisive eclipse
sort of…
You open up the box of old photographs
Ask, “Which ones do you want?”
Knowing the colander is short at best.
You don’t fuss if they take them all
They’re not sure why—!
(Because some one may have to erase them.)
Each word you say is fainter,
more certain, unlamented—
you can now see the end, man’s sunset.

#1778 3-24-2007

Three Lyrics (subjectively rich)

The following three Lyrics (are subjectively rich)



2


Writing and Thinking


O dear, O dear, O dear,
what have we here?
I beseech thee, look!
A lot of pens, paper and books,
pencils…eh!...piled high to the ceiling—
and, a basket over there;
and, a pair of glasses somewhere?

O dear, O dear, O dear,
what we have here is writing
and a need to find something
to do without thinking.

#1773 3-24-2007




3


Islam’s Sorrow

You speak of the riddle of life,
And forget the God of creation:
You are not worth of either!

We have lost our comfort,
Because of Islam’s bravest:
Like moguls, they come,
One by one, their families filled
With confused sorrows….

Sorrowful minds they are
Hungry with thirst;
—with no defense, for what
They try to do, no return also,
Once done…thinking heaven
Is waiting for them
How dumb, the comfort
They seek, they cannot give
(and God said, “Do not ask,
If you cannot forgive!”
That is the riddle of life for them.
What flower shall blossom
(out of this)?
Who will know their grief!

#1774 3-24-2007


4

Give it up: Poet!

You have to be born a poet—
There is no other way—;
That is all I can say—: except,
Give it up, if you weren’t,
There is nothing in it!

#1775 3-24-2007


Notes on the last three poems above: poems like prose work (such as novels, short stories, and so forth) can be divided up into genres; in a similar manner, poems, not necessarily associated with a certain type of meter or rhyme form, often have, but sometimes lack, plot, and theme, but not always, and can be assorted into such categories as: Epic, dramatic, Lyric (as the ones above), ode, elegy and prose.

Waiting for the Tide (Parts I & II/A Dramatic Epic Poem)

http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Perú

Awarded the Grand Cross of the City

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Los Andes University (Peru): Recognition given to Dennis Siluk for his poetic and cultural contribution



Waiting for the Tide
Part I


The Tide



A day the full-sun was like a spinning-top,
Yes, like a young boy’s first full-dollar
Hidden in his pocket deep from the eyes of many,
Young Ferdinand drove his Ford along the sea-beach;
When he stopped, prompt; then he trembled, drove
The face of the little Ford’s wheels deep
They felt the mud; the car with four slim tires
On a pavement of sand pivoted like an elephant,
Jerked him from the sinking soil, wet down, wedged, skid;
Then, the sharp agitation finished, thickening him
Slid with his young lady rider over the car’s hood,
Shot from utter torment and a ruined automobile
His body and hers out now waiting for the tide.

The day you know time-honored with no show of passion for the little mishap; grave
Joana

Moved toward the undressed mountains, the day moved to twilight, the fast pulse of
the sea behind

Echo, the slow wind came in across the icy stones of the mountain; the dead Ford
wedged in tightly wearily on shore

He felt for the girl; Ferdinand’s restful eyes came back from the wakening, and
curiously knew

The mountain’s cold touch, now sucked into the walls of bodies, its timeless ruin.

Inside him, pain and dizziness, overwhelming

Bloated, and a hopeless wish to heave, and likewise his girlfriend, again

The cold hands of the mountain passed, likened to icy fingers, passed and crept over them, lay on each side of them, he slept sideways

She felt the weight of the mountain and waited an hour he lay still.

Then came a surge of whistling noises

The tide came in from the sea, to the edge of the mountain,
their bodies limp and cold

They crawled in further, like worms, between the groves of the two mountains, as
if they had rubber for bones, she lifted up his face

Their they lay, as if in a freezing chamber, with the tide in

She woke him from his callous sleep; he rose and made a face, the moon lit
like a lamp, cold like the sea, night equal to the days sun, in reverse,

Night and day were touching each other, ‘twilight’s in-between,´ (she thought): she
remained quiet, for it seemed a nightmare

For half the night long, she became a child’s mind and frequently sleepless, with the
other moaning

Within the gorge, the tide remained out, yet at its knees.

To Ferdinand it seemed that she was making love to him along the shore

With her, who said “Here we are, pushed into this mountain gorge, blood on your forehead, and you, you daydreaming of me on shore, dearest vainly…for here I am bad girl and all…come out of your dream and with your hooves of passion, dreadful passion, dreaming .” And he awoke completely, again.

Intense his eyes were, now upon hers

When the waves stopped, it got quieter, she slept lightly, and he all night through,
not a slump, or wink of an eye opened

Joana from her mountain view, likened to a window view, saw the cloudy light of the
sun rising deep in the East, mist overhanging

The lower part of the gorge had overflowed last night, but the waters were receding.


#1754 3-20-2007



Part II

In the Valley



Ferdinand rode his Model T Ford through the city, up into the mountains, to the
valley pastures noisily southeast catching the wind from the hills
Many times he wanted Joana to show him some new beauty within the
valley, the river or perhaps the old warrior sites
Quickly they rode through the bleak cobblestone passages, elbows touching, winds whistling, black shaded areas following as if a shadow was caught on the back of
the car
(areas to the side of the lower hills, smothered with undergrowth)
There was a dotted beauty to the black, gray and white substances
mixed into the layers of rock, gleaming from the rays of the sun
And then they found her father’s cottage, in a quiet valley among the
mountains, the winds still echoing as they seeped through the passages,
Now gazing quietly, he turned to Joana; she returned his look, both
looking at the cottage and the valley mountains (each other)
Saw the tips of the immense mountains possessing the entire valley,
enveloping it, as a mother guarding her child

They could see the barn-roof and red shingle-stone house roof
Like a ship anchored off shore; he thought now of Joana.
Towards twilight he and she drove to the house; Manual
Was leaving it and young Ferdinand said, “Listen, Joana,
We’ve had nice times together and drove all day.
I’m tired; I don’t wish to see any of our friends this weekend.
Tell them to stay away.” “Of course,” said the other
“as you wish, but I shall only tell it to your friends,
do you think my mind is not well yet, think again?”
Ferdinand drove down the embankment, to the cottage
She, wondering why his face was quivering
A jerk, contracting almost, with red anger; Joana
Wondered why he got out of the car and went
Directly into the cottage without a word spoken
Straight faced and squinting eyes
Could it be: jealousy or passiveness in him; her father
Met her at the door, she told him the news of their
Distressful night caught between the tides.
Assured him, Ferdinand was faithful, did not
Abandon her, nor take advantage of her—
“There is a fest at ‘Pablo’s Inn,’ this evening,
You’ll enjoy it, you and Ferdinand,” he said
thinking she’d go to it
“Go down the valley, Joana, drive the car slow,
have a good time,” he added.
“But he doesn’t want to go this evening, or any evening,
I believe he wants me all to himself!”
“Better you go to the fest down in the valley, lest you,
you put your young life in a box
“The devil’s in the box, Joana, the devil,” then her
Father lit the oil lamp, on the table, “just an
old man’s words, come winter you will be in the
house, save there is no other place to be.
Make your life pleasant, if you squabble now, how
will it be when you are old?” The old man
Smiling at her, “Let him daydream, go live!”




#1755 3/20/2007

Outlook Poems (Four poems with a View/ Part I)

Outlook Poems
(Four poems with a View/ Part I)


Poems about Life, God and Love



1) Frosty Minnesota March

Dennis

“Mother, you look so cold?”

(She’s gazing out the window, she loves winter time, its frightful cold this evening, though, and winters turn into a lion.)

Dennis

“Mother, I’m going south for the rest of March—come along, the winters too long for me!”

(She simply looks into my eyes says :) “The South, go on, let me be!”

Dennis

“Sweet mother dear—tomorrow they say, comes another storm!”

(Here cold eyes now look at me, says with a gleaming eye and smile :) “Then take me to Las Vegas or let me just freeze!”

#1735








2) Jesus’ Riddle to John


Jesus once said to John, a riddle, “Answer if you can...: must I die for God, or must I die for man?”

(John bewildered couldn’t say, he just lowered his eyes and prayed.)

“I take their sins…” Jesus said, “I feel their pain, from Monday through the Sabbath: in cities, nooks and valleys, and in allies, as they hide their selves from me, to sin some more in quite, as if I can’t see…!”

(John still looked bewildered but said :) “I guess you’ll die for me!”

#1736 3-16-2007


3) Life, God and Love
(The king eater)

Saddam Hussein, he wanted to be king of kings, like Nebuchadnezzar, and so he was—:

At the end of his quest, he: crawled out of a hole, when captured; he grunted like a hog when he was judged—and he heard the hooves of the deadly horses approaching, the roars of anger by his henchmen, when he was hung.

#1738


4) Love Leaves a Debt

I am an old lover, and cry to all yokels out there:

Love a day, and for a time
For love is grim, and seldom kind….

To all you lovers have good heed
Love fades without a word, or deed.

And: —

Love always leaves an unpaid debt—
For one always loves more than the other

(and that one never gets)!

#1737

"The Girls are not Ladies"

“The Girls are not Ladies”
(A very bad poem for Women)

The girls I guess are not ladies
They go with boys that buck and fart
They do not give a rat’s ass
They hump them until the dark

One hangs a bra upon his item
One strips and bends, her behind
They do not care who is watching
Or give a damn what day or time

The girls I guess are not ladies
They cannot think and cannot feel
They hold their stomachs, while laughing
And take more drugs for more thrills.

#1726 3-9-2007


Comments: Don’t read this poem if you feel you will be offended, the truth of the matter is, Girls, nowadays, in most cases are not ladies, as the poem says (just look around, ask the blind man, he knows). I was told in counseling school 30-years ago, girls are no longer girls, once past the age of puberty, but young women, and there after just plain women, and there are no more ladies, it is a bad word—term to use, so use they say, ‘woman or women’ instead—one term for all, this is what they taught at the University of Minnesota, renowned for its psychology, and counseling. I had heard it also in other places I worked, and from many of my new friends in higher literary places, they also backed the new generation terms; I always liked the term, girls and ladies, so they robbed me of it. I’m 59-years old, so, for the first 29-years of my life, I was allowed to use those terms without being scorned, nowadays, I am careful, and try not to use all those bad words: girl and lady, and just say ‘yes mam,’ for all occasions in life, to all ages, to all females, it makes life easier. So my poem should not really offend anyone of the newer generation—it fits; as for my wife, I found a lady and girl all in one package, and before we got married it was alright to use them terms, and she doesn’t mind the terms (yet, after we got married, she is 12-years younger than me, she said, she’d prefer I call her wife, or Rosa instead of any term what so ever; I agreed…to make life easier).

"Under the Rock" & "Moth and the MInd" (Two Poetic Prose Poems, with notes)

Under the Rock
(Poetic Prose)


What is hidden in the unconscious and cannot be found in the dictionary, it might be wise to leave buried under the rock (to rot, motionlessly).
We are not cats; we do not have nine-lives (we can break like porcelain).
I have left many things under that rock of mine: halos, devils, old friends, pearls or experiences—and expressions.
The rock has an abdomen, I’ve noticed (believe it or not): with spirit and appetite (eyes that open, adjust to its environment), looking for who can offer it a sunny day.

(Oil the spring to the door, in case you have to run, once it clicks, your stuck.)

#1730 3-12-2007




Moth and the Mind


At night, the unconscious revives the mind, plants powerful images, shadows for the curious conscious to figure out, once woken up in the morning (perhaps too dreadful, too frightful to paint a perfect picture of).
Now the dusty room is empty, pure black nothingness—the moths want to come in, attack the dark mist, suck dry the chamber walls, while in a state of mania (and they try to); then the organic gases drown the moths, to a stupor: thus, as night befalls the mind again, new shadows, images start coming in—no room for the moths again.


#1731 3-21.2007



[A Note on Prose Poetry:] The prose poem is usually made-up with more wit than rime in it, so it has been by the master pieces, and master poets, in the past; the lines involved are not usually all that important.

"Iguazu Falls (And Devil’s Throat)" & “Prophecy Guarded" (Two poems with a Commentary)

"Iguazu Falls (And Devil’s Throat)" & “Prophecy Guarded" (Two poems with a Commentary)


Prophecy Guarded

The silence inside the soul, behind
Old, very old stone walls,
Protected by God, Himself—
Is prophecy given to man:
To deliver to humankind
It would be better to die, than
Try, to wound that wall…,
(taunting with death, as in
a bullfighters dance…
is what it is!)

#1727 3-10-2007




Iguazu Falls
(and, Devil’s Throat)

This is the way the falls fall down
From under the shinning dropping sun:
First comes the roar of a hundred lions,
Where the thundering thrust of water seals
Her eternal beauty down;

And yes, where deep mist flashes a brim,
You can see her pounding and roaring
From the loss of breath…,
As ever eye opens wide and dim—;
I call this life, at it its best.


#1723 3-8-2007

Note: Iguazu Falls, is to me one of the great geological wonders of the world, it is as if God, Himself, fell on his elbow, and put a dent into the earth (if that was possible). Devil’s Throat is simple an area among the 270 or so falls that are connecting to one another to make this world wonder one site instead of many. It has something like 450,000-liters of water per second going over its falls, at any given time, and has around a 300-foot drop, and is close to two miles in circumference. The falls are on the Argentina and Brazilian soil, Brazil perhaps being the better view. And taking a bus from Concepcion, Paraguay, is not a hard task, if indeed you wished to see Paraguay, which goes into a three angel corner with Argentina, and Brazil, in one location, thus, being in three countries at one time.

The Spirit of Art

The Spirit of Art


Art is a great thing, I love to write, to play the piano, the guitar, poetry, drawing, painting, I’ve done all my own art work for my books, or almost all. I do not have other people’s pictures on my walls; I have my own photographs from around the world, I take them. I took other’s down years ago and said: if I want them up there, I’ll go to the places and take them myself, and I did. So I love art in many forms. The artist, literary art, to relieve, and refresh the mind, revives the soul, form an ecstasy, majesty of thought.
I enjoy mediaeval literature as well as contemporary works of art, and the essay, the poem, the short story, the article, I don’t like dullness, I try to live in my art, or work, if it bores me, or gives me world-weariness, trash it. This law I have, is contrary perhaps to customary literary scholars, but sometimes something’s bore me, and it takes me 15-years to read the book, or in some cases, 15-days, and in other cases, one evening.
My innumerable thoughts never stop; it is perhaps why I make so many mistakes. My mind may be on one thing, and shifts to archaeological thinking, and next to opinions. It never stops, sleep is its only salvation, one of the greatest gifts God has given me, and there is an art to that, to dreaming, my thanks to Him.
The world Art, or words, Spirit of Art, has a definite meaning for me, it is a romance, produced during its stages of creation. Like a book. As I write it, refine it, proof it, and finally victory—yes an ongoing romance. Concerning daily life, labor, no idleness involved, that is the enemy of the soul. Man should not be idle, if so, the phantom comes out of him, not art.

The Spirit of Art

The artist appeared upon the land;
From behind the sea,
The sun passed, it shinned
Only for a moment
To clear a path.

#1718 3-5-2007








Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Perú

Awarded the Grand Cross of the City

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Los Andes University (Peru): Recognition given to Dennis Siluk for his poetic and cultural contribution

Six Poems from Lyricism to Satire

Six Poems from Lyricism to Satire
(Feelings and opinions and Fun poetry)

1

wild-blackberries

if the
blue
sky opens
a little
we will
have
lots of
sun tomorrow
an
d if
t
he blue sky
C
L
O
S
E


#1714 3-5-2007


2

iraqi war


weight
less
puppet on
a string

a
long way
ba
ck
home
fo
r
many.

war’s
am
big
u
ity….

#1715

3

old

to
o
ol
d
to
se
e

t
he
t
r
ees
in front
o
f thy…!


#1713


4

lazy

to
o
la
z
y
to
se
e
t
he
th
Ie
f
in fron
t of
you…!


#1716


5

The Last of Light

In the last of light
(a briefness)
Between day and night
(I sit on my roof—watching
Night come in).

Out of a tomb like sky
A strange hand seems to reach
Pulling an eyeless twilight ((rising))
Like a shade closing—until it
Flat-lines (to its death)

The chatting sounds of:
Horns, people, birds and dogs—
Dies; I hear only footsteps now,
Somewhere down below.

In the last of light
My world is twitching
All around me…
Ludicrously!

#1712


6

Goodbye Zaneta

Goodbye Zaneta, goodbye…! with only
memories left (dance, sing and be, while
you can): erase me out from your diary—
(from your heart, within your breast),
as you have done with your family and friends.
But keep your head held high (chin up as
I taught you: by and by) don’t drink too much,
don’t smoke the pot, it’s all I ask of you—
the last applause, the final curtain—not far off,
one by one bound we must come, at dusk
or dawn, smiling or gray faced, but we come;
so, hold your head up, as you were taught,
chin up, death will be no stranger. Ask God!
If I could go and take your hands, I would,
Yes, oh yes, if only I could, I’d say: “Lord,
accept her with all happiness,” but then,
you are not me and He shall turn His face—
unseen things, remain unseen.

#1717