Poets and Poems [From the: Globe-trotter Poet]

Ceremony Doctor Honoris Causa for Dr. Dennis L. Siluk by the UNCP, Part ...

2012-02-03T13:32:00.000-08:00

Ode to the Perils of Yorkshire Coast (1066 A.D.)

2012-02-03T07:07:00.001-08:00

Three hundred sails
(That of a Norwegian fleet)
Appeared off the Yorkshire Coast (1066 A.D.)
Ravaged the inland some…

The English King (Harold)
Hearing of this—headed north
To face the invasion: the Wind
On his sails, this served him well!

Thus, the English King
Arrived in York in time to prevent a
Pervading disaster!

The battle was fierce—Viking
And Englishmen…hewed at each other
Over the war bloodied ground

—until,
The Norse Army was annihilated

(Which no Anglo-Saxon chronicle can deny
Or defend?...)

Exterminated them like infected mice;
As the few who escaped, with their lives
Fled on only twenty-four ships!

Note: 3258 (11-9-2011)

The World Was Blackened

2012-02-03T07:02:00.001-08:00

We were nothing but little bugs
on the earth—back then,
thinking we were much, much more
—when it all ended…
when the world was blackened
and was drained of sound and color
Fading into multiple grays and blacks!

Then suddenly, there was a
patter and the thud of thunder
that rambled, and echoed
throughout the atmosphere,
covering the planet like a shroud—
where once were many passing footsteps!

Then darkness thickened again
layers upon layers,
filled the planet like a rising tide?...
It seeped from the earth
fell from the sky
It was the changing of the planet! ~

Eyes came out of dimness.
Hunger followed the eyes.
From far and near, came
pulsating sounds…vibrations
on the ground…

We were all vacant, vagrants
Nothing was understand by
anybody or anything…
on earth’s surface—
under it, above it: it was all strange
so very strange, as if we never was!

Them that lived were ably to
smell and see, mutter.
Everyone had forgotten what was
where we all had came from…
Our minds vacant like vagrants
we had lost our language…
our right to be

((Animals, insects, nature, humanoids,
odd shaped beings, strange
everything strange, nothing…nothing
was the same)(even the oxygen,
atoms, blood, bacteria—all changed)).

I was one of the few that remained
the same, could remember,
how it used to be.
Perhaps it was better now, better
not knowing a thing!

Ode to the: Race of the Old Yonah

2012-02-03T06:51:00.000-08:00

(April, 1862—The Civil War)

James J. Andrews, finessed his way
through tight places, avoiding clashes
with the south (a Union Spy)
where a flinch of an eyelash
meant death—!

His quest, had now been to take the Engine
General, and its three boxcars
at the depot called – ‘Big Shanty’ at
Marietta, Georgia—race onto
Bridgeport, Alabama, with thirty
armed soldiers,

—thus, the race began, heading westward;
Conductor William A. Fuller in pursuit!

The Yankees only eleven minutes ahead!
Heaving and pulling iron rails loose
until they snapped—to slow old Yonah down,
Fuller still behind…

One mistake Andrews had made along the way,
was not to destroy the old engine Yonah,
thinking, it had its day…
which would seal his fate, write his epitaph
(for that was the engine Fuller used to
start his race…)!

Consequently, capturing Andrews along the way
and most of his squad;
hanging Andrews
eleven days before his wedding,
leaving his bones in Dixie!

Note: Those who have not been in war, will never understand the simplest of friction, it can produce with the simplest of things, distortion in the mind (miscalculations); you see the mind doesn’t always function the exact way you’d expect it to. Especially when making moment to moment decisions as in the: “…Race of the Old Yonah” (12/21/2011)

#3360 (12-20-2011)

Dead End (In English and Spanish)

2012-02-03T06:46:00.000-08:00

English Version

Dead End

To keep his children, He lost his Dignity!
To keep his dignity, he lost his children!
What he didn’t do, is perhaps, what he should have done!
Now, it’s way too late!

#3365 (12/31/2011)

Versión en Español

Callejón sin Salida

¡Él perdió su dignidad, por mantener a sus hijos!
¡Por mantener su dignidad, él perdió a sus hijos!
Lo que él no hizo, es talvez, lo que él debió haber hecho.
¡Ahora es demasiado tarde!

#3365 (12/31/2011)

Secret Writing

2012-02-03T06:45:00.001-08:00

aabaa ababa abbab aabbb abaaa ababb

aaaaab babba
aabbb abaaa baaab
babaa abaaa ababa ababa

The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger (English and Spanish))

2012-02-02T14:38:00.000-08:00

Versión en Inglés

Legend of:
The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger

I wonder
If he was afraid of dying—found
Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete)
In what one day would become the
Village of Huacrapuquio—
But now,
All day long, I have been walking among
Their dirt and stone streets,
Trying to keep still, silently
Listening,
To old residue—echoes that linger in
The shifting dust and sand—patiently I am
Gathering, the slow, the empty
Echoes of the past…

And of the secret shelter where this
Ancient tiger fell to his death
10, 000 BC…
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day
The city dug up the old dirt road, to
Put in plumbing.

His frame tells me his short, but
Lively life’s story—!
He was young, strong, lean, but careless—
He would leap at his prey, with those
Strong short hind legs; and with his
Long front arms—limbs that had
Paws like small boulders—and
Talons, sharp as giant thorns—
He would maul his prey; then with his
Sabre-teeth, he would put them to sleep!

#3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio, in Huancayo, Region Junin, in 2007, about eleven thousand feet up in the Andes of Peru, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered among one of the few, if not only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains.

Versión en Español

Leyenda del:
Milenario Tigre de Huacrapuquio

Me pregunto
Si él tuvo miedo de morir,
Fue encontrado
—en la profundidad de una grieta de piedra
(sus huesos completos) —
En lo que un día sería
El Pueblo de Huacrapuquio.
Pero ahora,
He estado caminando todo el día
Entre sus calles de tierra y piedras,
Tratando de mantenerme tranquilo,
Escuchando silenciosamente,
A los antiguos restos
—ecos que persisten detrás del polvo y arena cambiantes—
Pacientemente estoy recolectando, los lentos,
Los silenciosos ecos del pasado…
Y del secreto refugio donde este
Milenario tigre cayó a su muerte
10,000 antes de Cristo…

Cayó a su tumba terrenal, hasta el día
En que el gobierno cavó en el viejo camino de tierra,
Para poner tubos de desagüe.

Su cuerpo me dice: de su corta,
¡Pero enérgica historia de vida!
—Él era joven, fuerte, delgado, pero descuidado—
Él se lanzaría a su presa,
Con esas fuertes patas cortas traseras;
Y con sus largas patas delanteras
—miembros que tenían patas como rocas pequeñas,
y garras afiladas como espinas gigantes—
Él agarraría a su presa, luego con sus
Dientes de sable, ¡él los mataría!

#3105 (1-Octubre-2011) Mientras visitaba el pueblo de Huacrapuquio, en Huancayo, en la Región Junín, a más de 3,200 m.s.n.m. en Los Andes de Perú, en el año 2007, el Alcalde del pueblo me mostró los huesos y el lugar donde este milenario tigre fue encontrado. Considerado entre uno de los pocos tigres dientes de sable en el mundo encontrado casi con la totalidad de sus huesos. Así, la estructura del tigre, era remarcablemente diferente a lo que los expertos en este tema esperaban. Después de verlo hice un dibujo del tigre (de sus restos).

Red Ants in Satipo (English and Spanish)

2012-02-02T14:36:00.000-08:00

Versión en Inglés

Red Ants in Satipo
(Central Jungle of Peru)

I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage—
I do not want to alarm the large red ants
who are walking single file back and forth on the plant’s branch
(in the Satipo Jungle)—carrying small to large loads
of petals.

I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch—I try and a few
leap onto me—racing up my fingers, and beyond…they have
sharp teeth—!

Then Rosa (my wife)—standing nearby—pulls me back,
watching the red ants thrive … she cries: “Let it go!”
I let the fruit branch go, step back—she’s relieved—so am I.

No: 3111 (10-5-2011); dedicated to the people of Satipo, its Mayor Cmdte, (R) Cesar Augusto
Merea Tello, and David Peñaloza Tapia.

Versión en Español

Hormigas Rojas en Satipo
Selva Central de Perú)

Empujo, me alzo ligeramente entre el follaje espeso de la selva
—no quiero perturbar a las grandes hormigas rojas
que están caminando en fila de uno yendo y viniendo
por las ramas de las plantas (en la Selva de Satipo)
llevando pequeñas y grandes cargas de pétalos—.

Quiero recoger una fruta de la rama
—lo intento pero unas cuantas saltan sobre mi
corriendo arriba de mis dedos, y más allá;
¡ellas tienen dientes afilados!—

Entonces Rosa (mi esposa) —parada cerca—me jala,
viendo aumentar a las hormigas rojas …ella grita: “¡suéltalo!”
Dejé la rama de fruta, retrocedí—ella está calmada—
y yo también.

No: 3111 (5-Octubre-2011): Dedicado a la población de Satipo y a su Alcalde
Cmdte. (R) César Augusto Merea Tello y a David Peñaloza Tapia.

The Dying Puya de Raimondi (English and Spanish)

2012-02-02T14:34:00.001-08:00

The Dying
Puya de Raimondi

Today I stood by the largest
Flower in the world
Thirty-six feet tall (if not more)
One-hundred years old
It was dying—
Shedding its six-million seeds
Flying in the wind every-which-way
Especially below its knees…!
I witnessed its progeny
But three months old (so the Mayor told me)
A tiny, tiny thing—
I caressed its thorny limbs
Then when I looked up to see its height
I knew that it knew,
It was equal to the Condor in flight!

Version en Español

La Moribunda
Puya de Raimondi

¡Hoy estuve cerca a la flor
Más grande del mundo
Once metros de altura (talvez más)
Cien años de edad,
Estaba agonizando,
Derramando seis millones de semillas
Que volaban con el viento en todas direcciones
Especialmente debajo de ésta…!

—presencié su progenie
de sólo tres meses de edad
(eso me dijo el Alcalde)
una diminuta, una cosa muy pequeñita—

Acaricie sus ramas espinosas
Luego miré arriba para ver su gran tamaño
Yo sabía que ésta sabía,
Que era igual a un Cóndor volando!

#3367 (3/Enero/2012) 2nd poema de este año. Dedicado al Alcalde de Canchayllo,
Econ. Pedro Pablo Arias y al Sr. Antonio Ayala
(En la foto de la Versión en Inglés, el Poeta está parado al costado de la planta,
mirando a su gran tamaño)

The Puya de Raimondi (English and Spanish)

2012-02-02T14:28:00.000-08:00

The Mayor of Canchayllo (Pedro Pablo Arias), and Dr. Siluk, by a young
Puya de Raimondi (10-years old, they grow to be 100-years old) 1/2012

Poemas de la Región Andina de Perú
Poems out of the Andean Region of Peru

Versión en Inglés

The Puya de Raimondi
(Of Canchayllo, Jauja, Peru)

The Puya de Raimondi—is
a rare and giant flower indeed!
twenty-four to thirty-six feet tall,
grows only in Peru and Bolivia—

Lives to be one hundred years old,
then dies—gives birth to death;
in that, —out of six-million seeds
it will produce but one, that will
survive to bear fruit for another.
And only turn out one flower,
at the ripe old age of a hundred
then pass on…

This rare and giant flower, lives
10,000 feet above sea level; it has a
bitter life indeed, but at full growth
it is tall and beautiful—and I believe,
selected by God, as one of the chosen.

No: 3104 (October 1, 2011) Note: the Puya de Raimondi of Canchayllo, Jauja, Peru, high up in the Andes, is a most wondrous sight to see…a classic, that is: one of a kind. Canchayllo is a district of Jauja, Region of Junin, Peru, with about 1800 inhabitants. The flowers grow at a height of 13,000 feet, on top of a mountain overlooking the township, where you will find a forest of them, along with wild life, camping, etc., I along with our team of five others went 12,500 feet, to discover one of the oldest of the flowers, just shedding its seeds, giving birth to its offspring, as you can read in “The Dying Puya de Raimondi.” Dedicated to Antonio Ayala Egoavil and the Mayor of Canchayllo, Econ. Pedro Pablo Arias Atanacio. Dlsiluk

Versión en Español

La Puya de Raimondi
(de Canchayllo, Jauja, Perú)

La Puya de Raimondi es una rara
y gigante flor ¡de verdad!
de ocho a doce metros de altura,
—crece sólo en Perú y Bolivia—

Vive hasta los cien años de edad,
luego muere—dando vida a la muerte;
es decir, de seis millones de semillas
sólo una crecerá, la que sobrevivirá
para dar frutos para otro.
Y sólo se volverá una flor,
a la edad madura de cien años
luego morirá…

Esta rara y gigante flor, vive
a más 3,300 metros sobre el nivel del mar;
tiene una vida amarga ¡de verdad!
pero alcanzando su madurez
es alta y hermosa—y yo creo,
seleccionada por Dios, como una de las elegidas.

No: 3104 (1 Octubre 2011) Nota: La Puya de Raimondi de Canchayllo es una planta muy asombrosa para ver, y única en su clase. Canchayllo está en la Provincia de Jauja, Región Junín, en los Andes de Perú, tiene una población aproximada de 1800 habitantes. Esta planta crece a más de 3300 metros sobre el nivel del mar, y en Canchayllo crece encima de una montaña mirando hacia el pueblo, donde hay un Bosque de Puyas de Raimondi, junto con vida silvestre donde se puede acampar. Nuestro equipo de cinco personas, llegó hasta los 3,800 m.s.n.m. para encontrar una de las plantas más antiguas, justo diseminando sus semillas, dando nacimiento a sus rebrotes, como lo puedes leer en “La Moribunda Puya de Raimondi”. Dedicado al Sr. Antonio Ayala Egoavil y al señor Alcalde de Canchayllo, Econ. Pedro Pablo Arias Atanacio. Dlsiluk

En la foto de la Versión en Inglés está el Alcalde de Canchayllo, Eco. Pedro Pablo Arias con el Dr. Dennis Siluk, cerca de una pequeña Puya de Raimondi (aproximadamente de 10 años de edad, ellas viven hasta los 100 años de edad). Enero 2012

Death Passed Me Once (Bilingual: English and Spanish)

2012-01-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

English Version

Death Pass me Once
(In the Valley of Days)

Death returns: it found no resting place,
I saw it in flight last night—(it passed me once,
overhead) beneath the last sparks of twilight—!

Death has wings, you know, I saw it descend,
it glides through the valley of days, in peacefulness…
yet—its tail leaves shadows of grief, and pain,
to return at dawn, blue-bellied full—,
as if it had swallowed a whale whole.

Death, is always hungry it seems, and has an
invisible web nearby, always waiting, waiting,
likened to a spider waiting for a fly!

Spanish Version

La Muerte me Sobrepasó una Vez
(En el Valle de la Vida)

¡La muerte vuelve: esta no encontró un lugar para descansar,
la vi en vuelo, anoche—(esta me sobrepasó una vez)
debajo de las últimas chispas del crepúsculo—!

La muerte tiene alas, tú sabes, la vi descender,
esta se desliza a través del valle de la vida, en sosiego…
aunque—su cola deja sombras de aflicción, y dolor,
para volver al amanecer, estómago azul lleno—,
como si se hubiera tragado una ballena entera.

¡La muerte, parece que siempre tiene hambre, y tiene
una telaraña invisible cerca, siempre esperando, esperando,
similar a una araña y una mosca

Death Passed Me Once (English and Spanish)

2011-12-08T12:09:00.001-08:00

Death Passed Me Once
(In the Valley of Days)

Death returns: it found no resting place,
I saw it in flight last night—(it passed me once,
overhead) beneath the last sparks of twilight—!

Death has wings, you know, I saw it descend,
it glides through the valley of days, in peacefulness…
yet—its tail leaves shadows of grief, and pain,
to return at dawn, blue-bellied full—,
as if it had swallowed a whale whole.

Death, is always hungry it seems, and has an
invisible web nearby, always waiting, waiting,
likened to a spider waiting for a fly!

Spanish Version

La Muerte me Sobrepasó una Vez
(En el Valle de la Vida)

¡La muerte vuelve: esta no encontró un lugar para descansar,
la vi en vuelo, anoche—(esta me sobrepasó una vez)
debajo de las últimas chispas del crepúsculo—!

La muerte tiene alas, tú sabes, la vi descender,
esta se desliza a través del valle de la vida, en sosiego…
aunque—su cola deja sombras de aflicción, y dolor,
para volver al amanecer, estómago azul lleno—,
como si se hubiera tragado una ballena entera.

¡La muerte, parece que siempre tiene hambre, y tiene
una telaraña invisible cerca, siempre esperando, esperando,
similar a una araña y una mosca!

The Great March to Babylon

2011-12-08T11:48:00.000-08:00

The Great March to Babylon

(or, ‘The French Crusade)
(1249-1250 A.D.)

Part One

Prologue

I
The Battles Lay Await

Let us go back—
That is one of the story teller’s
Privileges,
And put ourselves in the
Year 1249-1250 A.D.
The period known as
The French Crusade.
This is really a French
Odyssey to say the least!
When great battles took place
And death and sorrow lay wait.

11

Part Two

The Noble Knights
(Beginning of the Battles)

II
The Ships

“To Babylon, to Babylon!”
The French Knights shouted.
(While disembarking,
Some 1800-ships)
Vessels great and small;
On Saint Nicholas’s day—
And thus,
Started the Great March!

19

II
The King’s Towers

King St. Louis of France
Had two great, chas-chateils
(The king’s belfries—towers)
Built—each three stories high
Towers of wood for the
King’s cross-bows
And archers to shoot and
Kill the enemy from.

27
Greek Fire

Unfortunately, the Sultan’s
Army, quickly destroyed
Each one, with Greek fire
(From warlike machines called
La perriere, which flung
The awesome fire—
Likened to stars in the night sky
Onto and over everything!)

35

The Templars

Even the Templars
Bold as they were,
Who formed a rear-guard
Whose names carried great weight!
Could not restrain such a
Great undertaking
(The great armament
Of the Saracens):
Thereafter, doom and disaster...
Followed the Knights of France!

45

III
The Great Armament

For days they fought
The Turks and Saracens
The French Monarch,
Anguished, with his:
Dukes and earls, lords,
Barons and knights.

Many had fallen and were
Falling to their deaths,
Many: brothers, cousins,
Kin: cloven-breasted.

As their wives back in France,
Whispered and wept—
Waiting for new husbands!

And in the King’s tent
There was ailing and woe
By the dukes,
earls and barons!
(The great and noble—
For their realms in France,
Which they may never see again.)

65

Part Three

The March to Babylon

IV
War was Kindled

War and battles were rekindled
On the march to Babylon…

Shoulder to shoulder
Hand to sword
Swords and battle-axes
Hand in hand
(Infantry,
Men on horses, the Calvary),
Turks and Saracens,
And Knights of France,
Warring…all militaristic
Both sides praying to God
For glory and might
To win the battles
That day and night!
Thinking they are right!
Not accepting wisdom,
That,
No one kills in the name of God
Who is right?

And so the doors to death
Were wide open…

87

V
Disease and Death

One could hear
Next to his ears
On either side
The clang and clash of swords
Harden by hot anvils!

One to the other,
Hacked off:
Hands, legs, noses,
Hurled men and beasts
(Like bears and boars—in a hunt)
To their deaths;
Now like still stones
Laying on the ground,
Soon to be thrown into the rivers
And streams,
Staining them with corpses,
Reeking a stink
That caused disease and death
That once touched
No man could escape!

107

Part Four

The Doomed Knights

VI
The Dauntless and the Dread

The Lords,
Gallant Knights
With battle-axe and swords
With lances, pikes,
Shields,
All men on horseback—
Many too many,
Sank in the muddy river
To their deaths…

The King badly wounded
Yet,
He hastened to recover
His strength,
To battle on
A pitiful sight and state for
A king…

(As often he did,
He made a cross in the sand
Each time he left his tent,
To honor Jesus Christ:
Perhaps, hoping to live
Though the day and night.)

130

VII
The Esquire and the King

The esquire watching
The motion of the battle,
High on top his horse,
Was struck with a lance
Such a blow, ripped
Open his shoulder
Drove the lance into his neck
To where
He couldn’t draw his sword.
His arms fell around
The horse’s neck,
Then he fell out of his saddle
Onto the ground—to
His death!

As the king’s knights
Transverse the Turkish Army
Of over ten-thousand…

With the king surrounded,
Yet he made his escape!

149

Part Five

The Gallant Horses

VIII
Grappled with Agony

In the mist of the latter battles
The horses battle-fatigued,
Swayed with ripped hides,
Split asunder
Leaped over the dead
The rotting corpses
Over bodies as they foamed
And bled themselves from the mouth
Teeth garnishing
Spurs sunk deep into their flesh
As harnesses were used as whips:
Arrows and swords thumped
Against them,
Each grappled with agony
To go forward, to their deaths…!

And the heat of the desert
Sunk in, there was no escape!

166

Greek Fire

The Black Smoke
From he burning Naphtha—
The incoming Greek fire
One by one—as the knights
Gave up hope,
The sun unmerciful,
Hot and low,
No higher than a tree
Dropped the horses
To their knees!
Bleakly staring down on life…

177

Part Six

The War’s End

IX
The Sword and Long Spear

And at the battles
Very end—the
Noble Kings of France
With their swords and
Long spears:
Wither their Infantry
Calvary, archers—
Knights, barons
Lords and all…
Could not smother
The great battles
For Victory…

(Bring to its concluding end
The war, yet with honor and dignity,
They expired nonetheless;
Surrendered)

It was the might
Of the Great Dragon
The flying Greek fire that did!

And so it was,
The king and the noble but
Doomed kings of France
Were brought to their knees,
With extending arms and eyes
To the heavens
And cried for mercy:
And God heard them.

204

Epitaph

But let it be said:
No man goes to war,
And kills
In God’s name,
That is blaspheming!

209

No: 3256
(Written 12-8-2001)

Sense or Nonsense

2011-11-09T07:01:00.000-08:00

(A Set of poems)

Sense or Nonsense

Ten New Poems of: Sense or Nonsense

Introduction:

Sense or Nonsense

Making sense is the other side of making nonsense “What is what?” that is the question. (Moreover, who knows?) My advice to the reader of these poems is not to be too quick to label them either way, unless you can understand both sides of the coin without any preconceived notions …

How to Read a Poem
(If indeed, you care)

Now for a few principles: Read these poems attentively; read them several times slowly, and with an open mind. Gather interesting data, mark certain words, images, or lines you find interesting or suggestive with a pencil. Evaluate the big picture (zero in on the basic outline, the poem’s meaning or purpose). It might be interesting to note, usually the imagery of the poem echoes the poem’s theme, if indeed you miss the theme, look for the imagery, and the echo towards it.

By the Time
(Poem One)

By the time, you start thinking what have I to do. By the time, the children are old enough to drink booze. By the time, the naked old eye can no longer see the summer clouds. By the time the grapes in the cellar ferments to a rich elderly fine wine. By the time everything grows and dies around you…by this time, it is time you start to think about the dirt and the bugs in the ground, and if you are, heaven bound—!

The Old Trout
(Poem Two)

When I was full of life, the sun was full of sun, now I am old, getting older and I am full of dying near as much as the moon is full of no air…

I am like the tides of the ocean, once about a time I came in on one, I watched them from a distance come and go; now it’s my time to ride them out I hope slow!

Yesterday’s Rain
(Poem Three)

Yesterday, the rain was full of rain, a little gray, a little insane, which in a way was very pleasant, at 7:00 p.m.; and this is what the rain said:

“What is there to show if I do not rain all over the city and you?” Then the rain added, “I cover all around the sun, cover it up, and during this, you can sleep, otherwise get wet.”

That was yesterday, it is different today. The rain is sleeping, thank God for that; now we get the sun back!

Alone in Paris
(Poem Four)

I traveled around the world, mostly alone for most of my life, and I never felt alone, although to others I am sure I looked alone, and I was alone, but was I lonesome (Feeling lost)? Never until I was alone in Paris for my first time, then I knew and felt alone, on my own, because now I was alone, and felt lonesome. I even swore never to return to Paris, unaccompanied, alone!

Then I left Paris, alone the same way I had come, feeling less lonesome—even though now I knew I still was alone even though people were all around me… and felt alone, but now being alone was okay…it was Paris!

Note: We become aware of things—once we climb the tree, and look down or perhaps above the trees and around…. On a second note, a tree to a tree is just another tree, put a hill or mountain beside it; it will love you evermore, because it is different. In addition, perhaps appreciation is what it is all about…

Learning
(Poem Five)

He would and he was—meaning, he did not and he tried. Nevertheless, he never would and he never did. Kids are like that you know, and yes, I know one, two, three, perhaps six, no, eight, no, ten (perhaps even more, but let us say ten… or more for the sake of argument).

Ten or more kids and no one learned a thing—sad but a fact. Nowadays, this would be considered the ordinary, for kids; that is to say, trying to learn more, or expecting to learn more, with a third of their capacity, effort, actions; everyday doing less, expecting to learn more.

The first kid that tried this—this new universal track of learning, he was the one that needed to learn the most. However, would he learn? Alternatively, was he learning? Who is to say? He thought tears would make him learn, but he was just the same—still the same inside…, which is not the same as learning.

The Have, Had, Halves
(Poem Six)

I had, and I have, and I have to keep the half now of what I have—call it halve—when all is said and done what will I have had to do to keep that half? In addition, get back what I had, had I not thought about this, I would not have had to write this, and I could have slept a while longer.

Denny and Diane
(Poem Seven)

Denny and Diane, Diane and Denny, both liked each other immortally. He said he loved her more than she loved him. She said ‘…nonsense! I love you more than you love me!’
He combed her hair, he shared his pear, he washed her feet, he never let go of her, even to sleep, and that was why Denny was Diane.
Diane walked by his side—side to side, like to like, like two peas in a pod. Why, nobody knew, but take my word, it is true, they did everything from there to there, not a hair’s breath away and that was why Diane was Denny.
So was it Denny or was it Diane or was Denny just Diane? Then again, was Diane just Denny? It is better to leave this alone, the more you think of this the more you wonder, and let’s say Denny is just Diane and Diane is just Denny and they both are through being the other.

Ballad of the Big
and Little Pigs

(Poem Eight)

A big pig running low
in the fields of snow
watching little pigs sitting by
learning that soon they could die.
It was in the fields and it was daylight,
and cows mooed,
and the little pigs could have care less.
The Big pig saw everything, everywhere
in the valley…
And the little pigs knew this, knew
the Big Pig, He could see right down
and throughout the fields—
and even see the other animals hidden
elsewhere…here and there.

Therefore, the cows and all the other
animals did not dare
to hurt the little pigs…
Seeing the big watching and staring
here and there, always aware.
And so, as you may have guessed
and as you may have read
when a big pig running low
loose in a field of snow
the little pigs know they will not
be captured, or hunted, or even
eaten alive, or have to die,
that they too, have time
to grow old…
(as long as the big pig is watching
that is…)

And so they know, and knew.
and yes, to be true
they wondered also:
“What’s all the bother about?”
Then appeared a man
and he hit the big pig on the head
with a big iron hammer!
Hoping he would have killed him,
but he hadn’t and the big pig
tried to get away
but there was no way.

The little pigs watching all this—said:
“If he gets away, we’re safe today!”
But quickly, the big pig sunk
lower to the ground,
and the little pigs frowned
and they began to know
the big pig would soon be gone
dead, no longer their safety net.

What is more, all the little pigs started to runaway to tell the other little and big pigs in the valley of the danger. But the big pigs had learned what the little pigs were learning; there was no way to fight man, to protect them from him, but to run, run if indeed one can… and this is life, and when man comes around, it happens just like that.

Do we need?
(Poem Nine)

We need what we need which is air. You know it is more than a habit, to do a thing we call ‘breath’ and it only works one way, no matter what anyone may say. You do it in public; you will do it in private. You do it, whether you like or do not like to do it. Unbelievably, it is true: we all need what one another needs, which is blue looking air, from the atmosphere. Even if the wind blows it away, it stays. Thank God!

Note on the Poems: During the afternoon, of October 6, of 2009, the author sat down in his sofa chair, high up in the Andes of Peru and the poems you just read are the poems he wrote that afternoon; poems 1 thru 7 are poems 2637 through 2645. On October 13, in the morning the author wrote “The Ballad of the Big and Little Pigs” poem, 8 of this sequence, or 2645 in sum total; in addition, poem 9 “Do we need?” Written on the October 13, number 2646. Revised and reedited, 10-24-2011.

“A Wild Piece of Paper!”
((A Poetic Tale for the classroom) (1955, St. Paul, Minnesota))

(Poem Ten)

“What is a wild piece of paper?” asked one of the second graders in the classroom, at Ecole St. Louis, Catholic Elementary School, to a visiting professor… “And how wild can it get?”

“You see,” said the professor, “a wild piece of paper is different from a tranquil one, and it is even more different than one with blots, or dots, or spots on it.
“A wild pieced of paper floats, like a boat—once in the air. That is what a wild piece of paper is.
“A wild piece of paper—is although, just that, a piece of paper, yet it can get wilder and wilder…and when it does get wilder, and wilder it gets, it says:
‘Try and catch me—if you can!’
“A wild piece of paper will do most anything, and I mean anything—it will float, it will fly, if given the chance. It will even rip its way around and about furniture, or buildings and even a house—just to play, and to have its own way.
“You may have to learn the hard way, that a wild piece of paper is like, or can be like, a wild bat, wilder than a rat, nobody really knows, how wild a wild piece of paper can be, or get.
“That is why, when you put a piece of paper down to write on—make sure it is solid and unsoiled, always be bold, sit up right, hold the paper down—tight; for a child to have a wild piece of paper can be just awful.

Written at the Mia Mamma, Café, in Huancayo, Peru, after lunch, in the garden café area; October 13, 2009. Poem: 13/or 2647, reedited October 24, 2011.

Additional New Poems

Adventures with Bugs (Havana, 2002)
Luxemburg’s Flight of Stairs (—Luxemburg, Luxemburg, October, 1976)
Remembering Hydra (1995—Greece)
The Lion and the Penguin (way of life/philosophy)
A Mile High Lie (—an admission)
Tears of a Mother (1962, St. Paul, Minnesota)
Above the Plane ((—a Window opens) (Expressions & Discoveries))
Death—He Cometh (Lyric-elegy)
A Double-Haiku for God (Isaiah 49:15)
*Sister Kelley’s Creek
(At a Restaurant in the Blue Valley of Peru) Expressions and Discoveries/Lyric
*Dayanne (About a young woman moving forward) Lyric
The Soothsayer: Nostradamus (1562) Ode
*The Noisy Corner (of El Tambo) Expression and Discoveries
Bad Behavior (Lyric)
Snake Bite ((Spontaneity) (Dream Poetry)
** “Winter is nearing!”
((Remembering a Minnesota Winter) (Poem)) Expressions and Discoveries
House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru)) †
The Old Bell Tower at Huertas †
The Bag (Philosophical poetry)
James Wright (the Poet) Criticism
Donald Hall (the Poet) Criticism

Adventures with Bugs

I’ve enjoy my adventures
even Havana, Cuba, with those big
hotel cockroaches and those
buzzing flies that seem so
interesting in laying everywhere.
Spiders I did not see many of
them, in Cuba-2002. They mostly
corner me when I’m at my apartment
in El Tambo, Huancayo, Perú.

No: 3188 (11-7-2011)

Luxemburg’s Flight of Stairs
(—Luxemburg, Luxemburg, October, 1976)

This morning after breakfast
we climbed that steep flight of Luxemburg’s
stairs, that overlooks the roofs of
the city—Luxemburg…
Annoying, but somehow charming,
and my twin boys (four-years old)
welcomed the rest at the top.
As we walked back down they
looked disappointed,
almost snarled…
as if to say,
“Now what was this all about?”

No: 3189 (11-7-2011)

Remembering Hydra
(—Greece, 1995)

The sky is startling sunny—

Down a narrow cobblestone street
a gate opens to a courtyard
recess is over for the jumping
and dancing children—of Hydra,
getting their last shouts out,
with delight.

The harbor is astonishing,
uncluttered.
I wish I could stay, watch the
dawn over the Mediterranean rise,
but the ship won’t wait!...

No: 3187 (11-7-2011)
Note: Hydra is an ancient island off the mainland of Greece, in the Ionian Sea.

James Wright (the Poet)

James Wright talked too much
about sorrow and sadness—
in his poetry, wish someone would
have told him to shut up!

James is dead, mewling, I suppose!
James is muck, in the ground, too.
One dead poet, out of gravity,
and out of sound and orbit.

He died alone, no one died with
him (in 1980). I try, and try to read
his poetry, and all I get is misery. It
seems he was never happy!

No: 3144 (10-26-2011)

Donald Hall (the Poet)

Donald Hall, poet, lost his
wife to cancer (eons ago)
and found his living grave early!
Rains falls straight down on
his forehead—like
granite…I love this poet,
too late to be damned.
Death beneath his right foot—
his toes pointing towards
his gravestone.
We talked, nearly holding hands—
Coiled with grief,
both looking for our loved ones—
now buried in their graves.

No: 3145 (10-26-2011)

The Lion and the Penguin
(Perhaps a tinge on the theoretical side of life)

The lion, will stay with its
cubs, from the day of birth to
her death!

The penguin, will stay with the
egg until it hatches into life
outside the casing, and thereafter
a limited time of learning, on
how to survive
on its own…
Then she’ll leave her offspring
forevermore, in the
Antarctic cold…
And they may never meet again.

Who loves more?
the lion or the penguin…
My guess is they love
equally—
It’s an environmental dilemma
for the penguin;
as it is not for the lion.

On the other hand—
the penguin is more willing to
take in an orphan,
than a lion…
Why?

My guess again is— dominance!
The lion must first
be sure—his position is secure…
forevermore!
The Penguin has no such
impending interests
thus, no such dilemma.

No: 3185 (11-6-2011)

Note: are we so sure of love, perhaps the person who cannot reach you loves you more than the person that has; perhaps that person by stepping back is more of an act of Love than that of the person that has stepped forward…; those who have within their reach the very thing they love, may not love as much as the person who has to let go—which in itself is an act of love or can be, and hope all will be well, with that loved one, while among the kingdoms of the earth.

A Mile High Lie
(—an admission)

I was like a piece of dust
under my bed—
My mother sat in a chair
in the adjoining room
(I must have been at least
eight or nine)
She was like a whale
a mile high—, said:
“You have a licking coming
for lying!”
And I knew she’d
wait until winter,
(in that chair)
It was now, mid-summer!
So I crawled out to
accept my punishment.

I figured, why wait it out
I was getting hungry…

No: 3187 (11-7-2011)

Tears of a Mother
(1962, St. Paul, Minnesota)

It is the sinking of the heart

to see your mother cry,
tears in her eyes—
my eyelids fell.

Her sad bones descended, nearly collapsed
like falling hard rocks—

when she heard me tell the judge
“Send me to boy’s town
I want to be with

my brother…!”

No: 3179 (11-4-2011)

Above the Plane
(—a window opens)

I like living, thinking
I don’t want to be a creature
on the moon—with no heaven or hell:
living on the dark-side.

I don’t want to be
the lion beast, here on earth—
that lives by instinct alone;

or the atheist that can’t feel
right or wrong, has no God,
nowhere to go beyond the grave.
(But I don’t want to be deceived!)

•

I want to know, I really do.
How did I appear, where
I am now?
(I don’t want to be left in the clouds.)

Am I no more than a thinking
grasshopper—,
from dust to dust—
after death a woodcut?

•

What window can I look through?
…out of, or above?
to see what is truth, real!

•

How different these bodies
are from our insides…
Understanding begins to throw
itself around
(as the brain thaws)
as belief and unbelief
become uneven…
Hence, a window opens!

No: 3186 (11-7-2011)
Dedicated to: Voltaire/Pope ¨Benedict XIV (Two great apposing thinkers)

Death—
He Cometh
(—lyric/elegy)

Come when I am old
Come kindly death
Blessed be thee, I wait.
Come, take my life
My soul
(feed the ground my bones)
For I am weary
And too old
To do what I was born
To do…
Come soon, claim me!
Gently close my eyelids.
I have long prepared
Myself for you!

No: 3184 (11-6-2011)

The Bag

Think,
just take a minute and think…okay, ready or not:

How in the hell are you going to die?
Delete the words: when, never, eventually!
Now gather up your life
good or bad—bag it
(large or small it doesn’t matter)
and love it, if you can!

Suppose now, this is it!
that this is all life wrote for you!
Whatever you did not do, say, or see—
you cannot now, it is too late;
it will not fit into the bag, period.
You say, “Wait a minute!”
Delete those worlds also—

No: 3181 (11-4-2011)
Philosophical Poetry

Spanish Version

The Singing Waters of Ñahuinpuquio

(or, Legend of the Little Goat with Seven Horns)

During the time of a full moon, the lake called Ñahuinpuquio
(in the Mantaro Valley, high in Andes of Peru)
draws in its shadows
and waits on the village people for an offering.
If the offering
is not given or pleasing,
the feminine and invidious shadows
rising high up into the resonating night
blocking out even the moon’s light: waits…
waits, just waits…
(as if wounded)!

Thereafter, the small islands stand about in a group
(within the center of the lake).
Each to its own thin opinions and darkness;
each, trying to agree upon what bleak
what final punishment
might be given
to the populace of Ñahuinpuquio.
The female islands chant out far
on the water, grounded in the wings
of their shadows,
then, more often than not, they blacken
the sky,
with roaring thunder (distinct)—
hail and strong winds!
For they seek a male offering, complete!

Once the lake is satisfied, the dark comes down
slowly—and on June 23rd
at full moon, the lake sings
as her voice hits the water from its shadow wings;
hence, a golden goat with seven horns, ascends
as if from under the water’s hidden door —
and appears for all to see!

Note: Drafted out on 10-13-2011, and reedited on the 14th; inspired by Engineer Felipe Zenteno (UNCP), during an afternoon conversation the University. No 3129

Spanish Version

La Leyenda de:

El Canto de la Laguna de Ñahuinpuquio

(o, Leyenda del Cabrito con Siete Cuernos)

Durante las noches de luna llena, la laguna de Ñahuinpuquio
(en el Valle del Mantaro, en Los Andes de Perú)
atrae en sus sombras
y espera que la gente del pueblo le haga una ofrenda.
Si la ofrenda,
no se da o no es satisfactoria,
las femeninas y envidiosas sombras
ascienden muy alto en la noche resonante
cubriendo incluso la luz de la luna, esperando…
esperando, sólo esperando…
(¡como si herida!)

Después, las pequeñas islas se reúnen en grupo
(en medio del lago).
Cada una con su propia opinión insignificante de malicia;
cada una, tratando de acordar sobre qué sombrío
qué castigo final
podrían dar
a la gente de Ñahuinpuquio.
Las islas femeninas cantan lejos
en las aguas, conectadas a las alas de
sus sombras,
entonces, frecuentemente oscurecen
el cielo,
con truenos estruendosos (distinto) —
¡granizo y vientos fuertes!
Porque ellos buscan una ofrenda macho, ¡completo!

Una vez que la laguna está satisfecha, la oscuridad desaparece
lentamente—y en la noche del 23 de Junio
con luna llena, la laguna canta
mientras su voz golpea las aguas con las sombras de sus alas:
así pues, un cabrito de oro con siete cuernos asciende
como si bajo el agua hubiera una puerta,
como si la hubiera atravesado—y luego aparece
¡para que todos lo vean!

Nota: Borrador hecho el 13 de Octubre del 2011, luego editado el día 14, inspirado por el Ingeniero Felipe Zenteno (UNCP), durante una conversación en la tarde en la Universidad Nacional del Centro del Perú. No 3129

House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru))

Part One
The Ancient Chanka Warriors

House of the Falcon

Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco

The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us

Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.

Part Two
Uscovilca and Ancovilca

Canipaco Valley

The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca
And Ancovilca—: one inherited the teeth
Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath

And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole
Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary)
Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.

Part Three
House of Sorrows
Tamborhuanca—Colca

In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the
“House of the Falcon” became the “House of Sorrows”
The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca

Built eight-hundred years, now in the past—the sanctuary
Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases…
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.

It’s too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead)
Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like
Mound—this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere!

Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).

The Noisy Corner
(of El Tambo; Huancayo, Peru)

Rain has fallen on rain (it is 7:00 p.m.)
I hear tires clatter over wet payment
see people across the street
clustered around a vender’s outside
café table…as they chitchat.

The pancake and yuca women, both
put a blue cover over their eatery—

I hear a mass of other weaving and
mixed sounds… (loud music from
the tiny grocery store, drunks at a table
drinking beer—next door) as clear as
raindrops on my apartment windows.

That is how it is in the rainy season,
on the corner streets, of Cultural Avenue
and Manuel Scorsa … in El Tambo, after sundown.

No: 3127 (Written 10-12-2011; Revised and reedited; 11-01-2011) renamed “The Noisy Corner,” by my wife, Rosa.

Dayanne
(About a young woman, moving forward in life)

When you are young
things move fast.
It must be that you are
already dreaming ((Dayanne)
(I see that))...
Old people know how much time
can go by while dreaming.
It is all right.
We can stay dreaming—
but stand-up, and standout,
live your dreams.

No: 3167 (10-31-2011); for Dayanne Pareja

The Soothsayer:
Nostradamus (A.D., 1562)

Nostradamus,
who was he? Oh, yes
he was the hunter of Death!
(the soothsayer of Europe)
A master in uniting his Visions
with hopelessness—
It takes a long time to agree
to his ‘dust to dust’ the end
of the earth (concept).
Now great thinkers follow
in his every footstep
disappearing into the stars—
soaring…

I shall spread my new wings
—if his visions come true—and
fly to the moon.

No: 3168 (10-31-2011)

A Double-Haiku for God
(Isaiah 49:15)

Special Note: from the Old Testament Bible, the author/poet has translated the verse or stanza, Isaiah 49:15 into today’s language.

You, to you out there
Oh no, you will not find God
Sitting on your ass!...

Watching football games
Smoking and drinking Hamm’s Beer
Get up off your chair!

No: 3156 (10-28-2011)

Sister Kelly’s Creek
(At a Restaurant in the Blue Valley of Peru)

Sister Kelly today,
sat at a table, in the open
looked at the water of the Creek
listening to its flow—
lost in her self…
She must have looked a long while
down the gradating rows of water
beyond the waterfall itself, —
whatever she saw, she was lost
in it…
it is here we are filled from
the other world.

No: 3156 (10-30-2011)

Bad Behavior
(“The Devil made me do it!”)

The Devil has something
to do with our bad behavior
(and his horde of demonic beings);
so does original sin!
And let’s not leave out
our own self-indulgences.
We cannot blame everything
on Old Nick, Satan—
now can we?

No: 3147 (10-27-2011)

Snake Bite (Dream Poetry)

I went up and down the truck
trying to avoid the snake from
biting me…!
I wanted to yell for help—
the savage little serpent
broke its jaws when it bit me,
then died; but cured me of my
most recent malady.
One I had gotten quite abruptly.
Funny to find in dreams
there is something inside you
that can discover—somewhere,
somehow, something
you can’t find elsewhere!

No: 31412 (10-26-2011)

“Winter is nearing!”

Winter is Nearing in Minnesota

Now it’s late fall, winter is nearing!

Eons ago
I would walk through a winter’s wind
bowing my head
on the streets of St. Paul.

Black slush
like a strange snow creature would
draw out, everything!
restoring cold to the earth.

No: 3164 (10-30-2011)

Allen Ginsberg’s Style

2011-10-10T12:56:00.000-07:00

Allen Ginsberg’s Shit
(In Poetic Prose, Allen Ginsberg’s style)

Before Allen Ginsberg died, he wrote some poetic prose on how much he had to shit, and he used the word shit—explicitly, and profoundly—; as he got old, and older, the worse this designed and kind of poetry got—that is to say, more descriptive and announcing. Disgusting isn’t it, as this poem is I’m sure. But he is considered by most of our western world literary geniuses, as one of the greatest poets of the 20th Century! How can this be? It doesn’t take much does it? Or is that a sign of the times. (I’m sure he’d be proud of this poem, although to be honest, I’m not).

No: 3089 (Morning of the 23rd of September, 2011) Dedicated to A.G. I don’t like belittling poets, but what we write we feed our public, our children, our nations as a whole. Much of Allen’s poetry is of this nature, so it’s no wonder why our world is going to hell, quicker than the life of a dandelion.

Outside the Attic Window

2011-10-10T12:55:00.000-07:00

Poetic Prose

Outside the Attic Window

The Old Dirt Road (Minnesota)

1

Lifting my head up, to take a hold of my coffee cup, then taking a sip, thoughts likened to caterpillars start crawling over the top of my brainstem, my cerebellum, it’s not an unusual happening for me. It’s hard nowadays to hold onto thoughts—if I don’t write them down, they’re dead in only a few hours—that’s a quiver in the brain that says: by gosh, he’s still alive. I reach out for that thought, touch it, now it gears up it lunges towards me, terrified it leaps down to my teeth and jaw and stomach, and I got to write it down before it falls over on its face, that’s how it is when you get old. It is like a penguin trying to rearrange his or her flippers; it can’t be done—under normal conditions.
It is mid September now, evening in my apartment, the white curtains are akin to shadows, which comes from the deep darkness behind them, day’s insanity’s gone, I hope. A man in the evening doesn’t notice all that much, it’s normally—if not characteristically that is, time to settle down, it’s kind of when my impulses come to and through my mind too—producing my poetry (typically I say, not necessarily all the time, just more often than not—say:) such impulses come to my mind, come to be written down, come to be meditated on, see what trails those caterpillars left. Thoughts like the wind moves through my brain like branches growing everywhichway. Impulses, we have them: and they, these impulses, they want to live—they don’t want to be covered up, likened to what clouds do to the moon, especially in a poet, they even seem to have a will, don’t you agree? If you do, put them on the backs of the caterpillars. I heard one caterpillar say (once upon a time): “He’s sure taking a long time to die!” I forgive him, he’s long dead now. My brain waves are no longer coming out of his nostrils, he’s more comfortable in death than he was swimming around in my head, I do believe. I think he fell off some cliff, and better for it.

Anyhow, I have this sudden sensation; it is half an inch under my optical lobe; a funny, if not stringy place to be. A wide-eyed reflection: death is like the sound of thunder—I have heard it and felt it, seen it, even endured it within my life time; I have flown around the whole planet, and it comes down to this—I should say, it comes back to this, to an old dirt road and an old attic window (and perhaps alongside of that was a dream, the dream of a pauper; you see, without dreams we remain, but mutts to the world around us…). The starfish of my youth you could say, and how slowly and evenly does this reflection move—develop in: my head, my soul—the spirit that talks to me—you know, that second self—but this starfish has a body of a dinosaur. You see a starfish can be a glacier too. My mind sweeps low and swift over this glacier, now the lamp is lit:

2
Once upon a time there was a boy, he was no more than twelve years old, he wasn’t at the time real intelligent, but he had good insight, intuition, perhaps foresight too: also he had faith, more than a mustered seed, perchance more than a young man at his age needed; he often sat in his attic bedroom, sitting at the top of the stairs (often writing poetry, trying to figure out the stanza, and so forth), staring out the side window into his backyard—as if into nothingness. There was a big oak tree in front of the pantry, below him—the large oak tree, it extended up past his window, over the house like a giant umbrella—likened to a Titan guarding the house, and alongside the tree were two poles that concocted a clothesline, ropes extending from one end to the other, in rows, he’d often help his mother unravel the bed sheets, stretching them from one corner to the other, putting those wooden clothespins onto the ends of the sheets—snapping them onto the clothesline, and in the middle of the sheets, securing them so the wind wouldn’t blow them to kingdom-come. In the wintertime he’d run out to get those sheets, for his mother, they were like cardboard on the clothesline, nonetheless, it was a task assigned to him, and he’d do it wholeheartedly.
From that very same window, he’d watch the changing of the leaves on the trees—season to season, year after year, (autumn to him was the best of the seasons, or the best part of fall, which was his season, he was an October boy, born on the 7th); and over across his grandfather’s property (where he and his mother and brother lived together—kind of like an extended family type setting) and over across his grandfather’s property, was a large empty lot—once upon a time it had held three other houses, now long gone, perhaps a quarter century long gone—; now, this large space was dense with tall yellow and brown and thorny shrubbery it was hard to walk through, it was home to: rats and mince, quails, and a few pheasants, perhaps a snake or two, grasshoppers and ticks and all those sorts of insects.
After about five-years living there old man Brandt, who lived on the other side of the empty lot, and a few of the neighbourhood boys, got together and cleared out a section of the bared and unfilled lot for a baseball area—a diamond, as it is often referred to—and the young boy he helped by picking up rocks, and cutting those towering weeds with a sickle. That was the boy’s world, one big change in half a decade, but a good change.
The backyard extended to an old dirt road, which was used for buggies and wooden wagons of another period in time, perhaps twenty-five to thirty-five years prior to the boy’s moving into this neighbourhood, at ten years old, that would have been in 1957 or ’58, there about: horse driven, back in those 1920s, or earlier. Had you walked up this old dirt road—the very one he walked up pert near everyday during his formative years, the once wooden barns, that still stood solid and firm, reinforced with cemented foundations and stronger rafters within the last decade or so, were transformed into garages, for automobiles.
That of course was once upon a time, over a half century ago now. Last time the boy had walked that old dirt road—he wasn’t a boy anymore, he had grown into a middle-aged man—or there about, it hadn’t changed much, although the garages had made a new transformation, and the houses below the embankment, looking down were gone, as was his house; torn down a quarter a century before, to make a playground, and those old tall yellow and brown weeds that hid the rats and mice and all those other forms of hidden life, were gone.
He told his inner secret self, “Things keep changing…”
The old oak tree was gone from his backyard—roots and all, he noticed, said: “Yes,” in a whisper, in the crackling cool air the Indian summer, “yes, the very one I had gazed upon twenty-five years ago! The very one I climbed when grandpa was gone, as a kid.”
Funny he thought, contemplated, pondered on: ‘No kids around, not any houses for kids to come out of to be around either, nonetheless, a playground, how very mysterious…’
Now looking back, another fifteen years had passed, now the area had been converted into a kind of asphalt parking lot—where his house used to be which also consumed part of the playground (how they levelled it all out, he couldn’t figure out, it was surely costly, he deliberated) especially, eating up part of the playground for this hollow, if not valueless cause—and where old man Brandt’s house used to be, and two other houses on the opposite side of where his grandfather’s house used to be, where the fence was and the clotheslines were, all gone now just empty space, nothing filling it up, open to the sky and rain—and they had taken down the fence that made the playground look like a playground, now it looked like an empty park—better yet, an empty something, that I can’t find the word for—again I say, nothing filling it up: just grass, plain old green grass—that someone came to cut, that no one ever saw (and alongside that, the asphalt parking lot that no one seemingly ever parked in)—but still no homes and the children were still gone, and there was no more industry—of course that had left the area long ago; by gosh he said, “Who’s parking here?” it was empty. It was a hollow street, empty neighbourhood—no life to it.

3

“Things change every six months,” he told himself— “in styles and fads, and so forth, things like that. “Neighbourhoods, every half a decade or so; and people—well, we’re just part of the ongoing cycle. Luckily, we get to see some of these changes, as we change too—; caterpillars don’t get to see these changes, have these reflections. Perhaps they are luckier than us and better for it—I’m not sure, I just appreciate life, it’s a gift. I suppose all that will ever be left of me, left behind that is, that will bring a remembrance of me to someone—that will be the same, is that old dirt road, that in over sixty years of my lifetime, hasn’t changed one iota, that seems so familiar, it hasn’t changed in a hundred years I bet, and I suppose that will have to be my spokesman, my legacy. It will be the only thing left of me, that one can say: here, this path, he walked this path. Yes, I walked up it once upon a time, a long time ago, many times, and down it many times, it knows me, and I it, my soul, my youth, I can feel it under my heels—just thinking of it, and long after I’m gone it will still hold my memory.”

Poetic Prose No: 3067 (9-15-2011)

Seventeen Haiku’s for Living

2011-10-10T12:50:00.000-07:00

Special Note on Poetic Imagery

1) Success

If you want to be
Successful, live in one place
And visit others!

No: 3090 (9-24-2011)

2) A Mayor

It’s hard to be a mayor,
to please or appease one and all
to make the right call!

For the sake of order
one must give to Cesar, the Lord
what belongs to each…

and to the people who are never
pleased…!

No: 3089 (9-24--2011) Dedicated to Mayor Dimas Aliaga Castro and
Cesar Augusto Merea Tello (Huancayo and Satipo, Perú)

3) For the Sake of Order

My children have convinced me,
to throw in my lot with the dust
(or theirs)…(?)

No: 3076 (9-18-2011)

4) For C.S.Z.

When you stopped loving
me, the moon turned black—; the world
sure is different now…

(…time changes everything!)

No: 3075(9-18-2011)

5) A Happy Poem

When I look at the:
moon, the sun, earth, darkness and
light—I see it is

…not doable to die!

No: 3074(9-18-2011)

6) Smelly Bones

Like to like, bat-seeking
mice; mice-seeking owls. Like to
like, everyone’s stuck in wet clay

forgetting that the
grave is not far away!
Walking backwards, with

…smelly bones.

No: 3077(9-18-2011)

7) Old Live Bones

When you’re old and
you stand upright and still in
the deep cold, your bones

…crystallise, harden like stone!

No: 3075 (9-18-2011)

8) Obama/Ollanta

Two peas in a pod
One moon, with a lot of clouds!
They move them as need be.

(Mostly for cover!)

No: 3073 (9-17-2011)

9) The Mutt

The mutt with no dreams
killed the Great Warrior King, who
had everything; how could

…this be? Perhaps he wasn’t looking?

No: 3074 (9-17-2011)

10) To the Dead

My mother’s dead,
but food still tastes good…never
did I think it would?

No: 3072 (9-17-2011)

11) Obama Says!

The American presidents
must triumph—over
forces of darkness…!

Obama says: “I didn’t
start this mess…”
(presidents can be merciless!)

While Embracing war in:
Iraq, Afganistan
(smiling for photographs)

No: 3078 (9-18-2011)

Note: we still have fifty thousand troops in Iraq, and 125,000 in Afganistan—but Obama claims the wars are over…where else in the world does another country have 175,000-troops shoulder to shoulder, in another man’s country? Perhaps he’s fearful if he calls the troops home, he may get from his own kind (from that circle of generals that surround him), what President JFK got (food for thought: contracts and industry also plays a big part in these ongoing wars. On the other hand, we are warring with Cuba for 40-years, and Obama again broke his promise to open the gates, and yet we are friends with Vietnam, China, and Russia, even buy oil from Chavez, who has proclaimed to be less than a friend—double standards for a great country).

12) Making-up

We fight all over lives
for what we’ve lost, lacked in
our formative years—

No: 3079 (9-19-2011)

13) A Child’s Will

The child’s will
has gotten stronger
in his adult years.

(Beware!)

No: 30780 (9-19-2011)

14) Old Man Smiling

The children’s eyes
stare upon the old
man smiling…?

No: 3081 (9-19-2011)

15) A Penguin’s Life

The Penguin parents say: “Come,
let us kiss now, and part.”
The Children say:

“We are glad with all
our heart!” and bow,
once and forever…

(For the gift of life and their sacrifice)

No: 3082 (9-19-2011)

16) The Dandelion

When I see a dandelion
declining on to its knees
in my garden…

I think of being
safely buried, and hurry
on forward to be

…all what I must be!

No: 3083 (9-19-2011)

17) Crow on the Branch

The Crow, like a branch
an a tree—waits, making only
a shadow: what

consoles him?
…ask the thief!

No: 3084 (9-19-2011)

† Special Note Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings). Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence) of poetry (i.e., what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of ‘the 9th of July’ in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can’t escape them…)

Poems: Islamic Form, Haiku, Poetic Prose (& Imagery)

2011-10-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

The Beggar Boys of Huancayo

So many times this month I’ve felt the alienation
within the city’s lost children. Its normal, like the
the cry of a weeping penguin, who calls to another
over a lost and darkening sorrow.

In many of my poems I praised so much of the
culture, the fine elements and way of life, carried
out, in the Andean cities of Peru! It all has felt
right to me.

Every way of knowing, those lost children, beggars
in the parks, on the streets of Huancayo, for some
reason, society, government, home life, does not
allow them delight, they have to find it in the
fieriest love they can.

No: 3088 ((9-23-2011) (12:20 a.m.)) In English Only ; dedicated to Christian (who likes chicken); and Jose Luis, who became a business boy overnight, by selling candy; may the Lord be with them while down here on planet earth, no one else is. Huancayo, Peru.

Three New Closing Poems
Islamic Form

A Poem for “Who”

Let me tell the other story about my life.
Understand this, please! I wrote my first
Poem at age twelve, but the journey to get

Where I am today, Poet Laureate, seven times
Over, it took fifty-years. Although I still remember
The day when I wrote my first poem, “Who”

No: 30 87 (9-21-2011) In English Only

Thoughts Derived from
La Oroya’s Parade ((9-2011) (in English Only))

People are marching, moving big banners around on
The street, in La Oroya, and I am not there. Each week
A new parade, fiesta, in the Junin region.

I take taxi rides to many of these, such events.
You’ll see nothing but the backend of cars for miles.
Such events are never on time, they have no sense of time.

Sometimes I want to tie my arms tight, around me, firm.
And leave before I get there, but I just leave early.
Don’t think poets are saints, or have extraordinary

Patience. People like us, we weep behind trees.
We have taste for fame, and fondness for dead souls.
We like counting syllables, swallowed by the stars.

No: 3085 (9-19-2011); Note: La Oroya is a mining town in the mountain region of Junin (Peru)

The Way it is

The little boy throws rocks at the pigeons.
The pigeons shits all over everybody and thing.
The hawk rips the heads off the pigeons.

Everybody and thing, has come accustomed to malice.
Or is it, mayhem, for pleasures—? It’s hard to
Tell. Why do we push towards such desires?

The dandelion in the garden that is white
Today was yellow, the day before. She almost
Looks, old before her time—disgraceful, torn heart.

What can one flower say to another whom—on the
Face of it —died so early on (or is in the process)…?
Perhaps simply: “God gave us a taste of life?”

We all live so close to dying, malice.
We all have inherited it so long ago.
One teaspoon of each is enough for me.

We have two halves to our face, one dark, shadowy
The other bright colours; beneath them, resides
A dragonfly, buzzing back and forth soaked in onions…

No: 3086 (9-20-2011)

Poems to Ponder On

2011-10-10T12:39:00.000-07:00

Abraham’s Flight

Like a bird with long wings,
the Lord God, came flying through the dust—
He had flown over the darkening waves.
He had flown around the planet,
a grip onto the hand of Abraham; now
they were back to where they had started.
There is a long pause.
It is complicated for Abraham to understand
why God didn’t slay or punish the many sinners
they had passed, and witnessed doing violence.
Abraham had voiced his opinion on the matter,
to give them harsh death,
leaving a tinge of a rattle in his throat,
each time his righteous anger came out.
God tells Abraham: “What has not yet come
to the surface, years that are still far-off—
you do not see, you are detached from the
good they might bring.”

No: 3119 (9-9-2011)

Old Fires

All those days we have lived
The world on Edge
You and I, all of us—
Loneliness to ashes;
It will all be forgotten.
We are all old fires,
Roots—we can’t
Even rub sunlight into.

NO: 3117 (10-6-2011)

Below the Planet’s
Waters

Reflections of hills; mountains
of mist below
What are they? The reds, browns,
that float?
Landmarks—perchance, long
forgotten…
Perhaps valiant stories!
Perhaps someone’s death—!

Blind, cloudy creatures, with
their spines turned up to us—
Crouched, smiling up at shadows
and the landscape below
. . .

How different their world is
from ours!
As I cling onto steel railings
above—as
they below (swim carefree about)
bored, waiting for a storm.

Notes: Written after reviewing the Art Sections of the magazine ‘Exploring Tosca’ ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)), thus, inspired by the work of Marcia Soderman, the painting named: “Contemplating Deep Waters” No: 2986/7-26-2011

The Syrian Bunker
(Triple Haiku)

Like a hawk in his
Nest—so resides a Syrian
Soldier, in

His bunker, in the
Golan Heights, readying for battle
Above the heads,

Of, men of war—; the
Bulls of Bashan, wait, and howl:
“What is sorrow for?”

Notes: On a visit to Israel, July of 2010, the author wet into the Bashan Valley (Golan Heights), once Syria, and explored the historic and notorious site, “Rephaim Circle” some five-thousand years old; in addition, he found himself beyond the valley, unexpectedly, by Syrian bunkers and minefield, those used during the war of 1967, between Syria and Israel. The Bulls of Bashan are the armies mentioned in the Bible that will encircle Israel in the latter days (as they did in 1967 and 1972, wars, to try and conquers Israel and will perhaps try again, such as: Egypt, Syria, Jordon, and perhaps Iran and Lebanon, and one of the new bulls, Russia).

The Winter Dark

As winter comes the trees darken
(unnoticed by human eyes, for a long time).
For eons this has happened—had taken place.

This brought on a kind of loneliness, despair—
(this new awareness)
for mankind.

Man said: “What’s the use…?”
Uneasily, building fires inside of winter caves—
(no longer living under winter stars).

Thus, he learned to live like the trees—I guess,
by dark, in the winter.

NO: 3116 (10-6-2011)

The Beaver (and the soul)

The Beaver lives deep inside its dam—
So, deep that it’s difficult for light to seep in
To pass from twig to branch to the tip
of his tail, to his eyes…
So many timbers packed on top of
One another, muffles the sound
of his voice…
That the language of the beaver is
Often misunderstood, and perhaps for
a moment, lost!
This is the hull of his wooden ship…
Liken to the hull of a man’s soul, when
it is
lost…!

No: 3106 (10-4-2011)

Legend of:
The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger

I wonder
If he was afraid of dying—found
Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete)
In what one day would become the
Village of Huacrapuquio—
But now,
All day long I’ve been walking among
Their dirt and stone streets,
Trying to keep still, silently
Listening,
To old residue—echoes that linger in
The shifting dust and sand—patiently I am
Gathering, the slow, the empty
Echoes of the past…

And of the secret shelter where this
Ancient tiger fell to his death
10,000 BC…
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day
The city dug up the road, to
Put in plumbing.

His frame tells me his short, but
Lively, life’s story—
He was young, strong, lean, but careless—
He’d leap at his pray, with those
Strong short hind legs; and with his
Long front arms—limbs that had
Paws like small boulders—and
Talons, sharp as giant thorns—
He’d mall his prey, then with his
Sabre-teeth, he’d put them to sleep!

No: 3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio in 2007, eleven thousand feet up in the Andes, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered the only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains. (See front Cover.)

The Rainy Season
(Summer in the Mantaro Valley)

Old men dream and rest more than they sleep—(that’s a fact)
especially during the rainy season in the valley…
It’s as if the sun gets drunk in summer—here, high up
in the Andes,
and all one gets, is cold light.

Ah! I want to turn it off!

My neighbour’s yard used to be cut and trimmed—
But now it’s just all weeds—, it’s as if, each rainy season,
he has a long hangover.

Everything’s bright and colourful, growing from the ground
up, here in the valley!

An old man is wobbling down the street, half drunk, kicking
stones, I can see him from the pantry window.
A young boy is scaling a railroad track, a trains whistle can be
heard, but he doesn’t look back, he kind of looks like me.
A bum is just waking up under some cardboard, along the
Mantaro Rio, and there’s a bird’s nest in a tree above
my grave
I’m still half asleep, but what a dream.

No: 3100 (9-29-2011)

House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru))

Part One
The Ancient Chanka Warriors

House of the Falcon

Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco

The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us

Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.

Part Two
Uscovilca and Ancovilca

Canipaco Valley

The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca
And Ancovilca—: one inherited the teeth
Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath

And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole
Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary)
Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.

Part Three
House of Sorrows
Tamborhuanca—Colca

In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the
“House of the Falcon” became the “House of Sorrows”
The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca

Built eight-hundred years, now in the past—the sanctuary
Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases…
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.

It’s too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead)
Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like
Mound—this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere!

Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).

El Tambo Spider (s)
(Inspired by living in El Tambo for eons)

When it’s cold in El Tambo
the spiders know—
they crawl on my walls
along my window sills

Along the ridges and
under my bed—: creeping
little crawlers, making cobwebs…!

While I’m asleep, they swing
and pivot, fall and crawl,
on wires and strings, even
on my brow: bite me here
and there, especially on rainy
nights…

You’d be surprised how
much they know—
about my apartment, and its
five rooms…

Half blind, they prance about,
as if they owned the house—
bodies reddish brown, black and gray…
I think they are here to stay!

No: 1845 ((5-26-2007)(reedited, 10-3-2011))
(Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo)

Corn Picking in San Jeronimo
(Peru, in the Andes, the Mantaro Valley)

It is late June; I walk through the cornfield.
Light on the tops of the surrounding mountains,
Light, over my head, eaten by pigs’ teeth

I am learning; I walk through the cornfield
(the grove) with a bag: picking, ripping corn
off the tall stalks.

On the way home, coolness in the afternoon’s
sun, lowers its hands!

Pigs are out alongside of the thick adobe wall?
The mother has gone looking for her little ones.
What they drink and eat, people would not dare
to take in,

But nonetheless, sooner than later, we’ll put that
beast on our dinner table…!

No: 3107 (10-4-2011)

12:08 A.M., 2011
(… in Huancayo)

1.

At exactly 12:06 A.M.
I empty my bladder,
feeling the joy it brings.
Dogs barking outside,
a cool dampness sweeps around the curtain
(I can feel its sway…).

2

My bedroom is small
The lamplight is on, on the side of my dresser
(my side of the bed).
I turn it off, roll into bed
I can’t tell where—
My wife’s awake, turns to my side…;
outside, on a wet street, rain falling.

3

Bits of darkness surround me.
Car lights appear through the curtains
as streaks of light—
“What time is it?” asks my wife.
“12:08, I reply (wondering why?)
“Happy 64th Birthday,” she says with a kiss.

How different (I think) old age Birthdays
are becoming—seemingly secretive.

No 3118 (10-7-2011)

Summer Charms
(… in Huancayo)

I slept a few minutes ago.
I love the warm covers of the bed,
the heat from the small space heater next to me.
Had lunch with Adelmo Huamaní—this afternoon
spaghetti!
I’m growing old.

There is a spirit in a tree—it moves when it
thinks water or sun, or upon a soft touch;
that’s one of the great things in this world.
Years ago
I wouldn’t have said that, but God, like a
Strange Sea Creature, keeps teaching,
and I keep learning—
It is like the mountains surrounding Huancayo
keep drawing back into itself,
to make room for others.

Under the floor of my apartment I feel the
season changing beneath me—
without making a sound, the rain is coming.

No: 3114 (10-6-2011)

The Restaurant Owner
(… in Huancayo)

She kills her own livelihood
her precious secret,
her face holds one tone—
She shuts out those
nearest her (or those be in
opposition to…)!
Dying of arrogance and pride,
unaware she’s alive…;
in her own desert!
It’s no use, she won’t
listen,
she’s too far gone.

No: 3108 (10-5-2011)

Female Tramp
(in the Plaza de Arms ,Huancayo)

A female tramp stands in front of me
(in the Plaza de Arms)
Puckers her lips,
and tries to whisper something
(a woman of alms, a bigger).
Her mind haunted; my wife
givers her silver coin.
She has no front teeth.
As I lean back, on the wooden
bench, the sun floats
down, as she walks away;
turning around twice, to catch a
glimpse—she’s remembering
she’s a woman.

No: 3109 (10-5-2011)

Red Ants in Satipo
(Central Jungle of Peru)

I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage—
I do not want to alarm the large red ants
who are walking single file back and forth on the plant’s branch (in the Satipo Jungle)—carrying small to large loads
of petals.

I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch—I try and a few
leap onto me—racing up my fingers, and beyond…they have
sharp teeth—

Then Rosa (my wife)—standing nearby—pulls me back, nearly cries, watching the red ants thrive … “Let it go!”
I let the fruit branch go, step back—she’s relieved—so am I.

No: 3111 (10-5-2011)

† Special Note on Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings). Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence) of poetry (i.e., what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of ‘the 9th of July’ in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can’t escape them…)

A Worthwhile Poem

Let’s do this sort and sweet, so read this closely, a worthwhile poem: if the poem you are reading or about to read or have read (let’s say three times over—you got to give it a chance to absorb—be it poetic prose or metered, each can put you into a trance, if it: relaxes your diaphragm, your breathing, if it prepares you to journey (to connect dreams to reality and march toward them, or wish that you had), if it opens up the brain, affects you, brings to you some missing elements, fragments, long lost by the soul: then it is a worthwhile poem for you—: let yourself be the judge, all poems are not structured, or worded for ever mine, they are like, counselors, not ever counselor is made for ever client.

†

A Song to Creativeness

It is a joy to live in these great times,
with life at last grown to its utmost consciousness—
remolding the world to its fulfillment.
Happy be one of those who feel the thrill
and movement of this flow, whose
mind and hands are busy
with great works
of this day

with creative pageantry…

No: 3118 (10-8-2011)

House of the Falcon

2011-09-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

((In the Valley of Canipaco)(Colca))

By Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Prologue: Land of the Chankas (or the Parkos’ Kingdom) in the time of the Wari and prior, all ancient settlements in the Peruvian Andes, they were an ethnic group that roamed and settled within the region of Huancavelica and part of Junin, all the way to what is know known as the Mantaro Valley (100 BC to 700 AD), they expanded beyond these boundaries, but what this brief is concerned with, is that they settled in the Canipaco Valley, built a stone like fortress, with thick walls that stands to this very day (near the district of Colca) a three hour drive by car to the site, from Huancayo, Peru.

During their ongoing development, the Chankas, created an autonomous culture, and a variant language, the name of their capital (‘Waman Karpa’) in English would be translated to mean “House of the Falcon”. Up to the time of the Incas, they showed a high reverence for their mummified, ancient grandparents, and in a similar manner, venerated the catlike figure ((in the capital, Uscovilca, the founder of the Uran Chanka was worshiped, his remains) (and Ancovilca, was the founder of the Hanan Chanka)). I admit, this all can get confusing, because we must not combine both groups into one, this has been done in the past, and too often, misunderstood, for the Uran group joined another group, which built a federation (Pocra-chanka); thus, for the sake of clarity, we will try to stick to the Canipaco Valley expanse, and the Chanka race in general as a whole. As a result they had built villages within these populations in the Canipaco Valley (which in essence is really part of the bigger valley called Mantaro), with burials, which often were in caves or rock crevasses.

The Chankas were not rivals to or of the Incas per se, although they were warlike people (the Hanans while in combat, were a bloodthirsty group of warriors, hanging their enemy upside down; cutting them so they’d slowly bleed to death in the fingers and feet, and they’d peel the skin off the prisoners, and from a skull cup, drank the blood of the enemy); and they were farmers too, and lived to the height of the 11th to 13th Century. It would seem at different times throughout their existence, they had small to large or larger populations (depending). In the case of the fortress we are about to reveal, perhaps 100-souls, existed within this fortress.

And so I hope this brief-prologue, has brought you to a wider understanding of this ancient culture (of which research will benefit the curious mined person, if indeed he can find any, there is very little on the Chankas, that is why I have went to the actual site of one of their fortresses and talked to the village people, among others for their understanding of this race that once lived where now they stand), and now for the poetic voice:

Fortress, within the:

House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru))

Part One
The Ancient Chanka Warriors

House of the Falcon

Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco

The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us

Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.

Part Two

Uscovilca and Ancovilca

Canipaco Valley

The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca
And Ancovilca—: one inherited the teeth
Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath

And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole
Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary)
Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.

Part Three

House of Sorrows
Tamborhuanca—Colca

In time all things end, become shadows, thus, the
“House of the Falcon” became the “House of Sorrows”
The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca

Built eight-hundred years, now in the past—the sanctuary
Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases…
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.

It’s too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead)
Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like
Mound—this monster sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere!

†

Clarifying Notes of the Chanka:

Note 1: Inspired in part by: Frank Ramires who attended the presentation of the author’s book: “The Cotton Belt” and left the author with a picture of the Chanka site, near his home township, inviting him to visit the site, meeting the author three days afterward, on 9-22-2011, to allow the author to become more informed on the Chanka culture, and this particular site; some research done by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and sifted through by the Poet Laureate, whom wrote a prologue, and part one thru three of this Islamic style poem called: “House of the Falcon” Part one of the poem written on 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).

Note 2: House of the Falcon, can be translated into ‘Waman Karpaa’ meaning, Capital of the Chanka Race.
Note 3: The Chanka race dates prior to the Wari, and Wanka races (perhaps to: 100 BC to 1300 AD); they invaded the Mantaro Valley at one time—they became most powerful between 1100 AD to 1300 AD; the Chankas were known as the Parkos’ Kingdom
Note 4: Tamborhuanca is the archeological site, in the Canipaco Valley, dating to about 1200 AD, thirty minutes from the village of Colca. About 1000-Chankas inhabited a nearby village, destroyed by the conquistadores.
Note 5: at one time the Mantaro Rio, was named Ancoyaco Rio
Note 6: the Huari culture, seemingly was, and perhaps still is, compared with the Chanka culture, in that the Huari went forward in history and the Chanka, appeared to have a setback, from an urban point of view.
Note 7: Uscovilca, was founder of the Uran Chanka race, and Ancovilca, was founder of he Hananmarca or Hanan Chanka race
Note 8: The Chankas were not rivals of the Incas
Note 9: The Chankas had a deity, veneration, toward the feline (or cat figure)
Note 10: The Chankas were, or could be, fierce warriors, bloodthirsty, as well as farmers of agriculture

Fargo-Moorhead (Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

2010-11-12T13:10:00.000-08:00

Author Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., who used to visit the Fargo-Moorhead area quite often in the 1980s, remembers when he published his first book, and the Fargo-Moored Sunday Forum, did a little announcement on the book, 1982:

From his Biography: "The Other Doork" Dennis Siluk's first book

“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”
—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]

The author now has published his 45th book, "Stone Heap of the Wildcat" at bn. com; Amazon.com; abe.com and most all internet book dealers.

by Rosa Penaloza

Red Sweater Gaza Girl!

2010-11-12T09:29:00.000-08:00

“Perhaps you don’t know this
But everyone else does
I am not a soldier; I’m a little girl,
nine years old.
All this land called Gaza is a DMZ.
I do not bear arms against anyone.”

There she stands, intensely, bowl
in hand, her only sweater is red
she’s wearing it…
(she’s a pretty dark eyed girl, with long
dark hair) in bittersweet misery. All
around her, debris from war, no one
consoling her (Gaza—being more like
an army camp, blown apart).

What will she think in passing years?
When years later, she’ll become a woman?
Perhaps she’ll put on a uniform,
no longer shy and embarrassed
of her plight.
Now silently she holds back her tears,
knowing, every little girl in this land,
will sometime have to cry, but not today
she’s hungry.
She also knows someday but not today,
she’ll have to figure out the path
of life she’ll take, in this DMZ.

No: 2762 (7-28-2010) Written in Lima, Peru
Dedicated to the Little Girl in the Red Sweater

The Nephilm ((Cold TWilight)(Revised poem: 4-2010))

2010-04-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

The Nephilm ((Cold Twilight) (A Short heroic Poem))

Twilight was cold (to the bone)
they had warm garmentspelts to
cover their demonic flesh!
(They came in the middle of winter
to the circle of the Raphaim:
came descending from the heavens
the Shinning Ones, the Nephilm.)
Came from the cosmosto put yokes
around the necksof humankind—
humanity's loveliest!To put yokes
around their shadows in the
cold twilight of the night…they
had come to kill Jews to subdue
Jerusalem, to make there woes right.
(Old Giants of oldAngelic renegades;
Watchers from the Heavens.)
When they slept, they restedbeside
a roaring fireand the swirling wind
filled the air with a putrid smell
residue from the whirling particles
of their blood stain skin;
pieces of facesshadows of times past,
all exposed—
all with deepyellowish-red glows.
Eyes like wolves
damned by God
these long enduring rebellious foes
(these giant of old,
with pre-historic souls)
now a gray sea of demonic beasts
were readying to blaze a new path
for history (God’s enemies).
They paced the ground
with sullen roars,
with madness,
for revenge of old woes...
in the cold twilight of winter
these soulless Nephilm.

Written at El Parquetito, Lima, Peru
16 February, 2007/Reedited 4-12-2010

Lesson from the Birds

2010-04-12T14:21:00.001-07:00

Lesson from the Birds

I started feeding, or putting out birdseed for birds to eat in my garden, knowing four new born sparrows without back winged tails might need some nourishment to grow strong and healthy in, they were born in my house garden, free to come and go, there is no top to it, nor do I clip their wings.
The garden I have is a house type garden, and has dense foliage, as well as high greenery. These small brown looking sparrow developed from the eggs they were hatched from the nests their mothers built in the garden, and their mothers and fathers came about eating those bird seeds I put out bought at a local store, a pound of bird seed at a time, then went to five pounds when five birds turned in to twenty. Then black sparrows showed up, and I put more bird seed out, and I noticed now we had about twenty-birds eating throughout the day, and the four little birds, born in the garden, ate until their hearts were content, pert near, all the waking hours of daylight.
Well, they started making a mess in and on and around the platform of the garden, and in the garden, and breaking leaves, making holes in them, sliding down them, leaving white marks on them, and now I had a job to clean their mess up.
Well, it wasn’t too bad, I told myself, and just kept on feeding them, as if it was manna (or food) falling from heaven. And now we got the humming bird coming once a day to check things out and a few pigeons, and two looking strange birds—ugly as if from hell’s abyss long legs, owl like face, one three times the size of the sparrows, and one five times their size, and a forth species, colored gray about three times the size of a sparrow.
Now these new birds were heavy for the branches, and their wings too large, too spread out, too wide and they started ripping the garden to shreds, and they’d come up to the open glass doors by my office, eating the spread out food, I could now taste their feathers in my mouth, and I had to daily spray the garden clean with a water hose and those big birds were as arrogant as could be.
After a few months of doing this daily, they expected me to continue to feed them, waiting at the glass windows in the morning. And started fighting over the food, the bigger ones pushing the little ones aside, and even eating the back feathers of the small birds, making them clumsy in flight; consequently I stopped feeding them. But it all made me think, how ungrateful they’ve been. Now they search for food and cannot find it. They are getting a little bit humbler, as they had gotten quite lazy in searching for food, when it was at their feet, not knowing how nice they had it.
But it makes a person think, how ungrateful we are to God Almighty, I mean, I can’t take this ongoing rudeness, and arrogant attitude of the birds, much less feed them as they prance back and forth in front of me, expecting me to feed them, and yet show no respect, no discipline, no limits to their rude behavior. And the big birds know more then you think they know I’ve tested them: when I shoo them away trying to feed the little ones, they get the medium size ones to sneak up and get the food, and mouth feed them. I can only say, God has got a lot of patience, and I hope he never stops feeding us, or humanity will go steer crazy, and God help us all then—because we are much worse than those birds. What they’ve done to my garden, is nothing compared to what we’ve done to His earth.

Note: 4-12-2010

The Cycle of the Chicken

2009-12-02T12:33:00.000-08:00

The Cycle of the Chicken

(A poem and a Commentary)

The Poem

A Chicken, it is born out of an eggshell
After less than a month it lives as a
fluffy ball
Eats, and eats, and eats corn and meal
until its heart’s content;
And if it survives from the dreadful
diseases of cholera and pip:
It just moves about, under the sun
half sick, and dies to its end.
Then the hen and the rooster—to its
mysterious plight, struggles to
Maturity: the hen lays more eggs,
And the cycle starts all over again
(something like us humans).

No: 2654 (12-1-2009)

Commentary: It would seem to me, chickens are not the smartest of animals on the face of God’s earth; and on the other hand, much likened to people, quite fragile. If a disease doesn’t get them, something else will, perhaps hit by a moving farm machine, or an automobile, stuck in some hole, eaten by a wildcat or alike. They do stupid things; they are simply too often led astray. The hen on the other hand is a mysterious creature, whereas the egg seems more blessed than the fluffy ball chicken, and the hen included.
I think you’re better off owning a restaurant business than a chicken farm; one reason being, the cost in incubators or worrying about the hatching process. Whereas, all one has to do in the food service business, is crack the egg and fry it, and serve it or cook the chicken and boil some noodles for chicken soup. The road is less bumpy.
My grandmother used to use the feathers from the chicken for pillows, I inherited two, and she would cling tightly to those chickens to get the feathers; that, in its self is a hideous process; nothing easy in the life of a chicken; as my mother used to say, “I can eat chicken everyday,” she liked the taste of chicken, as so many of us do. She worked at Swifts, in the Meatpacking department (beef and pork) she couldn’t stand to kill a chicken.
Well, these are the facts that make life so discouraging in the chicken cycle of life.

No: 533 (12-1-2009) SA

Here is what I have

2009-11-13T06:41:00.000-08:00

Four Poems:
Here is what I have

A Drop of Old Rain

There’s was a drop of old rain on the pane
today, just a dry spot where it used to be,
that I should have seen—
it was blown away, after the rain…
this morning!

It gleamed with grime around its
rounded edges (my neighbor told me:)
dirt and time over new rain overspread it,
sorry to say, I never saw it!

No: 2650 (1-10-2009) by Dlsiluk

Death and Melancholia
(A Dog’s Story)

Coming from across the street
Two dogs that was asleep
A light green fence behind them
Halfway they bark and yelp
They show their teeth,
The black bulldog threatens me,
I slip out my gun from under my coat
They’re yelps reach into the master’s house
Sound waves, with a long reach
He slips away from his coffin
As its owner opens the gate…
as my gun slips back into its sleeve.

No: 2651 (1-10-2009) by Dlsiluk

Windsand

Windsand runs over the misty grass, below as two condors dishevel their underbelly feathers, from high up in the Andean cliffs, their wings overlapping one another, as if not to be blinded by wind and sand…rain falls, wetness falls on wetness, they know nature’s repeating itself, like the ocean waves, like thunder and lightening, like they do with windsand.

No: 2652 (1-10-2009) by Dlsiluk

Backyard Sheep Herder

It is mid November, I walk around the old city’s backyards, of Huancayo, Peru, watch the sheep eaten clean the rolling grass, an old man’s hat covers his ears like corn, I am learning, simply by walking, learning in the mid November sun, side streets and backyards, dirt roads, and adobe houses, tell more stories than pebbles on the road. No one knows why the sheep are eating in the back of this tenant building, but the old man knows and God knows, but answering questions here is not something respectable people care to take in, matter-of-fact, they’d prefer I stop my walking.

No: 2653 (1-10-2009) by Dlsiluk

Thick Men of War

2009-08-28T14:32:00.000-07:00

((Poetic prose) (an anecdote, with figurative language, and intensity))

Afghanistan and Iraq

They are all dead now, once thick men, now dead and bloated, a little pale about the face. Their wives and children in rural and suburban homes, not nearly paid for, with long green lawns in which they need mowing.
These hard, lean, thick men, who drank and fought hard, which because their country found a war for them to fight, became dead, was not quite as they had thought, or perhaps heard war would be. That is why this story is amalgamated.
Thus, with a brief look, glimpse, one with little depth, no perspective, there they stood in sight, these thick men of war—doing for all what the country could bear, and become in the flash of a weapon pointed at them, somewhere—not perhaps even knowing where, within an instant, became dead.

The Bored

Whoever, or whatever started these events, that lead to war, those folks that offered their country bodies to carry us for little or nothing—through war, who never saw these thick men wail with solid liveliness, now dead bodies, these men that run around the sides, I pray they get bored with it all, and whoever they are and whatever they’ve become, take control of events and end it all.

Vietnam

These same kinds of thick men were with me in Vietnam used a vocabulary of perhaps two-hundred words, yet I daresay it was enough to tell: where, how and sometimes ask why—save, that they lived long enough to spit it all out.
That’s the bad thing about war, you just never know.

No: 459/8-28-2009••

A life who repeats itself

2009-08-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

Poems by: Dennis L. Siluk

Copyright © August 25, 2009 by Dennis L. Siluk

The Drawing to this booklet (or pamphlet) of poems
Illustrated by the author, Dennis L. Siluk

Two Hundred Copies Printed

Poems were written while in Huancayo, Peru, in one afternoon
at the Mia Mamma Café, as an unusual project, for the future
To be given out as a gift to special friends…

Index of Poems

City of Twigs

A Life Who Repeats His Self…!
(or: Poem of Witt)

When all Meet in Unison

At Times I Hear Voices

The Roosters: “Cock-a-do-doe-do!”
(Surrounded by the Andes)

City of Twigs

Rising, the bushes cover the ears lifted up of the dog—
A puddle of water where the cat drinks
is hidden from the hound…!
A mother cries out of a tenant window
(a baby will soon be born).
Who is this in me that notices’ it all?
There must be three sizzling men in me
(this city is like a tree of twigs).

No: 2620

A Life Who Repeats His Self
(or: Poem of Witt)

Where is this part of me?
That is practical, witty
I think as years go on,
That part of me, will soon be
Long gone…!
Buried, almost too deep to find
Buried below the bold and cold
wet grass
of some foreign ground.

His eyes shut.

Where is this part of me?
That was once practical, witty…
“Long gone…long gone…!”
someone says.
“He lays his coat, on rocks, boulders
Buried, almost, too deep to find
He was the practical one,
Once cunning, now…
Buried below the bold and cold
wet grass
of some foreign ground.”

His eyes open…!

No: 2661

When All Meet in Unison

A man is not a woman. A woman is not a
man and a hummingbird is neither. When
we feel in unison (amongst others) life leaps
out like a frog in the night. Alone in a
mountain cave, once unoccupied, a man and
a woman, and a hummingbird, sit side by
side. Outside in the deep night, deep snow,
and sleet, raining down upon the cave—out
in the outside, resides the unknown, inside,
all are concentrating on survival. Those areas
beyond understanding are quietly set aside,
as every one stretches out in one common
goal—to sleep in peace.

No: 2662

At Times I Hear Voices

I feel I have wings in my ears sometimes
and that the mountains around me,
echo all the voices, therein…

I seem to hear the voices of birds,
and insects, dogs, cats and sheep, cows
and horses, all singing, therein…

Behind all this, is a world still darker
That watches, and gazes at us…,
I hear them too!

No: 2663

The Roosters: “Cock-a-do-doe-do!”
(Surrounded by the Andes)

The Roosters ruffle their shoulder feathers—wings!
The dogs sleep on sidewalks and streets, on sunny
days.
Due from the Andes nearby, seeps down, throws
wetness on the grass, dampens the ground, as well.
The Roosters ruffle their shoulder feathers—wings,
repeating their awakening sounds, their:
“Cock-a-do-doe-do!” and this earthly cycle,
continues to go round and round.

No: 2664

The Galleries at Babel

2009-08-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

English Version

The Galleries at Babel

I looked up; saw a crack in the heavens,
Saw inimitable ancient words once written:
Then I looked down upon the galleries at Babel
From broken balconies –I saw that there resided
Great books and works, once inaccessible
No reasonable mind could doubt the truth
The indefatigable ladders of words and stories
That this ancient library contained—perhaps those
Hidden words from the crack in the heavens:
It all was as if my mind was full of stars
A strange awakening befell me.
Once I started reading, book after book
Page to page to page, endless words—
Nothing but God, God Almighty Himself,
Would ever suffice me again…!
And then a noise filled my chest
Like everlasting steps, besieging me
Until I turned those pages, again:
One by one, word by word, book to book,
To no end…!

No: 2650/ 8-22-2009

Spanish Version

Las Galerías en Babel

Levanté mi mirada; vi una grieta en el cielo,
Vi las inimitables palabras antiguas una vez escritas:
Luego miré abajo sobre las galerías en Babel
Desde balcones derribados—vi que allí residían
Libros y trabajos grandiosos, una vez inaccesibles
Ninguna mente razonable podía dudar de la verdad
Las escaleras incansables de palabras e historias
Que esta biblioteca antigua contenía—talvez aquellas
Palabras escondidas desde la grieta en el cielo:
Todo esto era como si mi mente estuviera llena de estrellas
Un despertar extraño me ocurrió.
Una vez que empecé a leer, libro tras libro
Página a página, por página, palabras interminables—
Sólo Dios, el mismo Dios Todopoderoso,
¡Siempre me bastaría otra vez…!
Y entonces un ruido llenó mi pecho
Como escaleras eternas, asediándome
Hasta que volteé esas páginas, otra vez:
Una por una, palabras por palabra, libro a libro,
¡A un infinito…!

#: 2650/22-Agosto-2009

Understanding Poetry (An Introduction to Its Meanings)

2009-07-13T13:24:00.000-07:00

Understanding Poetry
(An Introduction to its Meanings)

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Time Poet Laureate

The Council of the Continental University, Los Andes University, the UNCP University, the Journalist Professional Association and Cultural Center of Huancayo, Peru, congratulates and recognizes

In English and Spanish

Understanding Poetry
(An Introduction to its Meanings)

Copyright ©Dennis L. Siluk, 2009

Epigram

“Listen, my friend
there are two things in the world that satisfies,
and that is: peace with God, and a meeting with a poem!”

D.L. Siluk 6-12-2009

…
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

(Sonnet 60, Shakespeare)

Contents

Front Painting of the author by Yang Yang
International Chinese artist (2000)

Back picture of Donald Hall, United States Poet Laureate
And Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

●

Epigram by the Author

Shakespeare, from Sonnet 60

Preface

What is a high-quality Poem and Poet?

Poems and their Genres

The Meaning within the lines of the poem (simplified)

Reviewing a Poem

Western Style Poetic Schools

Essentials of Poetry: made simple

Preferred Poets
((Here are a few poets from my Personal selection) (not in any order))

Psychological Objects in Writing a Poem
Or about a poem

Poetic Language

Some Poetic Forms

Preface

The first endeavor of this edition has been to provide the student or interested person, or to provide knowledge to someone seeking the fundamentals of poetry: a text which cares for the unique characteristics of poetry. In a sense, poetry is a hut with dampness and plaster like skin that often needs to be mended, and if not, it penetrates, and ashes, and dust clutter the hut and must be cleaned before one can understand it fully, especially the new person seeking knowledge.
The second idea behind this book is to provide a sufficient and simple apparatus for the reader, so he or she may understand the remarkable poems by the many poets God has sent us, with appreciation as far as possible.
Much of literature is not easy to read or understand, with this in mind, I have taken this into consideration, with my third objective, for there are many theories held, poetry is just for the advanced reader—the nature of poetry, good poetry, has been written for the whole environment, all of mankind. Thus, knowing the elements and details of poetry, and being able to identify such characters in writings of poetry or reading it, it is to the reader’s advantage to know all he or she can of its structure.
On the other hand, the more linguistic part of this book is principally directed towards determining the meaning of a poem, by cutting it up in proportion. A full and careful analysis— and here with this information, it is possible. The contents herein are natural and the vocabulary is well-to-do with its subjects, but simple in understanding.

What is a high-quality Poem and Poet?

First of all, ‘What is a good poem,” is mostly, subjective, yet, it must be defined, and not by the elements of poetry per se, or genres, or selected poets, but by how it is written. So no matter what poem you pick to be a good poem, it may not be, once it is put into this category, and put in front of an audience.

A good poem to me is one which involves the whole audience you are speaking to, or reading the poem to. It is when the sum total people in the audience are effected, submerged sensory and emotionally, mind and soul into the poem; when those folks you are reading to, can recognize completely with the point of view, and truth of the poem.

Any fool with a cleaver mind, and first-class vocabulary, can create a poem that any other fool can listen to. But a good poet creates a poem so that an insightful mind can share and be encouraged by his thoughts….

This is a job in itself, to be able to create a poem so as to draw a dull imagination into its magic charm; this is art, and that is the creation of a true mastermind.

Poems and their Genres

We have a wide category of Genres to place poems into, or to take out them out of: such as, the Epic (a long, serious narrative poem), or the Dramatic (poetry written in dialogue or monologue), or the Lyric (the inner experience story, with a rich voice), the Ode (usually emotional, celebrating someone or something), and the Elegy (usually brought on by sorrow, a death that has taken place) and Prose poems (those used in a form of free verse, lacking the normal shape of poetry—perhaps a distinguishing feature might be, figurative language).

The Meaning within the lines of the poem (simplified)

1) The Metaphor: similarities between two objects, ideas or phrases, one substituted for another.

2) Simile: a figure of speech. A comparison of two objects.

3) Personification: a figure of speech that gives human qualities to non-living objects or ideas.

4) Symbol: an image that means more that what the image consist of. A symbol represents something.

There are of course more meanings within the lines of poetry, to extract, but these are what I considered the most widely used.

Reviewing a Poem:

Normally I would say: only a poet can review a poet, or a poet’s poem, if indeed it is to be made public. Other than that, those who wish to do a more in-depth review of a poem for personal reasons, this may help: as with anything else you must know where you are headed in this investigation. Ask yourself, “What is my objective?” You have to do a careful reading, and re-reading. Reading it in your mind, and aloud, to hear the poems usage of sound. Perhaps it has a historical situation that must be looked at, as if written in a wartime situation. Look at the details of the poem (how everything works together). The end result I look at is, how they all work together to produce the overall effects. It is to me, the effect the poem produces in the person that makes it what it is. Anyhow, here are a few things you may want to remember about a poem:

1) Read the poem, slowly, and with an open mind, read it three to five times, carefully, jump into the mind of the poem, and poet. You may not understand what the poem is about right away. It is for the most part a condensed story. Don’t look at the poet, or his life while reading the poem, it will distract the effect he or she wants to draw into you. If you can’t do this, you can’t judge the poem.

2) Data, we are in a world of data, or information gathering. Pick up a pencil or pen, and start chopping it apart if you wish, look at what you find interesting and underline it, a good poem, will help us look at things in a different way, perhaps bring out things hidden, the rhyme scheme, providing it has one, before the 11th Century, they seldom did, rhyme although can force the mind to connect certain words to certain emotional impulses. If you at this point can not get the big picture, don’t worry, you’re not through.

3) The Overall View: you can look at the whole outline of the poem, deliberate its whole meaning or purpose, it should have one; although it may not be the one you are looking for. Some of these are big questions.

Western Style Poetic Schools

Poetry is a form of communication, using often times: rhythm, meter and sound; perhaps one can parallel it with: songs or chants, prayer or meditations, and forms of narrative dialogue. Poetry has an elevated attachment to recital, presentation than prose per se. When we look backwards, what you see is this:

1) Old English AD 650, poetry used in the form of oral tradition, the bard, in manuscripts in monasteries.

2) Middle English AD 1066, when French culture intertwined forming the French lyric and syllabic meters. This is when Rhyme appeared in English Poetry, and the form of the ballad emerged.

3) Renaissance AD 1500, humanistic culture was focused on, mankind rather than on God (sad to say). Here is where the modern lyric appeared, and classical meters into English verse, and the fourteen-line sonnet. And the renowned ‘Baroque,’ music and style poetic style extravagant imagery emerged.

4) Romanticism AD 1799, it was the period of time poets celebrated the imagination over rationality, and passion and dreams over reason. There was great emotion.

5) Victorian Period: AD 1832, this period differentiated between the prior and the new propriety and owning of things, especially patriotism, and religious faith.

6) Symbolism: AD 1890s, it was almost the opposite of the prior period, now Poetry often rejected social values, and returned to the imitative freedom of romanticism, the mystical.

7) Modernism, AD 1914, this period re-looked at what poetry was, perhaps should be. It was a breakdown of forms and styles. And poets looked at language, intensity, imagery, and the complexities of stresses. It also embraced ‘free verse’.

8) Postmodernism: AD 1965, I suppose you could say this was my period, my first poem being written in 1959, and my high school poems being put into the newsletters in high school, in 1964 and 1965. But what we have here is the re-examination, as in the nature and function of poetry. It rips at the old cultural forms of poetry, and looks hard at the basic assumptions about language. Much has to do with personal confession (as with Sylvia Plath’s poetry, and Anne Sexton’s). Much of this poetry is without a voice, theme or recognizable form. Free Verse being the dominate form of Postmodernism.

Essentials of Poetry: made simple

1) What is Verse? A line of poetry (or the word itself: poetry)

2) What is Meter? A pattern created in the line of poetry (stressed syllables)

3) What is the Foot? The vital unit of the accentual-syllabic line)

Example: Demeter: two feet
Trimeter: three feet

Note: the foot, feet or basic unit are made up of and stressed and unstressed syllables in a line.

Preferred Poets
((Here are a few poets from my Personal selection) (not in any order))

●Robert Frost
●Sylvia Plath
●George Sterling
●Robert Bly
●James Wright
●Juan Parra del Riego
●John Keats
●Cesar Vallejo
●Robert E. Howard
●Robert Service
●Carl Sandberg
●William Shakespeare
●Dylan Thomas
●Edgar Allen Poe
●Elizabeth Barrett Browning
●Clark A. Smith
●Emily Dickinson
●Ezra Pound
●Robinson Jeffers
●W.H. Auden
●Frank O’Hara
●Homer (Greek)
●Sappho (Greek)
●Virgil (Latin)
●George Trakl
●T.S. Eliot
●Jorge Luis Borges
●Robert Browning
●Walt Whitman
●Dennis L. Siluk
●James Joyce

Psychological Objects in Writing a Poem or about a poem

1) Who is the Speaker?

2) Who is the audience?

3) What is the main subject of the poem?

4) Does the poem belong to a style, class or Genre?

5) What is the form and meter of the poem?

6) What figure of speech is used in the poem?

7) Are there any contradictions in the poem?

8) Is there a relationship between: form, poem and its meaning?

9) Is the mind of the poem, its beginning relative to its end?

10) Does the writer change styles in the poem, if so does it hurt it or make it better?

Poetic Language

We are looking at a herd of horses here (a figure of speech). That is to say, when we create a poem, we have choices, and these will dictate what words go on those poetic lines you will be writing. These words will create sounds and colors inside the readers head. Emotions, attitudes, abstract ideas, and so on…this is the language of poetry:

1) High diction means: supplication, perhaps abstract nouns, and complex figures of speech. (Shakespeare or Homer; Beowulf; Geoffrey Chaucer)

2) Low diction means: perhaps a less cultivated speaker, less grammatical complexity. (Dennis L. Siluk or Robert Bly, perhaps Emily Dickenson)

3) Image: a verbal picture

4) Theme: a major idea

5) Tone: the speaker’s voice, revealing attitude, toward the theme or subject of the poem.

6) Allusion: a reference in a poem…

7) Alliteration: the repetition of sound or stressed syllables, to reinforce significance. Example, the continued usage, or repeated use of ‘s’ in a poem or line, or ‘f’ or ‘d’ whatever: i.e., “My darling, dear, how dreary you seem…” Or, “She sure can be sweet and sour…” Something on that order.

8) Repetition: The repeating of the same, such as: sounds, lines or elements of syntax. The sacred Jewish books or Bible in general, in its poetic forms, use this. Sometimes this can bring on a hypnotic sense of being. The line becomes diluted, but dizzying, an example might be (William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, all used this in their prose writings, as well as poetry, to embed into the minds of the readers, what they wanted them to remember:

Example from: “To Have and Have Not” by Ernest Hemingway

“…and Harry saw the gun muzzle jump-jump-jump-jump and heard the bop-bop-bop-bop, small and hollow sounding in the wail of the siren.”

Some Poetic Forms:

1) Ottava rima: an eight-line stanza with iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme is: ABABABCC.
2) Haiku: a Japanese form, with seventeen syllables in three lines: five, seven and five per line in that order (in English translation, these counts can be overlooked)
3) The Sonnet: fourteen-lines, a lyric poem traditionally in iambic pentameter. The Shakespearean sonnet: ABAB CDCD EFEF and a couplet rhymed GG. There are three kinds of sonnets: Italian, Spenserian (a variant on the Shakespearean form), and Shakespearean.

Books by the Author

Books Out of Print

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)
(1982; 1983, 2008, four printings (forth in Spanish & English)
The Tale of Freddy the Foolish Frog (1982)
The Tale of Teddy and His Magical Plant (1983)
The Tale of the Little Rose’s Smile (1983)
The Tale of Alex’s Mysterious Pot (1984)
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985] (for teachers, of Minnesota Schools)

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon (2002) Visions
Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants (2002) Visions

Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I (2002)
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II (2002)
Revenge of the Tiamat III (2002)

Special Books (no category)

Every day’s Adventure (2002) Pot Luck
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib (2002) Opinion

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety I (2002)
A Path to Relapse Prevention II (2003)
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery III (2004)

Autobiographical

A Romance in Augsburg I “2003)
Romancing San Francisco II (2003)
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III (2003)
Stay Down, Old Abram IV (2004)

Chasing the Sun [Travels of D.L Siluk] (2002)

Romance and/or Tragedy:

The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury 1199 AD (2002) Novelette
Perhaps it’s Love (Minnesota to Seattle) 2004 Novel
Cold Kindness (Dieburg, Germany) 2005 Novelette
To Take, and Have Not (2009)

The Suspense short stories, Novels and Novelettes:

Death on Demand [Seven Suspenseful Short Stories] 2003 Vol: I
Dracula’s Ghost [And other Peculiar stories] 2003 Vol: II
The Jumping Serpents of Bosnia (suspenseful short stories) 2008 Vol: III

The Mumbler [psychological] 2003 (Novel)
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure] (2004) Novel
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast ((2002) (Novelette)) supernatural

The Poetry of D.L. Siluk

General Poetry

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)
(1982; 1983, 2008, four printings (forth in Spanish & English)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]

Understanding Poetry (an introduction to its meaning) 2010

Minnesota Poetry

Last Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]

Peruvian Poetry

Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruvian Poems [2005]
Poetic Images out of Peru [And other poems, 2006]
The Magic of the Avelinos (Poems on the Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006)
The Road to Unishcoto (Poems on the Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007)
The Poetry of Stone Forest (Cerro de Pasco, 2007)
The Windmills (Poetry of Jan Parra del Riego) 2009

Trilogy of Natural Writings
(Novelettes. extracts and short stories)

Cornfield Laughter (A Short Novel, and ten short stories) 2009
Men with Torrent Women (Two Novelettes and Sixteen Short stories) 2009
To Take, and Not Have (A Novelette, Fifteen Short Stories and an Epic Poem) 2009

The Essential Siluk (novelettes, extracts and short stories) 2010
Old Josh, in Poor Black (Sketches of the Old South) 2010

Back of Book

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., three time Poet Laureate, with Donald Hall, United States Poet Laureate; both briefly talking about their loses, and the emotion they went through, February, 2005, at the World Theater in St. Paul, Minnesota.

The contents of this small book on poetry, and its essentials for understanding verse, and criticism people may wish to realize in reading poetry, or in determining his or her direction in creative writing of poetry, is here, and surely will impact the poet or reader once acquainted. The span covers Dr. Siluk’s entire writing career. What he has used himself in producing some fourteen books of poetry, and translating one of the great poets, Juan Parra del Riego, once a friend of Cesar Vallejo’s, from Spanish to English, and acclaimed by the Continental University of Peru, for its undertaking.
Mr. Siluk has met with many great poets, to include Robert Bly and Garrison Keillor.

“Dr. Siluk is a complete poet…. With Dr. Siluk’s appropriate translations from Spanish to English, he resurrects the feelings of the poets of Peru, for the peoples of Peru and those outside of Peru.”

Professor of Continental University
and Poet: Mr. Enrique Ortiz (6-9-2009)

This is the author’s 43rd book, and 13th in Poetry. He lives in St. Paul, Minnesota and Lima, Peru, with his wife Rosa. He is presently working on several other books, to include a book on his unpublished selected poetry, in the makings for several years.

An Old Cigar Box (Poetic Prose)

2009-06-28T23:54:00.000-07:00

An Old Cigar Box

An old cigar box, I bought it about thirty years ago, or so, it has a date on it, that reads “1900” in big black trimmed letters (and its dark brown, and shadowy wood, with a bluish old ribbon that once was, now faded into its grain) and it looks all that old, and for some odd reason I treat it like gold, as it watches me grow older and older and older. It has glass even inside it, and fancy trimmings around the edges up and down, and around and over the top and under, and some old trim, that reads: “M. Kratchvill’s, La Crosse, Wis.” On the back, it reads No 45; a stamp here and there, I found it in a hamlet, in Minnesota, in an antique shop, and I keep old pictures of me inside it, I wish it could talk—perhaps on death and the many faces it has seen, and its many owners, now forgotten, long gone. It is a hundred and nine years old this year this old, old wooden cigar box, that doesn’t talk, or walk, but just is, where did Thou carelessly lie? Buried in ease among antiques, and sloth? Only once used by cigars, then, hence thy silence was. Let these words quicken thee: who, as in the morning I lay sleeping, thinking, restless, at night I pace creeping, I see you, you, always you, gleaming—and on your blessed smile lies: a fatal presence in my room, that I will be among those long forgotten faces soon.

No: 2636/ 6-29-2009

Conte de Green Knight (A short marvelous tale…†)

2009-06-21T07:09:00.002-07:00

Conte de Green Knight

An Epic in Poetic Form
Impression

1

We come now to the grand story of the Green Knight
(or at least one of his life long adventures; and origins),
for I sense there were scores of spirits and flesh
that made the Green Knight what he was,
and I do hope I can tell the tale as it truly was.

Let me say, his fame started shortly after
his name was changed to the Green Knight
—prior to his legendary plight with King Arthur;
hence, then called Bercilak de Hautdesert.

In the times of King Arthur, two stories emerged
of the Green Knight, thereafter a third tale emerged
placing him in the Crusades, and becoming respected
by the notorious Saladin the Great,
(Muslim leader of his day), and marrying
a peasant woman from Glastonbury.

15

Much of the Green Knight’s story and glory is in being
a warrior, and from the forth to twelfth centuries
one can see this plainly. And as we look deeper
into his surroundings, he is interwoven with
Celtic Mythology, and maybe with a touch of modern
day Anglo-French: with a background in Arthurian legend,
where it was incorporated with the “Conte del Graal,”

For the Green Knight carried a Danish Axe did he not?
And he was beheaded was he not? And he lived
thereafter, did he not? And his skin, horse and all
his garments were of a ghostly green, were they not?

26

I take it he may have been married between
one to three times, that is, depending on whose tales
one desires to read and wishes to believe,
for they date back prior to the Fourteenth Century (AD).

Both King Arthur and the Green Knight are confusing
figures to say the least, perhaps both of British-Roman
origins, so it would seem, so it must be. As well as,
Camelot, the castle of controversial issues; likewise,
the Round Table, which it is said, still exists.
I actually went to Glastonbury and visited
King Arthur’s grave, if indeed it was his grave.
I do believe we must have a lot of faith in these fables,
and there is a tinge of testimony for King Arthur
and the Green Knight’s existence. And so now
we shall go onto the next stage of this story.

41

The Green Knight Recounted

So you see we have had a figure of a huge
knight, a symbol of bravery also—and of a
ghostly persona. One who lives and dies and lives
again, and seems to reach beyond his original roots,
and comes to life in the fifth century England,
and resurfaces in the 12th century Crusades.
But I have found out it goes much deeper than that.
And he was more than what people say. Let me explain:
he was I do judge, a tester of the Knights,
of their times, as Arthurian text would put it,
and perhaps J.R.R. Tolkien, in the case of
Syr. Gawayne, and his translation (1925): and other
translators of the tales of the Green Knight,
such as Jessie L. Western, and W.A. Neilson,
all quite skillful in their versions (1999). And for the most
part these paraphrases are well needed, practical,
in modern English from Middle English, which has
produced a readable medieval past, in fiction.

59

Now we must really touch on the Ghost of the
Green Knight before we get into the actual story,
which is, in its end form, “The Monologue of Florencia.”

I dare say, but I will, if a man can seize his
head in his hands, after decapitation
(as it was done by Sir. Gawain) he is nothing
less than a ghost, and perhaps a little more.
And then, talk to his decapitator. What kind
of man can stand before another and do that,
with green skin to his bones. And so in this
case we eliminate all the possibilities and get
right down to the facts, he is more than he seems,
and for a good reason, and I shall tell you that
story for posterity sake in a moment.

73

Sir Gawain beheaded the Green Knight, by allowing
him to take the first swing of an axe, but in return,
he would have to meet the Green Knight again, and let
him have his turn. Quite a test for a knight is it not.
And would Gawain be true to his honor? These of course
were the testing tools for the Green Knight. And is not
a reputation for a Knight above all other things?
That was perhaps the main theme in the
back of the Green Knight’s mind.

82

Well, to indulge you a tinge more into this story’s
past, told many times over, but not like this…Gawain did
return to the Chapel where the Green Knight was, one
year later (for he had seen him prior to this, with
Florencia), and now bowed his head to be cut off
by none other than the Green Knight. But Gawain
was no fool, he put a special metal strap around
his neck to protect it, yet, he still got a wound,
but he got to walk away with his head and neck
firmly attached, and his honor unbroken.

Yes indeed, Gawain did a very shrewd thing. On the
other hand, the Green Knight used his wit and
wisdom to test the Knight’s integrity, almost
devilish, almost likened to Satan himself who tested
Christ on a Mountain top. But then the Green Knight,
he believed I suppose, as Mark Twain once said:
“A virtue is not a virtue until tested under fire.”

99

So now I will tell you with all sincerity, I believe
this marvelous tale of tales, as much as I believe
all the other tales of the Green Knight: this
marvelous of tales will need your undivided
attention, and it is not like the others, a
medieval romance, rather it is beyond that,
if not close to a tragedy.

The Tale
From its Original Roots

106

When Atlantis fell ((sunk into the Atlantic) (9600 BC)),
about four-hundred years before King Phrygian,
of Atlantis, whom lived in the palace at the
Port of Poseidonia, had printed a journal—
one of treachery with the demonic Netherworld
(Hell, itself). His kingdom was somewhat
fashioned by the underworld you could say, perhaps
that is why God Almighty, destroyed it. At that
time the High Priest, Xandore was killed and
possessed by the infamous figure, friend and foe,
known in Hell, as Agaliarept, the Henchman.
He was a brave beast in his own right, devious
as such are, psychotic as most demonic beings are,
and renowned in the netherworld for his prowess
in weaving Atlantis into its internal chaotic doom
(or moral downfall).

One night he slept with the King’s wife, Ais.
Oh, not with his blessings—but by threat:
hence, he crept into his bed, as the king moved over,
and whom he had sedated her during dinner,
as a result, she slept soundless throughout the ordeal,
as the Henchman, seduced her, hour after hour,
in a lustful frenzy. Ais, not knowing much pertaining
to what she had endured, and considered now a nightmare,
only acknowledge, she had raw and aching thighs.

131
The Deception

Shortly after the king was murdered in his garden,
so the ancient scrolls have indicated—just how
is uncertain—but the best I can piece together
is as follows: Phrygian some twenty-years older
than the Queen, Queen Ais still quite young, both having
lunch as often they did in the Garden of Poseidon,
within their palace grounds by the seaport—there,
hidden in the distance was a figure in the garden,
hunched down behind some shrubbery; some have
said it was the High Priest, and I do believe it to be so,
for he had the utmost motive, Ais—his lustful dream.
But perhaps it could have been someone else,
nonetheless, the king choked on a bone, as so it has
been written down for posterity, by the scribe Anases;
Anases whom was present in the palace during those
far-off days, and it was his duty to write down such
things, everything, whatever he witnessed, heard,
or could verify—to be put onto scrolls—
(known as The Codex Scrolls).

150

In any case, what took place was that he either had a
allergic reaction, or got a bone caught in between
his windpipe or whatever, but he could not breathe,
and died—died in a development, fighting for air;
Ais being too afraid to leave his side, lest someone
come and kill him with a dagger or sword—remained.
And the wealth of the realm of course went to Ais.

157

In the underworld, in Hell itself, days are not
normal days as on earth, nor are weeks, months or years.
That is to say, days in Hell, can be months or years,
depending on actions and reactions. Nights are
long, so I’ve heard, and like in Heaven or in
any Army on earth, there is a hierarchy—likewise,
in hell, there is a pecking order, I say this because
I do not know the time period in my next paragraph,
but it was not years, rather days, weeks or months,
I tend to think it was perhaps twenty-months,
earth time, a few days or hours, Hell time.

168

By and large, in time, Ais was confronted by her dead
husband to join him in Hell, saying in so many
words: if you join me, Beelzebub, the King of
Demons promised me a high position (the forth
in command). Her love and devotion for him
was unconditional, and she followed him to the
innards of Hell, but while in the waters of Hades,
Hell’s river of sorts, he pushed Otis, the oarsman
over the edge of the vessel and as legend says,
they sailed around the gulf for a thousand-years
(before he was caught, by the demonic forces).

179

The Tor of Avalon

Now you might be saying: what does all this have to
do with the Green Knight? A lot, but first we have to
shift back to the sinking of Atlantis. Ais had a child,
a hybrid (a crossbreed), a giant of a soul, one third
man, two third superhuman. His skin was pale
and the older he got, the greener it became. Agaliarept,
took the matter of the child’s birth quite serious,
he was proud, roughly proud, and at times he became,
boastful, he considered him his son, and in time would
be the leader of the Archkingdom of Atlantis; Bercilak,
escaped the upheavals of 9600 BC, then what took place
was this: the human residue of Atlantis escaped to satellite
countries, the Isles of England, Crete, and inland:
Egypt and Troy; at this time, the Mound known as the Tor
had already existed for some thirty-thousand years,
next to Glastonbury, England, where King Arthur
would be buried (in time this would be his destiny).

The Agreement and the Ten-winged
Dark Seraph

196

Agaliarept, was called back to Hell’s arena,
by the Ten-winged Creature, the Dark Seraph
of Doom, whom was superior in authority to Beelzebub;
Agaliarept was reluctant, and so he asked for a pact,
and it was granted; it was that his son be given life…
to the closing stages of living time—accordingly, he
would return to the Great Walls of Hell, without protest.
It was strife and sadness that overtook him. But sealed
in black blood, it was unforgiving should he break the bound.
(And so it was that he became a ghost and flesh, as one.)

206

Hence, he would join in a long series of wars,
the Green Knight, as he would be know in due time—:
first he fought at Kish, for Gilgamesh; next,
for the city of Nineveh, in the Palace of Sennacherib;
at the great siege of Troy, for Paris, prudently;
with the Greeks, 400 BC, at Athens; and
under the banner of Rome, during the Republic,
even for Pompey, until he lost his way, and life; and
still the Inca Kings of Peru, prior to Atahualpa.

It was the fifth century AD although when his name
would precede him, as flesh and spirit, in the British Isles.
At this time, King Arthur and his renowned Knights
sparked an interest in his life, especially, Syr Gawayne;
like he, Arthur and Gawayne, were marvels in battle.

Interlude

220

(Narrator)

Now my just reader, you must listen closely, and
I will tell it as it was told to me, and it is fixed truth,
linked to scrolls of a scribe and seer, long before Arthur,
for he saw it all in the dark magical waters in his den
(and then, it came to pass, unwritten until now).

▼

225

The Dialogues
The Great Hall of Camelot
The Dark Ages
(AD 400-800)

The Dialogue of Florencia and the Green Knight
1

Twilight-time in the Great Hall of the mediaeval castle; Men-at arms stand idly here and there…

one of them holds up a cup of wine, his name is Gawain, as if to give it to a young lovely lady, her name is Florencia. She is about to walk away, she senses something, a being besides Gawain….!

Gawain: “I beg you, take this wine, it is good. “

Florencia: “‘t is good for sleep, and I am not yet ready!”

Then a green mist starts to show, unwittingly the blade of Gawain slowly comes out of his sheath:

Florencia: “Pardon my unbelief, Great Knight of the Round Table, go pour me a fresh drink, my thirst is great, for England’s dust lingers in my throat….”

GK: “‘T is well. Wine’s a decent craze!” said a voice lingering within the mist.” …to your sweet face, dear lady, and your warm heart I will let Gawain live for to draw a sword, or to nearly do so, is to infer the fight has started, it was wise to have him flee, I would cast him, as the shout of my voice raised into groans.!

Florencia: “Ah, pardon me! Forgive me mighty sire! For are you the Green Knight, the one whom only the bravest have seen, the one and only Coeur de Lion?

GK: “I squander Knights breathe on one who insults me, I give you honesty, go braid your mouth, O slanderers lady!”

Florencia: “And this I swear by all my heart, Behold, a portion of me already belongs to you, long since upon my birth I have wanted the greatest of trees, not the twig! My birthday is today, I am nineteen, and it is not strange at all of me, once bereaved, for my father was the greatest of knights, and I cannot wed a lower…”

Green Knight (with a murmur): “You put it utterly to the point, my fair lady! You are an eagle, and I accept your apology. If that indeed is what it is.”

Florencia: “I sense your blood is as green as your mist my lord, I know none such of your kind—cold as a church-bells of iron in winter, and warm as a hearth’s fire, this is the first feast of winter-time, here at Camlet! My soul now breaths like flowers’ tryst…!”

GK: “A curse is to the one that harms you, be it me, or any soul or demon that would allure you!”

Florencia: “You are admirable, but tell me more, more about the lion and the fable behind you, the champion, has he not seen the wars, is there no peer, can I have consolation in his love, or must I fear. I hear I could never lose him on the battlefield, ere; would it be sire and wife, or husband and wife? I am but a young pine that stands too close to a grand parent tree…is this not ill for each? Have you a gentle heart?

GK: “And suppose I had…for I am filled sick of rootless wandering the world from age to age, I now look upon you. Be gone! Or if you stay, it maybe, that I take you in haste with burning hands, love is here, long waited, so be-gone or if you stay as long as the troubadour sings, when he stops you will be mine.”

(And it was that the king’s minstrels started to sing and play their instruments thereafter.)

226

The Dialogue of Florencia and the Sir Gawain
2
The Great Hall of Camelot
Gawain Returns

Florencia moved by a grand-pillar of the Castle. Gawain, the Favorite Knight of legend and lore, approaches her, walks to her,
face to face, toe to toe, with her cup of wine,
she is the youth of spring flowers;
it is now the last of twilight.

The hue of the mist starts to engulf Florencia, her arms and around her breasts; she almost falls into a sleep, as if mixed in a bottle full of love potions….

Gawain (in a stupor :) “I sorrow for thy lady—such a hue on your face, I have slain others for beguiling blossoms of my heart…who it is in this room you fancy, who stops thy timid heart: forget the darkness that covers twilight, and the silence of our moment, I am your refuge in this peopled hall.

Florencia (in a toxic mood.): “She lives, yes for another man, like a horizon, ready to be gathered, ready to rise, and perhaps perish, but in peace.”

Gawain: “You will have your peace in tomb’s blackness, which gives peace-less-ness to such a foolish flame inside a young woman’s heart, I shall quench the fire, let me know who the mighty gem is, and your secret will remain with me, and I will bring him death.”

227

The Dialogue of Florencia and Sir Gawain
3
The mist rips—a shape develops, slightly, Gawain,
Pulls his sword, Florencia holds her breath
As if to say, ‘What now?

The blade touches the shoulder of the Green Knight
Not quite fully visible yet, His sword
Disincarnates into
Fragments…

Florencia

Gawain: “For all kings have yearned for such a knight that we be spirit and flesh, and abilities hide in one’s own mist—subdue me if you can, host of constrain!”

GK: I have broken your strength, keep from my doom—lest your flesh vanish like fire quenched.”

(A long Silence.)

GK: “Come now Florencia, speedily, night falls over Camelot, like a black star. Thy price thou know’st lady, when the minstrel stops I shall go—speak now or speak nevermore of this. ‘Pain and love rules me of this moment—who dares to pay my price—not flesh, not any; yet if they could they would take my life,—but no knights or king can conquer it. Only you can subdue me, life is either an exploration or naught.”

228

Florencia moves closer into the mist, as he now transforms into a clearer picture of who he is in the flesh. Gawain turns and disappears into the crowd, he realizes he cannot blow out the torch inside Florencia’s heart, and the Green Knight has acted within the code of the Knights, he cannot take death, he is bound to his fate, his lot in life, and there, he does not take advantage of his superiority, as he has allowed Gawain to stand firm with chivalry; but neither will he allow him or anyone to put his love for Florencia in jeopardy.

229

Florencia notices many lords and knights now at the long tables, bright banners are brought up to the tables where the feast is to take place, the music continues to play, meat and vegetables, breads and plates are now put onto the table, soups are being carried out…

230

GK: “In this mysterious light, that reflects throughout the hall, thou art so strangely beautiful, you consume me! Temptation transcends me, as if I am put into a new world. Do not be surprised—loveliness, forsake this world, and come into mine—deny, abjure this life; for we shall see disastrous days but perish I shall not, and therefore, you do not have to worry: I am the price, and be it what it may.”

Florencia: “All men of flesh are mad, alas! What road is left for a woman of flesh, a pearl today I may be, but when I am old, then what?”

GK: “We shall dim the winter lamp, when the time comes.”

Florencia: “How then shall I win thy kiss…?”

GK: “Thou soon shall see me fully in flesh, for you will see my age shall mock thy youth. Bring then your lips—like gems to mine.”

231

Florencia: “Thou does amuse me, my lord!” then looking upon his countenance, her eyes continued to talk: “You are wiser than most men I have known…wiser than those who have questioned you I would guess, and you have cheated years for days. And you see my eyes gleam for thee, lit with the light of some mysterious love.”

GK: “For what the god’s desire, I have thrown away, until now. And the gods are but the power fools, who wish to be looked upon as gods. You will be my citadel, I will be your storm, and duty, love and reason will guide us.”

232

The Green Knight Philosophizes

GK: “Perhaps the brave dead are braver than the brave living…for I have seen traitors spawn (what need be) for treasures, sacred or not, out of self-interest. I have fought and found the battles I fight for others are all in vain. In a moment’s time the music will stop, and you will touch my fleshly lips with your gems, burn for me in this last moment! I promise once in my arms, thou shall receive the joy of ten-thousand years, and all the love I have saved.”

233

(The music stops. And in the Green Knight’s mind, he whispers ‘Betray me now, or go forward. Nay, I shall not try to win thee twice.’
Gawain is in the distance, by the tables of food, staring over at Florencia, he is unsure of her fate. He keeps touching his sword, as if he is trying to talk himself into something.)

Continuation of: The Epic in Poetic Form
Guinevere’s Arrival

234

Yester eve had arrived, merriment was at hand,
Queen Guinevere showed her presence at the party
of King Arthur’s niece; there was a lovelier lady than she,
and she notice her, Florencia, and the uninvited
guest, the Green Knight was standing near a pillar,
now clear as day, they had kissed, it pleased the
Green Knight to become visible; ere, this lovely lady
walked slowly towards the doors, her hand in his.

The king looked at them both, she was of royalty,
and her ancestors were like King Arthur’s, Roman
decent. She was the daughter of Loth, the niece
of King Arthur.

246

They walked, sensing the eyes of Gawain following
them: as well as Guinevere’s eyes, and the King’s;
Bishop Baldwin was present and fifty trumpets sounded,
and the king sat down at the head of the table,
and Gawain left, disappeared into the darkness.

It was the noblest of feasts—yet Florencia
would not turn back to join the Knights, and King, she
was centered on the Green Knight, followed him proudly
to the high arched doors of the castle.

(In the background there was much beer and large
amounts of food, but she would not eat, nor drink
with her kind, her stomach was in a romantic frenzy,
her skin like goose skin, her heart pumping wildly.)

Florencia’s Youth

259

(Narrator :) Now of this feast I will say little to nothing more—for I am sure this is not to your liking, such details can be boring. But noise came, a voice,
then Florencia drew near to it, and she could hear his heart breathing,
she could actually hear it over the music, the drums and pipes
within the Great Hall. She could not leave him, in consequence
she allowed all to pass her (this youthful
beauty of nineteen).
All the garments of the Green Knight were Green, a fine robe of green,
that covered his shoulders; he, himself was finely trimmed,
handsome, and with thick locks of hair. His horse
was green, a stallion.
As many looked on towards these two figures, they knew
who this noble knight was, his reputation
preceded him. Gladness filled
the eyes of Florencia as
grief filled the king’s.

260

Guinevere’s Monologue

Brave and bold he stood, the Green Knight, as young knights came to and fro, unsure of what to do, the Green Knight was completely visible in the flesh. All could see him escorting Florencia towards the doors. Sir Gawain moved slowly and Guinevere was most happy, said:
“The Green Knight is the finest soldier of us all, adored by many, throughout the ages, if indeed Florencia wishes to leave with him—unless there be some good reason: lords, ladies, and knights, do not interfere.”
And the soldiers let him pass without a movement; the king was not as happy, nor as courteous as Guinevere was, but did not contradict his wife.
So by the look of the king, and voice of the Queen, did all abide, and stood not in their way.
“Go your way in bliss, abode together and whatever life you find, may you enjoy it,” said Guinevere, and then sat down at the long table. But Gawain was not pleased.

261

The Dialogues

Outside the Halls of Camelot
The Dialogue of Florencia, Gawain, and the Green Knight
4
The Sorrows

Gawain: “Thou shall come with me to the feast, for what remains of the night!”

(There is no music, and both the Green Knight and Florencia stand outside by the castle door now, and below them, the many steps, that lead into the front courtyard. Gawain has met them there.)

GK: “Trouble thee not thy heart Florencia! Come closer to me; cast thy arms around me, for I love thee.”

Gawain: “Surely you have said that to many—blind you are Florencia, sweet flow’rs of youth, do not give them to a ghost, he has sorcery to bind your heart!”

262

(Then Gawain pulls out his sword and with a downward thrust, slices open the Green Knight like a watermelon, it is deep, the sword descends through him like butter, and through his back, and into the mid section of Florencia, and into her internal organs. She will bleed to death soon, and she knows it. The Ghost of the Green Knight seals his wound, within seconds, as if it were a scratch, and as fast as a whirlwind, he pulls his sword, towers over Gawain, and is ready to slice through him from head to toe, at which time, the dying Florencia speaks):

“And on your tongue rests revenge and death, my love, slay not Gawain, no, it is not for him to die, and for you to hate and horror be place in your heart, let me die in your arms at peace, and spare my once protector…”(and so it was!)

263

The Grieving of Gawain

Gawain lifts his body up to a straight posture out of a fighting stance—the Green Knight now kneels beside his Florencia, taking a last and final kiss, then she falls backwards in death.

Gawain: “I have slain my king’s niece, and soon will cast myself against my own sword—for I have cheated her out of life, and the world of her beauty, I will stand soon before the sightless dead.”

(The Green Knight’s body was warm, and so still was hers, and as she lay into his arms, the mist around him opened up her pours, and it seeped into her…)

GK: “O fool thou have gained nothing from this, and from two kisses I have gained much. Thy sword shall not obtain thee peace by death. I shall return in a year, gather thy strength, for thou shall need it all! I will have a proposition for thee!”

(The Green knight Whispers: ‘No matter what, today has made beautiful my past, and I shall remember it until my last hour!’)

The Green Knight vanished among the great castle’s towers, while Gawain carries Florencia into the Great Hall of Camelot, and one can hear the echoes of a Great Knight’s moaning…!

▼

The Epic in Poetic Form

The Green Knight’s Dismay
The Moment of Death

Part one of two

A Pang of Horrors

264

What can I tell you of the moment Florencia Died?
Perhaps this—, there was a pang of horrors for both
Gawain and the Green Knight…:

267

Gawain at a second glance noticed the Green Knight’s
distorted features—he had seen such before, in the eyes
of men, men being squeezed to death by monster vipers,
and dragons: the Green Knight’s mouth gaped. His eyes
stared hideously inside of him, though he couldn’t see,
he had died of horror—at the thought his beloved Florencia,
would never breath or see light again…. Silence and solitude
lingered within.

275

The moonlight’s gray dust, had covered Camelot, it halted,
froze; the door to the castle stood empty…

277

The Green Knight felt numb, for his soul had froze—
hardened like a stone, yet it left a shadow of Florencia.
Gawain, oh yes, Gawain, shaken, not a sound broken
from his lips, nor fear. His forehead sweating, frowning!
Then came a frantic scream, without conscious thought,
whirling in his head, earth rushed up to him, black,
black oblivion surrounded him, then…

Part Two of Two

The Final Destroyer

284

The Green Knight’s eyes closed, trying to get oriented
(a sensation of returning consciousness) and a glimpse
at the moon. “Florencia,” he said, the sight of her laying
in his arms: frail, and departed, he drew her closer, “no, I
didn’t kill you,” he pointed at Gawain—with red eyes
of flames. “I would have lowered the morning sky for
you,” he murmured, and claimed, with a deep roar.
Inside his heart “Fire,” he moaned, “…is the final destroyer.”

292

(He was really saying: ‘My heart is on fire, destroyed!”)

Rigor Mortis and the King’s Physician

Parts one and two

Rigor Mortis

294

Rigor Mortis was already setting in, whence he
put his hand over her left breast, and felt her heart
still pumping. Even her flesh was already cold; thus
her heart hammered steadily, (Gawain, was now
carrying her into the main hall of Camelot,
though she was dead). No blood was carried through
her veins, yet her heart beat: like the Green Knight’s,
a pulse of flesh and spirit—; the king whispered, with
cold sweat on his brow: “This is too monstrous to ignore.”

303

The moon outside was covered with gray clouds,
only still stars to give light. Blood dripped on the
marble hard floors, of the hall (outside the owl
hooted,). Gawain slipped, dropped Florencia on
the floor, her body brittle, her heart like iron.
Perhaps she was close to immortality, or at
least, the nearest a human body could obtain.
Her soul had soared together with the Green Knight’s!

The King’s Physician

311

What now could be done? Silently the King’s
Physician stepped up to Florencia, told Gawain
to step away ((and the King gave the order)( for
he was deep in shame, and bewilderment)).
Thus, he pulled away from her fathomless eyes,
as the physician—without a word—sliced open
the chest of Florencia (smoothly) pulling out
her heart, the crimson jewel of Camelot.
The heart now swelled and split open in response,
yet it throbbed mightily, in the process.

321

(And that was the last ever seen of Florencia,
her heart and the physician; but the Green Knight
would return in one year to put Gawain to a test….)

324

Afterward or Introductory Poem

The Slaying in the Night
(Sir Gawain and the Green Knight)

The Green Knight came back from war
His armor low, his spoil high:
Trunks of silk and weeping wives,
Gold and wine and precious oils.

There was one that did not weep
But laughed in the Knight’s face,
And between the Lady and the Knight
He stood in a warrior’s stance.

Her Hair, a golden-yellow light
In which two knights sank;
Her frame was contoured just right,
At which all women dreamed.

Her lips were crimson red; her eyes
Likened to the sea, bluish-green
She wore a see-through gown,
One that all could dream…!

And at the feast and by her course
No man—save, Sir Gawain dared
And from the distance, men-in-arms
Stood their ground, and starred.
Florencia made a hard stand;
And all knew of her charms,
She held her knight, rigid tight,
The Green Knight in her loving arms.

Soon to counsel the bitter stood,
Florencia and knight to knight;
Who bade Florencia to follow him?
Gawain’s valor rang!

With long faced anger, Gawain stood,
Then with sword in hand he struck
(Face to face, in a warrior’s stance):
The Green Knight, through and through!

There was lost hope in this dismay,
With slash and steel and words,
For his sword, like lard melted through
And killed Florencia as well…

363

Note: here is the poetic version of the long version, which has 53-stanzas, and tells the story in full, of Florencia, Gawain, and the Green Knight’s romance, as told in “Sir Gawain, and the Ghost of the Green Knight.” This shorter poetic version called, “Conte de Green Knight” was written on the Platform, in Huancayo, Peru, 7-9-2007, No: 1901

Conte de Green Knight (A short marvelous tale…†)

2009-06-21T07:09:00.000-07:00

The Out Father ((A poem with Commentary)(for kids without fathers))

2009-04-20T10:17:00.000-07:00

The Out Father

The absent father I thought I needed
the one I swore I did—
thick with tears,
somewhere along the old dirt road
I lost him—
with kind, kind wings
I found the Lord,
he walked that same old dirt road
alone
I saw him
and heart to heart
we talked, as we walked
(and I found my way around him).

And by the lower stars in heaven
and by his kindly heart he sent
an angel called Sorr’el
to guide me,
with holy psalmodies,
and holy sentiments…

Perhaps his arms I used as pillows
for sweetly I’d sleep so sound
“Come here to me,” the Lord would whisper
“I’ll never let you down.”

Oh I thought my father would do me right
but now I know it’s not so,
but I bless him for giving me life,
and I suppose that will have to do!

Had he come back that aye be his,
and I’d still be all alone, I’d guess
fear is not so sweet,
it can be
a hypocrite.

And so my thanks—now old and gray,
comes to lie, bosom and all,
to heaven’s royal hosts,
encamped upon the clouds.

Note: What we think we need what we need, is not necessarily good for us all the time; if one thing is taken away, perhaps we can find a replacement, substitute, a good roll model (I found several); one needs simple to have faith, to be ready to hold onto his or her heart, fortify it with a chaste beat, then with it comes, in its armory of light, take use of it, it is for you, you’ll find it yields to you. Remember, hell has darts: they make you hold onto things not meant to be.

Poem: 2597 4-20-2009 (you know who this is dedicated to)

Two Poems on the Amazon, and a Philosophy

2009-04-15T21:20:00.000-07:00

The Giant Toad
(…of the Amazon)

One night after dinner my wife and I heard the wings of birds fighting in the dark: and with a few lit gas lamps along the wooden walkway of our campsite, we still couldn’t see a thing, though, only the walkway. Past our hut flowed the steady beating of the wings.

The Amazon is never settled down, gloomy at night it can be, the sounds dominate, takes the edge off a man, or puts them on—, possibly defeat might be the thing it seeks.

A huge brown toad stood in the outhouse (that evening), looking at me, like a rhino, just staring (‘…what a time to rush me,’ I thought). “Now its toads…” I said to myself “What next?”

#1221 12/16/06

Little Kingdoms
of the Amazon

In the Amazon
there are kingdoms
breathing, eating
roaming about
in perfect harmony
(insects and birds,
monkeys and wildcats
and macho black ants!)
that is why the
Amazon
is never quiet
it’s those foot-steps,
moving all night
and all day—long!

#1225 2/20/06 I had spent a week in the Peruvian Amazon, deep into its interior, it is never silent, and at night, it seems even more so, as if the whole environment is restless.

Philosophy of the Amazon

All will vanish in time. And so we build statues, monuments to be remembered by, but these too will disappear as the stars will but nothing stops us from building a little world beyond the grave, thinking ‘I will return on the ramparts of the city of the gods.’ Somewhere along the line, we learn three things: deep in man’s genes, is the primeval monster, the Tiamat. We learn, whatever we do, it is only important in this immediate effect. We learn, all will vanish, and if we do not discover these things in the little time we have, we still die. In the Amazon, it is better to learn how to swim, to hunt, and to be watchful, everything else I just said is gobbledygook, to the natives there. Dlsiluk (4-2009)

Thumbs, Crumbs, Life, and the Beyond! ((A philosphy)(part one of two))

2009-04-15T18:50:00.000-07:00

Thumbs, Crumbs, Life, and the Beyond!
((A philosophy) (part one of two))

We learn by what we lack, it is a simple statement, and not oversimplified by no means just cut your two thumbs off and try to eat! If you don’t thank God for your thumbs now, you will then. We learn by what we lack, a good thing to remember. We must admit, God’s handiwork is something to take note of. In most cases once it is done, it can never be undone.
On another similar note, you don’t know what hunger is, not until all you have to eat is someone else’s crumbs, and if they are taken away one would tear out his beard, I’m sure if he had one.
When I was on my twenty-year drunk, I could not smell the sweet smells of the flowers; feel the coolness of the evenings. Appreciate the light from the moon, the rambling stars. If we do not discover these things in the little time we have, we die, and then who will be your witness? Let’s hope one does not have to regret, what then?
All will vanish in time. This often times brings a person to the point of not wanting to be alone. And so we build statues, monuments to be remembered by, but these too will disappear as all mankind will one day; as the stars will, all lost to forgetfulness.
So true is the old way of thinking: man comes upon earth, and he rules a little space, like a god. But time is his master, and death has no remedy. Death, my death, the fear of it, at one point urged, or edged, me to action; and the beyond, the hereafter. If not in reality in the imagination, we all want to carry on. So we push upon the generations we live, like Hemingway, and Faulkner, and the great generals, and kings and presidents, and painters (Picasso, Dali, etc.,) musicians, building a little world for them beyond the grave, thinking they will return on the ramparts of the city of the gods.
Deep in man’s genes, is the primeval monster, the Tiamat.
Habits, build on top of ones character, they actually build character, and somehow man came to the decision we all arrived here by chance. If I ask you for reason of why you think, or reason as you do this or that, you will tell me I’m unreasonable. But if you are right, we often, more often than not, act spontaneous; thus, chance has a big job to do.
We know if the sun or a star was to kiss our lovely earth, we’d burn up. It is like the lust of a man, is it not.
And so I gain all this wisdom, and I die. Now my neighbor, he has gained none, he’s lazy bum, and he dies. Now the ignorant is equal to the wise, where is the catch? It is only important in its immediate effect.
We want to cover the world with democracy; this is the new world trend. Has been only for a short time, compared to time past; hoping to produce pleasant waters for the careless; deep-driven we are to do so. Unfortunately, we have not learned how to swim back to reality; we are a hive of wild bees.

I know, we all have fine phrases, but we never live by them, and we also have immaterial ideas. We no longer live by them either. The Golden Age of Man has long past, we are now in the “Trying Age” and keep trying we do, and do and do, and try to outdo.

The Cornfields (a Pome)

2009-03-25T23:18:00.000-07:00

The Cornfields

Only when the sun above
Melts the scattered winter’s snow
Only shall I live content
In the dim-eyed world below…
In the cornfields
With the summer’s glow
Here, oh yes,
Like melted drops of snow, I
Swell, and swell, then
Melt into the cornfields,
Into one…!

3-26-2009 (No 2583)
Written for the book “The Resisting Winter.”

The Lone Pillars (New World Depression: pome)

2009-03-25T18:10:00.000-07:00

The Lone Pillars
(New World Depression)

We were once a temple complete
Beyond the meadows, on top of a hill
Now just lone pillars standing still,
No mind to mind, amongst our fellow men
Everyone’s taking, whatever they can;
Most taking what doesn’t belong to them!
Especially Bankers and Politicians…
In America, England, Europe, China
(across Asia, and the world as a whole)
All over the place, no blood in their face;
And you and I, just looking in, wondering
What happened, what took place?
We’re just lone pillars, displaced?
Waiting for a handout from the rich
As they hold onto everything, as if
They were God’s given gifts.
And I’m just a poet, heart to heart
With the people, wondering why
The temple we once built complete
(so long ago, out of marble and grief)
Has fallen to its feet, as if from the sky?
Too much self-interest, by and by…!
And some executives swear to hang onto it
With life and limb; and others swear:
Try it! It is not the Golden Fleece, nor
The content that will bring you peace:
It is something that was once complete,
Now lost and sadly, beyond anyone’s reach.

Note: 3-25-2009 (No: 2581) Commentary: we are heading into a world crisis, of which economics is just part of it. The world powers are gearing up: Russia, the USA, China, North Korea, Iran, Israel, and all getting ready for the big battle, the showdown and guess who is coming to dinner? The Antichrist! And for those nonbelievers, the world is simple collapsing under its own greed. Pillars of greed, it is coming to the point, why simply should the rich be greedy, we’ll all be greedy, and the rich don’t like that. They want the poor to have Godly values, without God, so they can be the only greedy ones. But we are at a new state in the human race, it is called Darwin’s Dilemma, “Monkey see, monkey do!” The plan is old, the style, new. We are already on borrowed time, everyone knows it, feels it that is why they want to get the most out of everything they can while they can (don’t you?). The world is getting greedier by the hour. Have a happy greedy day.

Woman (a poem)

2009-03-24T10:18:00.000-07:00

Woman
By Shannon O’Day

She’s the spider not the fly—
She has the cat’s eye, not I—
She’s like a serpent in the night,
Beware, beware of her plight!
She’s the Snyder not the fly
something, something…
(Not I)!

No: 2580 (3-24-2009)
Shannon O'Day is a character in the poet's book "The Resistng Winter" a Parody of sorts(45-pages) due out sometime in 2009 or thereafter.

Garage on Fire (a New poem by D.L. Siluk)

2009-03-11T23:33:00.000-07:00

Garage on Fire

In the Garage, fire and smoke
Fire and smoke, smoke, smoke!
Flames that choke like spikes
Breathing out air sharp as knives
Rusty, rusty edges; lying still
It swept me unconscious, swept
And swept and swept
As I slept, and slept and slept
The smoke, slacken slowly
Under my bedroom door
Around my bed, my mouth shut
It slid over me, slid and slid
Like a snake unfed, a snake
A crushing, tightening snake;
The smoke chokes me with its splinters
Shaped like gloves, shook
And pulled and screeched,
Specimens of death holding on tight,
To clamp around my feet, like steel,
To crush and be crushed, with toxic air
Like pulp, like rusty spikes
Slowly eating my throat square,
Tightly hard, clamped shut
And Rosa heard mother’s voice
“Awake, awake, awake, smoke
Awake, awake, it’s silent…!”
And Rosa woke me, curiosity
Provoked, sort of…
And we knocked the stuffing
Out of the fire, in the garage,
And Mike and Zaneta’s
Diabolical intentions sunk
To the bottom of that winter’s morn!
As they left their foot steps
In the white soft slipper snow
Now so many years ago!

No: 2573 (3-12-2009)

Polirritmo Poetry (Life in Motion)

2009-03-11T12:02:00.000-07:00

Polirritmo Poetry
(Life in motion)

By Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk Ed.D.

First of all, the founder of Polirritmo poetry, or life in motion poetry, was Juan Parra del Riego. In a time of modernism, he took a step out of the box you might say, and Cesar Vallejo, who knew Juan Parra, criticized him for it, in that he felt his poetry had lost something. And perhaps he did, but he preferred to write about culture and life as he saw it moving. We see this in his motor cycle poem called, “Dynamic Polirritmo of the Motorcycle”; also, in parts of “Canto to the Carnival,” and so on.
He was born in Peru, in Huancayo, and moved to Uruguay. Some folks have disputed if he be a Uruguay Poet, or Peruvian Poet. If you were to go to Lima or Huancayo, and look for a book written by Juan Parra, in the bookstores, you’d not find one today, yet the Peruvian people prefer to own him, it is a shame they boast of him, yet do not honor him in their schools, and bookstores, and the best I can say on this is, he loved Peru, more than Peru loved him; sad to say, but true, because he wrote a lot about Peru.
While in Paris he met with the new movement called, “Vanguardia,” this would be his choice and circle of friends. Cesar Vallejo would make fun of his poetry, as I mentioned before, saying it lacked, but we must remember Vallejo, was a dark deep moody writer, and not particularly interested in culture, or motion, and he was his rival, they were friends, and while Juan Parra was searching for life and motion, Vallejo was digging deep into the abyss to find his soul.
What Cesar Vallejo didn’t understand, is what many readers of William Faulkner did not understand at first. Faulkner didn’t use periods often, and run sentences into the others that seemed like they didn’t belong there, but his reasoning I do believe was he wanted the reader not to stop reading, or slow down, so he took the periods out, and when he made a new paragraph, he wanted the reader to slide into it, so off came the commas and periods and semicolons. In a like manner, Juan Parra I do believe, cutout the stanza in his motion poetry (for the most part), so the reader could build up the momentum he wanted them to… also his rhyme schema is closer nit than Vallejo’s for that same very reason, in Polirritmo.

The Walrus Poem

2009-03-10T10:43:00.000-07:00

The Walrus Poem

The Walrus said, to the King:
“In your world, I’ve learned many things!”
Of War, hunger, disease and gout
Of self-interest, and above!
Of, madness and of hate
But most of all, man’s fate
(Having no part excluded)
That people are just things!”

The King said back to the Walrus:
“You surely have learned many things:
To include, the order of the world,
And its inconveniences!
What did you expect?
From man’s audacious appetite…?”

Said the walrus to the king,
“Love thy neighbor, not the things!
Do not kill out of self-interest,
Buried vivacious prejudices!
To have one God and not so many;
To be faithful to your wife,
And not have such foolish flings,
Amongst many other things…!”

Hissed the King to the Walrus,
In a most robustious voice,
“Go back to your awkward world, you came,
Dash-down, to those far-off ice-grown caves:
The ones you’ve lingered from,
In that incorruptible land,
You indigenous thing,
Evidently, I am the corruptible king!”
But I like things the way they be!

So he said, shrieking…
His manner still courtly, no merciful eye,
And the Walrus, he skedaddled, like a jack-rabbit,
(like an ardent revolutionist) back to his far-off land
And became king, of the Walrus’ …
He had a plan!
(For he had learned many things!)

Note: We may not know it, but we influence people, we change them, that is why the world is, like it is, like it or not. You get what you plant. Then we complain and say, “I can’t figure it out, what happened?” In most cases it is simple, just backtrack a few days, weeks or years, perhaps decades, the story is there, pain as the nose on your face.

No: 2572 (3-9-2009) Dedicated to Rosa the Queen

"Eerie eyes" (Nora May French, Poet; with poem and commentary)

2009-02-22T21:44:00.000-08:00

“Eerie eyes”
(Nora May French)

In 1906, Nora May French, being drawn into an impassioned romance she moved from Los Angels, to San Francisco shortly after the 1906 earthquake. She played cards with Jack London, was friends with George Sterling, hung out in Oakland and became a known poet of some renowned in her day.
Her heart turned over like the steering wheel of a race car in placing her imagery inside her poetry, and, for the first time in her life, her casual whim gave a new direction to her life, in poetry and writing per se, all taking place in San Francisco for the most part.
It began like that, and continued with varying shades of intensity. She, like George Sterling, carried with her, around her neck, a cyanide capsule, both knowing, like many within their group, it may come in handy someday: actually they both were expected to use it someday, call it a pack or agreement, they both had between themselves. Nora in 1907, at Midnight on November 13, took the capsule, and Sterling, in 1926, after he published the poem, “Strange Waters,” did the same.
Nora would die as a guest in Carmel, living with George and his wife Carrie. She had surrendered a part of herself to this dismay, to her unprincipled personality, in which she had, and with those she had come in contact.
IN her poetry, she went after it with the full pressure of her eerie eyes, and premeditation of effects, she simply made men and whomever read her poetry conscious to the highest degree of her exquisite excitability within it, making them compelled to reread her poems, in a different light.
She, like many true poets, started writing in her teens, with deep and spontaneous writer habits, sharpened by her realization that there was to be a future engagement for her; perhaps born in the wrong time zone, in the wrong place, New York City, she couldn’t find what she was looking for.
One of her most delightful poems to me is “The Gardens of Dolores,” she has that George Sterling imagery in it, but it is her’s because she also has that Jeffers theme and plot, and spiritual insight: in essence, it has a road, where Sterling’s poetry doesn’t necessarily have a direction other than, to hang images on a Christmas tree, so it looked pretty, and more often than not, it lights up.
In her poem, “Growth,” she says “The plant must grow…” and repeats it, three times, and what if it doesn’t grow, it is what she doesn’t say, as in those eerie eyes, one must look to find the answers if indeed one cares to.

And here is my poem to her:

The Gardens of Nora May French

She was a poetess beyond her time,
one who sought love, and loved
all she saw and sought, waited for
love, and without it, without the
measure she needed to have to survive,
she simply took cyanide and died.

No: 2568 2-23-2009

The Door to Tuol Sleng Prison (a poem)

2009-02-19T22:46:00.000-08:00

The Door to Tuol Sleng Prison

How many have walked through those steel doors
How many have walked on those wooden floors
Shackled like a butchered boar
How many, how many more:
Where put into those stifling, stone cells scared
How many, how many more:
Tasted brutality, worse than hell or war
Died on the brick of hunger,
Died slowly on the brick of psychosis
In Tuol Sleng Prison (Cambodia) forgotten!
How many, how many more:
Died with crushed bones, and skulls
How many grass eaters, vomited their guts
In Tuol Sleng Prison (Cambodia) forgotten!
How many died by the Khmer Rouge regime
How many died by Pol Pot and Kaing Guek Eav

1-17- 2009/ No: 2567 Dedicated to the Survivors

The Song of Vietnam (a poem reflecting on the ten-year war)

2009-01-21T15:44:00.000-08:00

The Song of Vietnam
(a poem reflecting on the ten-year war)

For ten years together, the Presidents of the United States,
the Lords and Kings of other countries tried to subjugate
the lands of Vietnam.
From the inner southern jungles to the sea-coast they had
conquered most all the land; although,
the north was there before them, left to sand.
Yet, there was no town nor village uncrushed by this plight,
save only Hanoi that stood on the north’s side.
And at the war’s end, even they, the American’s bombed
that city, in which no beauty was found
no love for democracy, or the Christian God; they worshiped
Buddha and Confucian traditions.
Nor could they shun the evil fortune that beleaguered them
thereafter.

II. The Armies were gathered more than five-hundred thousand
men: not counting the enemies (this was the forth occupation,
one with Japan, China and the French, now America).
“Here now has come the President of America,” cried the Vietcong,
“to our land to overthrow us!”
They had no equal in weaponry to meet the Eagle with its might,
nor enough henchmen to beat them in any fight.
But a wise man gave them counsel, saying “Wait…
time is not a virtue to the enemy, it brings to them, a slow death
among their kind, and shame.”
All listened, save the Americans and they came, and came and came

III. Among the wisest this man was known to be, called,
Hoe Ch Minh (revolutionist, statesmen)
And a good vassal, he seemed to be, a man of humble beginnings.
Shrewd he was, and skilful, politically cunning,
And he spoke unto the king of France, on a treaty.
(But to be dismayed soon thereafter.)
“But send us Chiang Kai-shek,” cried, but Chiang Kai-shek
traded Chinese influence in Vietnam for French concessions
in Shanghai, from the arrogant and strong,
and so for the man who once was a cook, and chef,
with promise and faithfulness, service and friendship, he
leaped forward and long, and his dogs fought the lions,
five-hundred thousand of them, like hawks they came well
equipped.
They came with the dollars, and the grit, muscle bombs,
hundreds and hundreds of them, they came like hawks.
And more dollars wherewith to pay the soldiers.
Of his people, three-million would die, perish, by bullets,
mines, Agent Orange and bombs, and much more
They couldn’t die straightway, but they didn’t die like
beggars in their own land, but with honor and dignity.

1-21-2009 (No: 2555)

Meadows of the Charioteer (in poetic prose)

2009-01-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

Meadows of the Charioteer

In Poetic Prose

((A day near heaven, and a midnight stir, from laden-brows) (part one))

I knew them also—some. I had seen them, in my other life. I was now like a wheel, like the spoke in a wheel itself, in its hub, in this vast place that doesn’t even show on any earth map, that not ten-people out of all the earth know its name, if that many, if it has any name at all, for I heard spoken out loud, in all directions a name called ‘The Meadows of the Charioteer,’ and here no one touched, never a one, not a big nor a smell touch, never a one too light or too hard, it is a place that men and women, live in—as I felt I was about to—and here I am starting to think of a lot of little things—quiet enough to do so—although not so quiet are the things I’m thinking of, things I once loved, places I once lived, names of people, and people before them, deeds done and not done, that made the quiet and loudness in my life, names of men and women who did the deeds, thinks and names and people I want to forget. How they and I lived, how we lasted and endured, fought the battles of life, and the ones they and I lost, and the ones they and I fought again, because a voice said, “You haven’t lost yet.” The heights they and I climbed to; the deserts that soiled us, and the shapes we turned into.

I knew many of them, the men and women standing about, that couldn’t touch or be touched, old, some young, some twice my age, and I’m seventy. And they, like me, thought these things, as we waited for the Charioteer, in the meadows, we thought these things in our minds. Then, as I looked down upon earth, it looked so dangerous and still, I looked at the storms coming from the North and South and East and West—in the mist—we all could see the four horsemen of apocalypse—riding faster and faster.

But stone-still we stood, waited to hear the name of the Charioteer, to see which way he’d come from, and I thought, and I could sense the others thought: what did we die for, or become just before we died, louder than any hunger it echoed in my head, it seemed to cover the whole meadow, and then, only then, did we all see the Charioteer, afar. (How long they waited I don’t know, how long I was to wait, I wasn’t sure, some had been there long, I sensed that; and I’m sure, some didn’t want to leave.)

And he rode fast and hard, and I listened to the hoof-beets of the horses as he came closer and closer, and we all waited until after dark, and we stood outside in the meadows, and we could hear his horse breathing, and to some it made them deaf to the voice of the Charioteer, and to some they could hear him plain. And that night I started to say…but he said, “Hush!” as I was thinking. And so we stood there, it was getting cold, and I was listening to him talk—but in-between, thinking, and he said “Hush!” And he said some things I understood, others I didn’t, and still some, I couldn’t make heads or tails out. And then he said, “That would be all for awhile.”

Across the meadows he rode, and I cried, “I want to go home!” And he stopped, turned about, said, “What’s the matter with you? I called your name and you didn’t jump on.” I said, “I didn’t understand.” Next he said, “When are you going to start?” and I ran, this time I heard him loud and clear, and I wasn’t thinking or looking back at anything, nothing at all—just straight ahead.

(The Charioteer, Near the Gates)

And he, the Charioteer, rode hard and fast, and all the old snapshots in my head hurriedly faded, as his team of horses swaggered a little, and he had—I noticed, a gold-and-leather military harness, and I said, “What about those left behind,” and he looked at me, said, “They are dead.” When I had left they looked lost, baffled, but not dead. I noticed his hardness commanded respect, so I said very little, trying to get used to the ride. He looked at me, said “They are all thick-sinned, men and women with scrawled transparent unbootable hearts; they lived and now are dead.” And as we rode on, he gave me a series of brief glares, instantaneous and without intensity or a point of view in particular, perhaps trying to see if I understood I suppose the depth of what was happening, as I stood on his chariot, then after a while, he told me, “The object of general interest in their hearts is different than yours, I know what heaven can bear and become if I ride them up to the gates, I cannot let in darkness.”

And so I understood, and for some reason, the closer I got to the gates, the less tears that were going to be tears, because of the lost ones, faded, and I was elated, and I could smell a fragrance that was so pleasant and majestic, and unique, it made my senses and my pours heavy and sweet. It was poetic stimulating and rich at the same time, and I saw angels, and the Charioteer said, with a smile, “Yes, this is the place.”

Note: Part one written: 1-12-2009 ((Poetic Prose: No: 2549) (Part two, ‘The Charioteer, near the gates’ written 1-13-2009))

The Days - A Poetic Tribute to Juan Parra Del Reigo (In English and Spanish)

2009-01-11T08:05:00.001-08:00

English Version

The Days
By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D (Poet Laureate)
(Tribute to Juan Parra Riego)

I

All year, knowing you’re dead,
I’ve sat in two hard-pillowed chairs,
Looking out the windows, being sad
With human melancholy, trying to restart
Those days in which you lived your poetry—
(in translating, editing, and selecting your best),
Days when your youth like mine, felt the sun
Carried ambition, from earth to sky,
Ominous days, with inspiration to share;
I live them now, but feel yours in death.

II

Today, is like any day, I suppose
As you once knew, expected death,
As I do now. The sky is overcast,
(I hear the shuddering rain, the splash
As cars driving by, with purring engines)—
And in the rush, like a river off-course,
This is the moment when the air
Being most full of life and images,
Appears lifeless, no motion, now:
Land, river and sky, we merge, the
Splash is gone. And so is my sadness.
Everything is drowned out of me, but you
(so I can write this poetic tribute).
My memories emerge (with them), I’ve found
The days you lived, the key to your poetry;
The secret closet you hid as a poet.

III

I think of all you did, when you lived
(That is, all you wrote, and might have wrote
And done before death undid you…despair)
There was much promise in your youthful
Years--your wild reserve, the color of autumn leaves
In your Face, inspiring the wind, and woods
And the bare silence in the hummingbirds.

None had such promise then, not even
Cesar Vallejo, or Borges, not even Yeats,
Or Keats, GeorgeTrakl, or Pablo Neruda.
Your rhythm and rhyme, scapegrace charm,
Pattern and structure of sound, verse and meter,
Accentual-syllabic line, all gave motion
As if glazed in rain, falling hard to soft…with
Disarming grace, yes, oh yes, you were bold,
As Homer, building a wooden horse
To Deceive and then destroy Troy!
In the Age of Symbolism and Modernism.

It was, was it not, in your luckless blood?
That failure came only because all passion
Was taken away in mid-course? By Death!
You shrank to nothingness, but still you
Wrote your poetry, an hour before your death!
You lived beyond the gloomy boredom of regret.
You did not deject any love, the beat of your heart,
Was for Blanca Luz Brum, no cold fortune…
Your slow death, shaped your stare upon life
There was blood within that sightless stare,
But it made you one, made you look and wrote
Your poetry in stone, at the end, alone…

IV

Your poetry has outlived you, and that sightless stare.
Your poetry Parra, has outlive that boat you rowed—
So long ago, in Montevideo and it will
Out live the painting that hung in your room
Where you sat by a table— the ultimate last hours
Before your death (with Blanca Luz and an amigo)…

I see the grief upon her youthful face, drunk
With loss, seeking some oblivious place, to hide in
Desolation, despondency, mouth open as if in horror,
Eyes staring, for the haunted hour is near, harrowing
Face, full of disgrace…for being helpless!
She holds hard onto her chair, legs half crossed,
Breathing slowly, she knows soon, what she must endure.

V

Blanca and Juan’s amigo, stood by him the hour
Of his humiliation, yet he did not turn upon them
In the last hours of the night—they in a sad self-
Loathing, Juan, concealing nothing,
He heard Blanca cry, “I am lost. But you are worse!”
Perhaps the dying do not own to their dominance.
But this night, the lights were lowered,
It was the later hour,
And then the lights went out,

then the dissipation of the night passed…

Everybody worn-out, utter destitution
And the two now knew, the world deprived!

VI

Knowing, and having heard, read the bare fact
Of your death, the word lingers in my head--
Death in that haunting room,
Shut tight, from sky and cloud,
Only silent thoughts, cast from
Moment to moment, to illume later on
With those loved ones by your side
...

The hours you and I have now known,
Even though you’ve been dead over eighty-years,
Neither denounces my poem, tribute for you,
Nor pardons, my words, if they offend…
Like you, I have seen the moon’s light, glide
Upon, and over the sea’s tide, and the waves
Lost on the sandy shore, as they recede never
To succumb to them even when the dark has come;
I hope I am strong as you (when my death comes),
Although I cannot promise what I cannot give…

and now to your Surpassed fame, O’dark!
you have turned into light!

Written 12-24-2008 (Morning); Huancayo, Peru, No: 2533
Spanish Version

Spanish Version

Los Días
Por Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D (Poeta Laureado)
(Tributo a Juan Parra del Riego)

I

Todo el año, sabiendo que estás muerto,
Me he sentado en un sillón con dos cojines,
Mirando por la ventana, estando triste
Con melancolía humana, tratando de revivir
Aquellos días en que viviste tus poesías—
(traduciéndolas, editándolas y seleccionando tus mejores),
Días cuando tu juventud como la mía, sintieron el sol
Llevar ambición, desde la tierra hasta el cielo,
Días siniestros, con inspiración para compartir;
Ahora los vivo, pero siento los tuyos en la muerte.

II

Hoy, es como otro día, supongo
Como tú una vez lo supiste, muerte esperada,
Como yo lo sé ahora. El cielo está nublado,
(Escucho la estremecedora lluvia, las salpicaduras
Mientras los carros pasan, sus motores ruidosos)
Y en la prisa, como un río fuera de curso, ahora
Es el momento cuando el aire
Estando principalmente lleno de vida e imágenes,
Aparece sin vida, sin movimiento, ahora:
Tierra, río y cielo, nos fusionamos, las
Salpicaduras se han ido. Y también mi tristeza.
Todo es ahogado en mi, pero no tú
(por eso puedo escribir este tributo poético)
Mis memorias emergen (con ellos), he encontrado
Los días que tú viviste, la llave a tus poesías:
El armario secreto que escondiste como poeta.

III

Pienso en todo lo que hiciste, cuando viviste
(Es decir, todo lo que escribiste y pudiste escribir
Y hecho antes que la muerte te llevara…desesperación)
Hubo mucha promesa en tus años
Jóvenes—tu reserva entusiasta, el color de las hojas de otoño
En tu cara, inspirando al viento, y bosques
Y al silencio desnudo en los picaflores.

Ninguno tuvo tal promesa entonces, no aún
César Vallejo, o Borges, no aún Yeats,
O Kyats, George Trakl, o Pablo Neruda.
Tu ritmo y rima, encanto astuto,
Modelo y estructura del sonido, verso y medida,
Líneas silábicas acentuadas, todo daban movimiento
Como cristales en la lluvia, cayendo con fuerza y suave…con
Gracia desarmada, si, o si, tú fuiste audaz,
Como Homero, construyendo su caballo de madera
¡Para engañar y luego destruir a Troya!
En la Edad del Simbolismo y Modernismo.

Esto estaba en tu sangre desafortunada ¿cierto?
Esa falla vino sólo porque toda pasión
Estaba siendo quitada a mitad del recorrido ¡Por la muerte!
Tú te redujiste a la nada, pero aún
Escribiste tu poesía, ¡una hora antes de tu muerte!
Tú viviste más allá del sombrío aburrimiento de pesar.
Tú no afligiste a ningún amor, los latidos de tu corazón,
Fueron para Blanca Luz Brum…
Tu muerte lenta, moldeó tu mirada sobre la vida
Había sangre dentro de esa mirada ciega,
Pero esto te hizo uno, te hizo mirar y escribir
Tu poesía en piedra, al final, solo…

IV

Tu poesía te ha sobrevivido, y a esa mirada ciega.
Tu poesía, Parra, ha sobrevivido aquel bote que remaste—
Mucho tiempo atrás, en Montevideo y esta
Sobrevivirá a la pintura colgada en la pared de tu cuarto
Donde te sentaste cerca de una mesa—las últimas horas
Antes de tu muerte (con Blanca Luz y un amigo)…

Veo el dolor en su cara joven, embriagada
Con pérdida, buscando algún lugar tranquilo, para esconderse
En desolación, abatida, boquiabierta como si en horror,
Ojos mirando, porque la hora atribulada está cerca,
Cara desgarradora, llena de desgracia… ¡por ser impotente!
Ella se agarra fuerte de su silla, sus piernas medias cruzadas,
Respirando lentamente, ella sabe pronto, lo que debe de sufrir.

V

Blanca y el amigo de Juan estuvieron cerca de él la hora
De su degradación, aunque él no se volteó hacia ellos
En las últimas horas de la noche—ellos en una triste
Auto aversión, Juan, sin nada que ocultar,
Él oyó gritar a Blanca, “Estoy perdida, pero tú estás peor”
Talvez el moribundo no poseía a sus dominios,
Pero esta noche, las luces estaban bajas,
Era la última hora,
Y luego las luces se apagaron,

entonces la disipación de la noche pasó….

Todos rendidos, en completa penuria
Y los dos ahora supieron, ¡el mundo se privó!

VI

Sabiendo y habiendo oído, leído sobre la verdad desnuda
De tu muerte, la palabra perdura en mi cabeza—
Muerte en ese cuarto tormentoso,
Cerrado fuertemente, desde el cielo y nubes,
Sólo pensamientos silenciosos, echados de
Momento a momento, para iluminar más tarde
Con aquellos seres amados por tu lado
…

Las horas que tú y yo ahora conocemos,
A pesar de que tú estás muerto más de ochenta años,
Ni denuncia mi poema, un tributo para ti,
Ni perdona, mis palabras, si ellas ofenden…
Como tú, he visto la luz de la luna, deslizarse
Encima, y sobre la marea del mar, y las olas
Perdidas en las orillas arenosas, mientras ellas se retiran
Para nunca sucumbir a ellos aun cuando la oscuridad ha llegado;
Espero que yo sea fuerte como tú (cuando mi muerte llegue),
Aunque no puedo prometer lo que no puedo dar…

Y ahora a tu fama superada, ¡oh oscuridad!
¡Tú te has transformado en luz!

Escrito el 24-Dic.-2008 en la mañana, en Huancayo, Perú. Nro. 2533

Poems: Suicide-bomber; Hamas... & Deeper than the Beast

2009-01-09T21:44:00.000-08:00

1) Suicide-bomber
((LAHORE, Pakistan)(Terrorism))

They do this clear-eyed, this is their game,
Though the whole world grows sick with fits of it
Such butcheries does man devise for man,
No conscious and no blood in the face.
Thus, out of Hell’s slime they climb
Thinking of Paradise—doing the bidding
For the abyss, a stench upon our days
And ways of life… a sign of the times!

Note: 1-9-2009 (No: 2540)

2) Hamas,
No corsetry, no Defense (war 1-2009)

They took the sword of Mohammad
That shined, and serviced the right
But tarnished now, with bright blood
Of their own kind; from the streets of
Al-Attara, Gaza: planting explosives
To kill, or let be killed their people:
Perversely using civilians as human shields;
Putting snipers in positions in mosques,
All to glorify Allah, and honor their God;
Bombs by gas stations, booby-trapped
Civilian houses, all for show and tell…
To let the world think, they live in Hell.
Forgetting, who’s really the devil!

1-10-2009(No: 2541)

Note: I do believe we look for solutions for war and peace, yes; we like to start them, and win them, and yell peace, when we get tired of them. But war always continues if it serves a purpose; no matter if we want to believe it or not, this ongoing war with Palestine or Hamas, or the PLO, and Israel, it serves a purpose, maybe not yours or mine, but someone’s. And until the price to pay is not worth war, it will continue. On another note, Satan, like God, uses who is usable, and available, thus, we can take it from there.

3) Deeper than the Beast

What monsters of mythological dens are we?
Can we match the horror of the Huns?
Or the Roman Legions?
The heated blood coagulates, makes man insane
Leaps out of his senses, goes furious, as if in an outrage:
By what they do, it would seem to me,
We are deeper than the beast!
And now seek to eat, the reptiles while they sleep.

1-10-2009 (No: 2542) Written in Lima, Peru

Three War Poems: Al-Qaeda's Dark Chiefs, Off the Coast of Somalia & To Vietnam

2009-01-08T21:10:00.000-08:00

Al-Qaeda's Dark Chiefs

From gravid dugouts and brooding ramparts,
Blasphemous they wound the lands and minds with death!
They have turned upon the world with cannons’ from Hell,
Until many millions of mother’s eyes are wet!
Ravage they say, even God’s holiness…!
For the gates of Paradise are open now:
Another ruin for their youth on earth,
And ashes they fined, and shall not forget:

Some by the devastation of their guns,
Some by the tempest-shock, of rockets,
And yet some by the slow removal of their children
Thus, the downfall comes, betrayer to their own kind!
But at the inauguration of their credo
The lying words of their Clergy,
Sink their honor and their souls to dust.

(1-8-2009)(No: 2538)

Off the Coast of Somalia

Near all evil that the tongue can name,
Somewhere in the pits wherein we think resides Hell,
Oh! Deep, deep, deep below the crust of the earth
There is a secular abyss called the Coast of Somalia,
A place secular, of human shame:
Here is where the monster ships of the earth sail
And the worms and snakes may find a cell:
They are called the Pirates of the sea
And they capture the ships, for ransom.
But now the pirate hunters have come
(The Russians, Americans, and Chinese)
To eat the fancied devils, where they dwell
And find their honor and thine own the same.

(1-8-2009)(No: 2539)

To Vietnam

The names that time shall turn one’s stomach to recall,
Now polluted in the jungles and waters of Vietnam,
In which, not so long ago, armies worked their dark desires,
And in whose slime each soldier had to crawl,
Today, I remember them all!

(1-8-2009)(No: 2540)

Old Man Wishes (Poetic Prose)

2008-07-01T17:28:00.000-07:00

Old Man Wishes
(Poetic Prose)

When you’re old you usually have a wish or two, the big one perhaps being, to settle everything unsettled in your life, before it ends. Make peace where there is no peace; to do what one thought he or she should have done but never did: at this ripe old age, the age of the last wish, the age of reclining, the meltdown age of old age creeping up the spine, at this ripe old age, one’s wishes, can be punishing, frightening, all for no reason whatever, because s/he deserted those dreams and wishes long ago, for a less troubled life, I suppose. The old man, and I mean by saying old man, really mean, the old person in general, is likened to bird settled down in a nest; he is turning ugly with age, hair looks like a cornfield, his wishes back in the day, were not flat, not like now anyhow, not like a flat river bed now, that runs dray within his head, not like a brick wall, too tall now to climb, he is only a dim shape, he will disappear soon, he knows this too. And he realizes now, that wall he built so tall, was built long ago. He’s not that same person anymore.

The old man now is sick and soft, eaten up by time, piece by piece, too many candles to count on the cake, not enough room to place the candles on; it’s all about space and birth-cakes, and too many birthdays. He would in most cases, like to buy a little more time (if he had the means). Even if he doesn’t follow through on those so called missed wishes and dreams, he sees as having missed, somewhere along the line, and he most likely will not, even if given more time, he will do what he has always done, it will have not mattered at the end, you see they really were not all the precious, not all that important because he found replacements for them long ago, and will again if given a second change.

The old man knows the young man sees tomorrow differently than he, he, the young man will see it with hope and vitality, adventure, and destiny waits. On the other hand, the old man sees it like chalk and cheese, what will be will be, and it will not be much, usually. Tomorrow is nothing more than tomorrow, just another tomorrow, which will have a dawn, and daylight and morning, noon and then comes twilight, and the circle starts all over again, because at night when you are sleeping, you are dead anyhow, and see nothing, so there is nothing to say about after twilight, it is empty space.

The old man feels heritage in his: bones, flesh, meat, nerves, muscles—they were trained long ago to withstand temporary hardships, a crisis to solve the dilemma of life that is before he had had the chance to grow old. That in itself is a gift, not everyone gets. Somewhere along the line, life’s line, his voice was indeed small, soft or he would not have survived glory and peace, when there was so much war in-between.

The old man (and we can add woman, for the word I use as man, means both), the old woman, was not only waiting for anything to happen, she prayed it didn’t. And an ordinary life stood suddenly and foremost at her wishing door; why? because she had writings to finish. She knew there was a season for everything, and it was the season to write, what she lived; before it was the season to live, and writer what she lived later, it’s hard to balance both on the same scale, or add two seasons in one, if you do, you get what you pay for, fifty-fifty, you cannot get a hundred out of a hundred when you are splitting seasons, so many people try. Perhaps some of these life lived seasons, were not long enough and others too long, but long enough to get into the mood of the times, to do what needed to be done at the time the season started, to do whatever one must do, and do it the best one can, you can’t ask for much more, and if you do, and if you get what you ask for, who knows, you’ve been blessed.

What more can the old have said to the wish, perhaps a postscript that says this: A good wish is to die with a clear conscience.

The Courtyard ((a poem)(and Commentary on: "Specific Poetry"))

2008-06-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

The Courtyard

Do not weep for me this day
as you lower me down into
my grave, for I am, a million
miles away…a million miles
and then some. So do not
look here and there, within,
this courtyard, rather look up,
up into the blue, blue sky—
there you’ll find me, every alive;
there I’ll be passing by, in
a whisper of the night, in a
chill within the winters light,
in the colours of an autumn
leaf, within a rhyme of some-
one’s poetry: with Christ.

No: 2410 /6-29-2008

Dedicated to my wife Rosa.

Commentary: “Specific Poetry”: Some poetry is specific in that it is carved out of, or into the roots of ones beliefs, culture, and means what it means within perhaps its own language and genre (being religious our having a philosophic view), or whatever: it becomes different once you change the dynamics, thus, the characteristics or descriptions change. In essence, the language in which the poet writes can be specific as can be his meanings in his poetry, and hard for the reader to understand because of his specific beliefs, culture, and therefore he perhaps writes for a specific group also. And so, in a nutshell, not all types of poetry are meant for all peoples, or for today’s globalized world—as a whole, and it might be wise for the reader at times to look at this and consider this when reading another’s poetry, or take that into consideration. An example might be, Anne Sexton, who writes specific poetry, in that she writes confessional poetry. We all can perhaps understand her poetry, but if you are a psychologist, you will understand it better I believe, or if you are of a mental disorder such as depression, you will see the characteristics or her descriptions much more clearer than the average reader, and I say this with all respect intended to writer and reader. In a like manner, if you are a recovering alcoholic, you may understand my poetry better then another person, when I am writing on addictions in general, or the hardships I’ve endured because of this wild chemical that commands and demands for its pry to submit.

Call for the Ammo Humpers (a Poem for the Unsung Heroes of War)

2008-06-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

In every war, there are what you call Ammo Humpers, those young men who carry the ammo, bullets and those heavy shells, artillery shells, to the front lines, be it by hand, or machine, or whatever, but up to and beyond the Vietnam War, in all previous wars there were Ammo Humpers who humped the ammo, the shells needed to the fighting men, to use for artillery, the unknown, and often the unsung heroes of the day, the unknown labor behind the fighting men who were on the front lines also, the Ammo Humpers were right behind them every minute of every battle ever fought.

Call for the Ammo Humpers

Under fire they run, deliver, if need
fight, hump ammo to the frontlines
save life’s—deliver ammo to the
shooter. They are known a the knights
of the war, although these unsung heroes:
bring the artillery shells to the tanks,
the bullets to the gunner, its all pure
powered gold, with fuses and primers,
that explode; a well trained soldier is
worthless without good a Ammo Humpers
near to close by: engagements can last
a minute or perhaps hours, days—
surrounded, entrenched, overlooking
tanks, and trucks and invisible foes,
while dodging grenades, and fighting
men in foxholes, in and around the
perimeters, and the Ammo Humpers
run from twilight to daybreak, push
on, and on, and on, until their youthful
eardrums become dumb; yet the gunfire,
the explosives go on, and on, and on;
the young unsung heroes the
Ammo Humpers behind mortar fire,
and chaos, under full force attacks,
ground assaults—go on, and on,
even though the air is thick with smoke,
even though it chokes, and chokes
and chokes, he goes on, and on;
dodging machine gun fire, infantry
phones, that are calling in for more
Ammo Humpers to run, run, run the
ammo in, for them to kill, kill the foe.
Then they pull back regroup, tell the
Ammo Humpers the ones left (for one
dies out of very two), tell the Ammo
Humpers the second attack is coming,
Soon. By dawn it will be over, and the
outcome fair, the enemy dead, men
wounded … the sky no longer blue,
and this is just one battle of countless
— now everyone listens to hear if new
incoming is coming, and how close
will it be, eyes in the sky, observing…
laugh quietly if you can, before you
protest, try to get some sleep, and
you start to think ‘Why would anyone
want this sorry war, to go on, and on
and on, now the moisture evaporates
all around you, the glare of the sun comes,
now were veterans (you whisper) rest,
dig in, light a cigarette, it doesn’t matter
they know we’re here. They’re coming,
and the Ammo Humpers are ready,
I see them from here, let them come,
I hope before darkness, “Watch out,
shrapnel…watch overhead! Where’s
the Ammo Humper Charlie?’ —
‘He’s dead!’)…

No: 2406 ((6-21-2008) (A tribute to the Ammo Humpers, of all those past wars: Civil War, Spanish American, WWI, WWI, Korea, Iraq, and those going on at this moment, especially in Afghanistan, and Iraqi)

Sailing Away (a poem on the life of a poet)

2008-06-18T09:27:00.000-07:00

Sailing Away
(a Poem)

A poet who writes perhaps knows too much
A scholar and philosopher, and perhaps a crook!
As if life and its normal journey are not enough
Could never be enough; not even with all its
Travels, towers, troubles, and tenderness,
nor with all its adventures, its vast universe, and its ghosts:
Nor with all its wars, and higher learning universities,
Nor with all its lovers, and friends, and so many
Of life’s confrontations; used and unused furniture
He brought to his home, along with the wives
And children he had, with all their Christmas’ and
And toys, troubles and pains and insane days—
He marches to the tunes, of his country’s song
But he never sings along; he reads and writes
From early evening to the break of dawn,
that’s a poet’s song. He really wants to sail away,
merrily, merrily, far away, because nothing is quite enough!
Thus, in-between, he gets drunk a lot, not enough!
And then, somewhere along the line, he thinks its:
Time to stack it all into one big bag that is rough!
How precious life was, and is to a poet, never yet
is it ever enough, and sometimes it’s all way too much…
way too much, he wants to sail away!...
His emotions are like a rollercoaster; his heart
in the hospital, half the time; his soul wondering
from church to mosque to synagogue, then home
again, wherever that may be. He finds God
everywhere, so does he find the devil, neither
rest, angles are as busy as he, but they never
protest: I fear the poet dies either with God, or alone;
Thus, a poet who writes perhaps feels too much
Never able to love himself as he loves, and wants
To loved; hushed, he looks on, and on and on,
at simple things, like: hats, rats and cats, and plants,
and souls: eyes, feet and confessions, so many things,
and then his children leave home, gone, complaining,
rearranging, and saying: “We never got enough,”
they got a bone of contention, full of terrible hate,
jealousy, envy and not enough guts; they live in disgust,
way, way, way too much…they want, and want and want,
in abundance; but a father Poet already knows this,
he’s a spy, a villain… and somehow, someway, he just sails away…!

6-18-2008 (he is implied a lot in the poem, but he in this poem means s/he, or me)

Two Bar Poems (From Donkeyland)

2008-06-03T22:50:00.000-07:00

Bar Poems

Portrait of an Old Bar
In a Forgotten Neighborhood

Oh, down at the bar the boys
are playing, singing around the
bar, on stools, chairs by tables
they sit here and there
did you hear what I whispered?

I merely whispered
here and there the boys sit, like
pinned dogs in a cage locked
as dead as dead is possible
to exist and exist there still.
I said, a poet once lived there
I saw him singing and dying,
around the bar, on stools.
Across the room, a pool table
made from corpse’s, once there
their ghosts exist there still
as dead as dead is possible.
Did you hear what I said?

I merely meant
how glad I am not to be there
I’d be singing my songs with them
and bragging and singing and lies.
And I know now, and knew then,
it was my soul, lost in the booze,
my cage door opened, unlocked,
my drunken face, stopped singing
and the Poet got away somehow…!

No: 2392 6-4-2008

Noon Walk in the Bar

The spring sun beams
drift through a narrow bar door
as I walk through Death Valley with no shadow
It pulls at my breathing
and searches about for me.

The walls speak.
I hear them speak all afternoon
I will drink my evil, drink my evil
The craving extends
and reaches out to me.

The ceiling breaks.
It droops and smothers my face
in the presence of my friends, my friends
The world is full of friends
When you’re drinking!

No: 2393 6-4-2008

The Wine Closet (a Two Act Play)

2008-05-23T20:03:00.000-07:00

The Wine Closet

(A story of a boy who gets a closer view of realism, sincerity, honesty, and selfishness, and finds himself wanting)

By Three Time Poet Laureate,
Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, “Antena Regional”: The best writer for 2006 for promoting culture (in Poetry & Prose)

Act One
Of two Acts

Wine Closet Door (Name for the area of the Basement in the House)

The curtain is down, the lights go on:

(Narrator, talks to the audience, and everyone can see the basement, and at present Dennis standing on top of stairs, about to walk down them:) in the basement, to the right of a flight of wooden steps (stairs, leading down into the basement) to its back, is an old greenish fading painted door, it is the wine closet (private, Dennis’ grandfather’s secret, or so undeclared anyhow, room where he keeps his wine, and vodka (140-proof). It is locked, with an old lock. A big gas furnace is to its left, newer air ducks, are stretched along the large beams of the ceiling. After moving here in the summer of 1957, shortly after, his grandfather (whom he and his brother and mother live with), he brought the old house, built in the ‘30s, up-to-date; yet the basement has an air of another time, not of the ‘60s, which is the present time, and you can sense and feel that. There are windows in back of the closet, small windows and high, a wooden table and several wooden chairs around the table, are near the far east corner of the basement, it is where his grandfather brings his family guests on the weekend to drink his wine, and beer and vodka.

No one is in the basement at present, but if they were, you could hear the sound of feet above you, especially in the kitchen which is right over the wine closet. You hear the click of the light switch; it is at the top of the staircase. Dennis is coming down stairs. You can hear the old thin wooden steps produce a crackling noise, the boards are not real firm.

Dennis is now by the wine closet door, he listens for foot steps above him, he hears none. This is the first time he has ever planned to do such a thing, his brother has brought his friends down many times to drink a few of his grandfather’s beers, and he has never got caught, so he feels, what the heck, he can do it, and who will be the wiser.

The air in the basement is cool, Dennis rubs his forearms, and there are some goose bumps, on them. You can see, he is concentrating on the lock, he has planned for it.

Dennis did not ask for permission, rather he simply picked the lock with a nail, that was flat on both ends of the top of the nail, the top being the part the hammer drives the nail into its destination. In his mind he is most concerned with the old newspapers he knows are on the shelves in the wine closet, he saw them several times throughout the years, he feels they must had been there when grandpa bought the house from Old Man Beck’s family back in ‘57, when he passed on, and he wants to take and examine the papers closer, perhaps take one or two, and replace them with newer papers, he is unsure how it all will work out, but he has half of the plan set in his mind, and it all is going to happen today, in a moment time. And when he does this, and he is now about to pick the lock, something unusual will happen in which he will have no warning, and thereafter he will have to cope with the rest of the day, and he will discover: realism may need to be looked at closer, as well as sincerity and honesty, and selfishness, within in of course. This will all play a part in today’s performance on earth’s little stage. Furthermore, let me say, this will be the first time in his life he will have to confront his emotions with what surprise is going to happen, with actions and thinking. In essence, will he react to his emotions or his thinking; perhaps he doesn’t know the difference, and things at thirteen-years old, they are the same. The lesson may be, and of course it is always up to the reader to pin point this dilemma, it is wise to react to our emotions vs. our thinking? Realizing of course, we have these emotions all day long, like a rollercoaster sometimes, and to react to them, may only mean, backtracking someplace along the line to straighten things out. Well I must say much more, least I tell you the whole plot, theme and insight, and that would not do. So I shall stop here and let the actors tell you the rest.

Scene One

The Basement, Dennis; the summer of 1962, 11:00 AM

Dennis

(He is now playing with the lock of the door, as if it was stuck, his devise, nail that is, is inside the keyhole, and he has twisted it this way and that way, and lo and behold, the door opens, he is humming, something like this ‘hum…hum…mmm…’ he sees the papers from the doorway, talks out loud to himself)

Look, yes, I thought so, a 1951, the ‘Saints’ (baseball players). Now they got the ‘Twins,’ big deal!

(He switches on his flashlight, holds it on the dates of the papers)

I’ll take this one, grandpa will never know, it’s got these folds to it.

(He pull the paper upward, then back, looks closer at it, the paper is brownish, from age, then he spots something green…he looks closer, it is a bill… he looks closer, a five-hundred dollar bill. He shuts his eyes, as if to clean them, and reopens them; to look again, to insure what he sees is real, really real. And it is, it is surely a $500-dollar bill. His face shows the expression of ‘unreliability’ that it can’t be real; in essence, in this matter, as if his sense and eyes are playing tricks on him.)

Dennis

(anxiously)

Now what!

(He pulls the bill out from under the paper, folding it back somewhat, and puts it on the upper shelve for the moment, he is working on the middle shelf, of three shelves. And as he pulls the paper out, under that he finds another five-hundred dollar bill. Again he holds the flashlight onto the bill to make sure it is real, that it reads what it reads, clearly, and it does. He shakes his head as if to say ‘unbelievable’, opens up his eyes wider, as if say, ‘now what’, takes in a deep breath, but he again is more inclined to check the papers out, and puts the $500-dollar bill with the first one on the upper shelf, and checks the new paper out he finds from the ’40. He takes the papers, the one that reads the ‘Saints’ and this new one. Grabs the two bills on the third shelf, hesitates a moment, listens to hear any footsteps above him, all is clear.)

Dennis

(he asks himself)

Heck, now what?

Sure, take it, grandpa doesn’t even know it is there, was there. I bet old man Beck put it there, yaw sure he did, it’s not grandpa’s, everyone around the neighborhood says old man Beck left a treasure.

(He sighs, a long sigh, takes the money and puts it into his top shirt pocket.)

Dennis

I better get out of here before someone comes, lock it lock the door!

(He is really nervous now, and is having a hard time with the nail relocking the door, but he gets it done by telling himself ‘calm down’ and completes his mission.)

Scene Two

Lorimar’s house, two houses over from his, 11:30 AM

You see the house, and a kitchen window, people sitting and talking in the kitchen, it is Lorimar’s family eating brunch, so it seems. There is a green Oldsmobile parked by the garage, in back of the house, in the driveway, a 1953 model, two doors, it shines. Dennis is standing at this moment in front of the back screened in doorway sees his friend Lorimar talking to the other folks. Among them is the mother and father of Lorimar, and his older brother Tom (Tom will soon become involved with all this, and he notices his brother gone, and looks out the window, sees Dennis standing by the cement steps). It is a warm day, and he wipes his brow, his two five-hundred dollar bills are in his top pocket, you can see the tips of them. He is mumbling to himself, talking out loud says (and the audience can hear this: “Am I a thief, or what?”; Lorimar looks out the window, sees Dennis, nods his head as if to say, ‘Wait a minute.’ Now you don’t see him, he has left the folks in the kitchen to meet with Dennis.

Lorimar

(on the back cement steps of Lorimar’s house)

What’s up, you look nervous, or something?

Dennis

(still in disbelief, he lets out a sigh)

Look at what I found in my Grandpa’s wine closet!

(Lorimar steps down from the top third stair, almost falls off it, he starts to put forth his hands as if to grab them, and look closer at them, but stops himself, and just peers into them as if they were some archeological find, in an ancient grave.)

Lorimar

(his eyes and face rise with his forehead)

Are they real? I mean I’ve never seen one before. Found them you say, aren’t they your grandfather’s? I mean, maybe you better put them back before he notices they are gone.

Dennis

I don’t know if they’re real, I never saw one myself, they look real, don’t they, I mean…I think they do. And I didn’t steal them, I simple found them…I was looking for old newspapers and, and—you know the rest…

Lorimar

(he stares, thinking a moment)

I’ll get my brother Tom to look at them bills, he’ll know for sure if they are real or not, he has a car business in his front yard, sells cars, him and Joe, wait here I’ll go ask him to come out and take a look (he hesitates, adds)…I’ll be careful about it, so no one suspects a thing, I’ll just tell him, Dennis wants to have you look at something, and my ma and father will not be the wiser.

(Dennis sees in the window Lorimar talking to Tom now, his father is the closest to the window, coffee on the table, curtains somewhat in the way. His father leans over a tinge, trying to find out what the mystery is all about, but trying not to be too suspicious, and Lorimar doesn’t tell him anyhow what exactly Dennis has to show him. Now you see Lorimar and Tom in the Pantry, next to the kitchen, and screened in door, he is explaining now what has happened, but you don’t hear him saying anything but by their expressions, you know this by heart.)

Tom

(Tom is looking at the two $500-bills in Dennis’ hands. Tom is about 23-years old, Lorimar is a year older than Dennis.)

Put it this way Dennis, I’m no expert in such matters, but those bills look as real as any one-hundred dollar bill I’ve ever seen, and I’ve never seen a five-hundred dollar bill before, and I heard they do have bills at the bank with higher denominations than one-hundred,…but I wonder if they are registered, I mean, no one carries around two five-hundred dollar bills, they are kind of like those Cashier Checks I think, people have them for safety reasons, so no one can simply go cash them. Lorimar said you found them in your grandfather’s wine cellar and you think they might belong to old man Beck.

(Everyone is quiet for the moment; a loud stillness fills the air.)

Listen Dennis, if you don’t know what to do with the bills, I’ll sell you my 1953, Oldsmobile, its cherry—you’ve seen it, right over there.

(Tom points to the car, and Dennis is looking, his eyes are as wide as the light bulbs in the car. It would seem at this juncture, Dennis has put out of his mind the possibility that it is even his Grandfather’s money, and has planted a seed somewhere in his brain that it is his money now, you can see it in his face, he is now holding the two bills as if they are his, and his alone, but nod his head as if to say ‘Ok,’ and hands the bills over to Tom.)

Dennis

Ok, Tom, here are the bills, and the car is mine, when do I get it? I mean, I’m fifteen-years old, not sure if I can have it in my name. I really do like that car of yours, it shines like the dickens.

Tom

(there is a silence between the three of them)

You will not find a better car for the price, Dennis.

Dennis

I suppose.

Tom

Well, do you have any second thoughts, I mean, are you sure you want to make this deal, I don’t want you coming back tomorrow and saying I did you wrong, or telling everyone I cheated you? Matter-of-fact, I will be checking out the legal procedure tomorrow on how to put a title card into the name of a minor, I doubt there will be any big problems. Here’s a set of keys, keep them; since the car is yours, I got another I’ll give them to you tomorrow.

Dennis

I suppose so, I mean yes, yes I want the car, I gave you the bills, I am just concerned about putting the title card into my name, I don’t have a license to drive, only a permit, next year I’ll get my license, but I can drive with a license driver I suppose, maybe my brother Mike will ride with me.

(Dennis is playing with the keys in his hand, as if he was a big shot, and a smile is on his face now, he never owned such an item like this before.)

The two five-hundred dollar bills have already been handed over, and Tom seems elated. Lorimar and Dennis go over to the car and check it out. Lorimar puts his hands on Dennis’ shoulder, he is about two inches taller, and says something to the effect “How’s it feel to be an owner of such a beautiful car,” you can faintly hear that. Tom has just walked back into the house, you can see him now through the kitchen window, he is showing the money the two bills to his father, and his father is looking stern with a little mystery to his look as if to say, ‘this can be trouble’. Tom has agreed to check out the process tomorrow in transferring the title card over into Dennis’ name, and that very well might be part of the conversation, the father, Joe is having with Tom, and his mother is walking into the living room, as if to say, this is men’s business, and she calls for her daughter, and they both go sit on a square wooden piano stool, as she gives her daughter lessons (the father’s name is the same as his son Joe Jr. who is twenty-one) he shakes his head a second time.

Scene Three

Inside the Dennis’ Grandfather’s house, 7:00 PM

(The phone rings, Dennis is in the living room, near the phone, his grandfather is outside cutting his lilac bushes, his mother, Elsie, picks up the phone, listens to the other person on the phone, her face seems to go through several confusing emotions, as if she is trying to understand something, and she glances at Dennis a few times. Her boyfriend Earnest is in the kitchen, her and he were having coffee, until the phone rang. She has a cigarette in her hands, takes a few puffs off it, blows the smoke out, then hangs up the phone, looks at the clock, and goes out into the kitchen, she now is talking to Earnest, as if getting advise, she squints her eyes, looks through the two rooms to Dennis by the television in the living room. Then she calls him over to the kitchen.)

Mother (Elsie)

Dennis, come in here for a moment, I want to ask you something!

(to Dennis)

Dennis

(Dennis is nervous; he senses it has to do with the car)

What is it?

Mother (Elsie)

(Earnest is sitting down, Elsie is standing up)

I just got a phone call from Lorimar’s father; he said something about two five-hundred dollar bills you found in grandpa’s wine cellar, what about it?

Dennis is acting somewhat as if he doesn’t know anything of what she is saying, a tinge smug, he plays with the keys in pocket a bit, but quietly. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, almost dumbfounded, his mother waiting for an explanation, and Earnest, drinking his coffee, staying out of the predicament. Dennis wants to say something but is unsure of what to say, he doesn’t want to lose the car.

Mother (Elsie)

Well, I’m still waiting for an explanation!
Dennis

(with a deep sigh)

I found them, two five-hundred dollar bills under the old papers in grandpa’s wine cellar. I wasn’t robbing him, I doubt they even belong to him, I was looking for old papers, and I found them, and I asked Lorimar to look at them and see if they were real, and Tom came out and said they were, so I bought his car, I mean I gave him the two bills for the car.

The boy was of course not lying, nor was he sorry for taking the money, you could see it in his face, a tinge bad in the sincerity area, and his mother was sure he was telling the truth, he was not know for lying, but now it seemed, she was unsure of the whole matter. She didn’t see any ‘I’m sorry,’ in his face for taking what did not belong to him; only perhaps sorry he got caught.

Mother (Elsie)

First of all, the money may very well be Grandpa’s he hides it all over the house, and if it was Mr. Beck’s, as you told Lorimar’s brother, it is still grandpa’s because you were snooping in his private closet, where you were not suppose to be; Tom is coming over with the two bills now, and he wants his car keys back, I guess you even went a bought a car, without me knowing.

(There is a knock on the door, Elsie puts out her hand for the car keys, Dennis gives them to her, and she goes to the door to meet Tom who is doing the knocking.)

Act Two
Of two Acts

The Reprieve (In the house, the next day, morning, the Grandfather was told the story by Elsie)
There has never been much of a liking between Dennis and his Grandfather, he took to Mike, his older brother, and seems throughout the years to simply endure Dennis, whereas, he appreciates Mike. Nonetheless, it really hasn’t bothered Dennis all that much, and in return that in itself may have bothered the old Russian Bear, who came to America in 1916; Dennis, he just keeps his distance, throughout the seasons, one by one. If anything, he is a little closer to his mother than perhaps his brother, whom is his senior by two years.

He would like to shut the lid on this situation of the two bills and car but he knows it will have to be settled between him and grandpa, even if his mother makes peace with him over this. Old grandpa, fought in WWI, tougher than hard ice, and just as cold. He realizes it will perhaps be a turbulent day, with a little nastiness coming from his grandfather, he likes to swear for no reasons, and this is a good reason to do just what he likes to do, so he his prepared to endure a mouth full of broken English, but he has lived through worse, in this quiet infested forest of his.

It is morning, and Dennis has come down the stairs from the Attic bedroom where he and his brother sleep, he sees his grandfather, he is pacing the house, walking from the front porch to the back pantry door. He stops suddenly, noticing Dennis, who has done nothing apparently: just standing there buttoning up his shirt. Dennis, he notices his grandfather seems to know something, and he is annoyed, but not as annoyed as Dennis would have expected him to be, after almost losing two five-hundred dollar bills, he is still convinced they belonged to Mr. Beck, and feels he got the short end of the stick in this situation, having lost the bills and the car all in one day.

Scene One

The next day, 9:00 AM, in the main area of the house

Dennis’ grandfather stops by him, Dennis says “Hello,” but it is so faint, I doubt his grandfather even heard him; in any case, if he did, he pretends not to have heard him.

Tony (Grandfather)

So, I guess you like to snoop in my things, never mind my things stay out of them, or I’ll throw you out of the house. Looking for papers, hogwash, you just snoop like always. Now you lie, and steal. Don’t let me ever catch you in there again!

(he walks away, but not heatedly as usual; surprising)

Dennis tries to say he is sorry, but it doesn’t come out right, more of an ‘I…mmm sor… (then he quickly says it) sorry,’ almost is a hush, and no sincerity to it, and then he turns towards the kitchen and enters it…

Both Dennis and Tony, are to the backs of one another, perhaps they are much like one another; Dennis fades into the pantry and you hear the back door slam, and Tony walks out onto his front porch, and again, you hear the door slam behind him.

Curtain

Act one written on the 22, and Act two written the 23 of May, 2008.