Two Poems: One More Day and She Grew Old


One More Day

It left her young,
For her old age—
As she would say:
‘I’m looking at another day.’

All her hours
Were butterfly songs
Warmly fashioned
Through her hum…!

Shiny days, and nights:
At the end of her life,
She had a rainbow
Kind of sight…!



Note: #1406 written at El Parquetito, café, Miraflores, Lima Peru. 7/28/2006; my mother’s last years of life, w ere calm, refreshing, peaceful, but of course, she made it that way.





She Grew Old

I, whose longing never dies,
Things I will never know or tell
Often wondered, how she’d die.
As I traveled around the world

Under fairer skies than mine,
Peaceful valley’s did she find;
She did not seek a richer part
Where she travels, goes her heat!

In the winter, she knitted and sowed,
With wonder and desire, she grew old.




#1407 written: 7/30/06 at ‘La Perla Piurana,’ Lima, Peru. My mother tried to live a simple life, not sure if that looks good in the eyes of the world, but it fascinated me, perhaps because I wanted touch the stars, and she was so content, on earth.

The Meat Packers Son
[A poetic Lament: in prose]

You are like a sparrow that is not here:

The fat guy with the white mustache—The Asian lady nearby, smiling, listening to a bronze skinned guy –(next table over) under the umbrella of the café, next to mine: We’re all just people going to die, under the naked sky, some stuck in beehives. —We’re all thinking it’s far off, thinking it will never come to that, but death comes, we see it all around, it just isn’t our time, and I’m just a meat packer’s son, making a rhyme.

‘Old man,’ they call me now, capped with a receding hairline, a few white hairs, here and there, a drought, rising inside my brain, knotted muscles everywhere; once unimaginable, like vapor clouds in my eyes. I see my Mother in that old sofa chair, she’s saying, “I never expected to live so long,” how strange it seemed back then, now, I got one upstairs.

My saga is hammering, I live in a labyrinthine circle, with root deep bones, knuckles, shoulder, chromosomes, breaking down; dreams not worth much anymore: they come during darkness and vanish before dawn. I have a grimace on my face, like the cool breeze from the ocean, which moistens my eyes; winter in Lima is always too unruffled, upon the topsoil of my face.

The old fat man’s gone to the can; to my left, the new breed, he sits at the table, computer above his knees, a cup of coffee, by his elbow, nothing else, he’s got the world by the tail, but it looks to me like a lonely table.

The fat man now is standing, looking for change; I’ll never see him again! He got his camera in hand; I wonder if he’ll live to see the pictures, I hope he so. But I suppose I really don’t care, out of sight, out of mind, I’m just a meat packers son, one with a soft face, crab-claws who fought in Vietnam.

Mother, Mother, what ill-bred son have you so wisely kept, if you could see me again? I’m mouth less, eyeless, bald and fat, it would have killed you instead. Mother, you praised my poetry once, un-teachable I was, but I learned, I learned dear mother—and now you are somewhere floating above me, listening. Like bluebirds that never were, life has come and left her. And left me in the kingdom you bore me to, you even had to help me tie my shoes, so helpless I must have been, way back when. My eyes nowadays, seem as if they are in milk-covered glasses; I was proud to be a meat packer’s son, I still am, I told everyone, under this now, flat dull sun.

I wonder where the old fat man went—? Like life to death, he came and diminished—; wonder if he was a hell of an old warrior, like my mother and I: lifting the delicate hammers in life, catgut stitches on our hearts. Peaceable she died, with the Lord, Jesus Christ by her side.

I wander if they have bald angels up above, insane world down here: like entering a nightmare; waiting for death, for the wood and stones over our heads.

[End]

Images of light are flimsy, I have leaf-size veins, that seem to have a lack of action, filled with something; I used to call my mother “The Queen bee,” she used to smile when I said that, like sugar roses; I’m on my second cup of coffee, a heat lamp over my head, the night market of Miraflores, is being set up, over in the park, everyone’s looking to me, to be, camouflaged, conspicuous.

I’m looking about, tables, tables, heads and bodies, I think a meat packers son, how she’d love to come home and tell me of all the gossip going on, down at the stockyards, like snowflakes, in Minnesota, falling down over head, and we laughed; I wonder how many boxes of bacon, she had to pack?



#1405 7/29/2006; written at El Parquetito, Miraflores, Lima, Peru

Elsie's Christmas (Back in '32)



A note about the poem: Elsie is my mother. She loved Christmas Trees; decorating them. She is today 81-years old (written four years ago). She doesn’t decorate them any more, but Christmas time, the buying of gifts, the Cards and all seem always to be the best of the year for her; and of course Christ’s birth. I wrote this poem in December, l982, and it was published on December 16, l982. Now, almost 20-years later, I re-discover it, and share her memories with you. I remember talking to her just prior to creating the poem. I asked her what came to mind. And when I gave it to her, she care for well, keeping a copy in her bedroom drawer.

Part I

It was back in ‘32
When a paper-doll would do--
Icicles, wooden shoes.

And just about Christmas


Time--I remember--
I’d be huddled
With a brother, sister


Friend…
On a street corner
Watching fire-engines,
Street--cars, --Racing


Through town--
On cobblestone streets,
Where children sang songs.

And not far away


Was an orphanage
--I recall--
St. Joseph’s (in St. Paul):
I spent some time there


After Ma died;
But it never got me down--
Remembering how she loved


Christmas year-round.

O! how I love Christmas time--
With all its beauty and rimes;

With the horse drawn sleighs
And old street lamps,
The Salvation Army
Ringing their chants.

And each Christmas


I’d walk with dad
To the market place--
Hauling a Christmas tree


Home that same day;
Dressing it with tinsel,
Bulbs of all kinds.
Listening to the radio,


Playing Christmas chimes.

Part II Elsie’s Christmas [l982]

It’s now ‘82
Times have changed;
More Santa’s
Are doing their thing.

Artificial Christmas trees
Year round Christmas socks;
More children on skies,
Snowmobiles in the parks;
More toys, TV’s--


Parking lots;
Christmas cards that seem


To talk.

Festivals of merriment,
Ice-fishing on lake


McCarran’s;
Ice Castles, Parades --


Not quite the same,
Not --


Quite like ‘32


But it’ll do.

But the church bells


Haven’t changed;
The white snow-flakes


Still remain; and
The North Wind -- still howls


With a whispering chant.

O! how I love Christmas time --
With all its beauty and rimes;
Like back in ‘32
When a paper-doll would do.

Part III

Some things will never change
Like back in ‘32 -- we all knew:

In a stall in Bethlehem,
In a land called Judea


2000-years ago--
A baby child was born, called,
Jesus Christ our Savior.

Word count: # 989/re-edited 2001

Added new version: Part IV

Elsie’s Christmas--2001

O! the fun has never stopped even at 81


I watched her as she watched me
Open my gifts a few days ago, as if


She was but ten

Still the love for Christmas lays


Deep within her heart
Like back in ‘32,


When a paper doll would do.

And although she can’t reach or walk


Like she use to way back then
She still can wrap them gifts

And so this is my story to you,
A Christmas at 81, for my mother,
the whole


Year through…

Rogue Poetry

[Commentary] —I’m not so young anymore, I seem to think I’ve recognized something that has escaped most of the modern age that perhaps most of us are people lost inside our own heads.

When I look at my past, it now seems to be akin to roads unprepared, rivers still with old levees, and fields full of weeds, and unplowed. I suppose you can say that of any new generation coming onto the scene—one feels they have not enough time to finish what they started before the new one takes over. It is indeed a pilgrimage to write about it, in plain terms.

Few people recognize the poets and writers I quote today, a few select perhaps do—here I shall lay bare the sleeping world, and bare my soul, perhaps the rogue in me will come out:

1) Tired Rogue Poet

I feel we are being closed in!
from all that I have seen—.
I’m tired, otherwise I’d find
some hope I suppose: finished.

I am fifty-eight years of age;

year of the water-downed bird.
I am ill a lot of the time, my
mind is severed from my head…

i noticed this a few nights ago— when I tired to go to bed.

#1021 12/23/2005

2) Eccentric Poet

Flesh and bone—a
haunted mind;
i change with my moods,
my moods are my
weather—.
I do not blame my mind
for my hallucinations
it’s all gossip that descends
on eccentric’s
descends from the heavens—
or seeps up from hell…!

#1022 12/05

3) The Butterfly and Me

When I’m walking,
whomever I’m talking to
(and it could be myself),
in the mist of madness
walking with, or at a
café reading a book,
newspaper, poetry—etc:
it can appear, the moment
when the poem itself manifests—
like a butterfly, stretching
its wings for the first time—
it can appear, so I speak out!...

#1023 12/24/05

4) Christmas Madness

How many people stare into space,
contemplate their faith, or capture
a moment of indignity—?

Christmas is two days away; no—,
23-hours and thirty-five minutes.
Woops…! Not too far off…

—and we’re all standing in front of
department stores; walking down
malls: what a crazy faith!

#1027 12/24/05

5) Lost Worlds

There are other worlds out there to live on
i’m sure—but someone doesn’t want us to know—;
thus, making this one, the only one, the absolute one,
in place of the lost one—, the one—only they know.

#1024 12/23/2005

6) The Nature of Time

One time, is all time—
and time you cannot change;
barer, it can be stretched
or frozen—but the nature of
time remains—; a passage
to eternity.

#1025 12/23/2005

7) This is About Life

Poetry recalls the memory
of a past experience (existence)
to whoever has forgotten—
that life is the one thing
that makes the universe
shine and ring..!

#1026 12/24/05

8) The Squirrel Cage

They do not change in
The squirrel cage—
Man’s old single compulsions!

#1029 12/23/2005

8) Abhorred Old Drunk

The pall old drunk stood in the street, —
abhorred he stood looking at me,
his severed thumb hanging by a thread,
he shit in his pants, a car almost killed him;
his rainbow of life, like a candle put out—
I could see it in his eyes; a blank stare,
not knowing what happened, hanging on
to his thumb—in mid air: hanging on, on
standing there, there in the street…
(back in ‘88)…; why do I think of it now (?)
it’s much too late: it’s Christmas Time: 2005.




#1032 12/24/05; note: sobriety is a way of life, and I can only say for those who have tasted the bitterness of the drink, I will tell you now, get out of hell’s grip, before it’s too late; I’m recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I’d never had made it to fifty-eight years old (I would have died back before my 40th birthday). Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. Dlsiluk

Attitude and Meaning in Poetry




I know I keep saying I don’t like to do articles on poetry, but I do, maybe because of all the writing in the world out there, I respect poetry above all the rest.

My wife was looking over a poem of mine today, translating it actually into Spanish, and she said, “You put a noun where a verb belongs, and if you put another verb in, it will be two in the same sentence. And I said, it is not a sentence, it is a line within a stanza, and it compliments the direct object. To be honest with myself, I really couldn’t find the word I wanted so I made up the word to be presented as a plural adjective so I could push in what I wanted to end the line.

Then I said to myself: she is trying to help, and it makes more sense to her (not to me), so I looked at the whole poem, and figured if I had to change that one word, I’d have to change the whole poem, the whole two stanzas, 10-lines. You can’t write a poem, no more than you can order creativeness, it doesn’t happen that way. So I said, let me look, and see if there is something in this poem beyond the word that can save the day. And I restructured the whole poem, and created a deeper meaning than what I wanted—but was happier with it, and left the word completely out, and my wife fell to sleep in the chair. I wanted to show her my accomplishment; I mean I had to stop everything in my life to ponder on this, to see if I really wanted to change it. I think I did it for her.

Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter, what does, is approach, or attitude; now let me start all over again.

I have four corners to my world, north, south, east and west, better put, God, myself, my wife and poetry.

First thing I’ve realized long ago in poetry was this—you take out of poets or poetry what you like, throwing the rest away. Good or bad, if it’s not for you, then why force-feed yourself. Thus, if you like what someone teaches you, it is good for you, if not, why argue about something or someone who is not for you. If you don’t like what I say, don’t read me. If you do, then fine; don’t conform to music that sickens you; that way you can keep a good attitude. When Elvis was making a record, if someone was in the area that bothered him, he’d stop the production and leave. It makes good sense, you cannot be creative with a bug in the nose, and that is why he was good, or perhaps one reason.

I was going to give a long example of an event that took place back in l985, when the Ronald McDonald House of St. Paul, invited me to a presentation, but I will make it shorter than what I intended to. Anyhow, in the process of me attending the presentation, they had asked me to do a small story, as the one I had done, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” back in l981. Well I did, but it wasn’t finished, yet I brought it along, was going to give it to the officials, for review. During the presentation, one of the officials looked it over, said something like this: if only you could take the rhyme schema out, and change the subject from turtle to a human being, and so for the and so on.

He was rude and demanding and I could go on, but I said: “You know what you want, go get it,” and I got up and walked out. They didn’t need me or want me as far as my creativeness went, and had told me over the phone, they didn’t know what they wanted, but I guess found out what they didn’t want. So instead of me trying to pretend, and fit in, I didn’t want to waste my time or theirs. If I lost anything, it was perhaps a potential future with an ongoing who knows what: I mean I was volunteering my services.

Anyhow, the one book I had done on the whale went up for a Pulitzer Prize, and I got a nice letter back, but not the Prize.

[Meaning of a Poem] Sometimes the poet gets lost and doesn’t’ even know his subject himself, or so I’ve noticed in much poetry I’ve read. Most of us think it is in the title of the poem, but could be to the contrary.

The problem comes not when he finishes up on a subject per se, but when he hobbles on, when he has already named it. It’s kind of like sitting down with an old friend and running out of things to say, thus, you grab whatever pops up in your mind: this creates in the reader confusion. If it is said, leave it alone, we don’t need to pound a person with it. Faulkner does that sometimes, and it irritates me, but he does it for his own reasons: he gets lost also, so do not stop writing if you are…just slow down.

—I hate to say this, but I will: arrogance is good, a little good in poetry—in a poem, if done right, just so you don’t take it to heart, and display it outside of the stanzas. What I write, I write because I want it there, usually, and I like a lot of imagination tucked in the corners. And thus, attitude and meaning are important ingredients in a poem; the reader can see it, feel it. The reader is no dummy, they may not write it, but they know it. Sometimes they are the better poets, not because they wish to write it, but because they love it, and those are often the ones who appreciate it more, and don’t like it mopped around on the floor; they have a good inner eye; we poets, are perhaps the ones with the eccentric eye, somewhere in the back of our minds trying to unveil the monster.

—Let’s see if I can say this right: never write a poem that should have been written because someone told you they wanted to hear it, write it because it should be, perhaps, and it is something you overlooked, and would have done, but not directed to do in particular, you lose the creative touch; or at least I do, and the meaning of the poem becomes stale.

African American Poetry [By a white man]



1

Woman from Alabam'

I once known a woman from Alabam’
Who would kiss with a slam and a bang!
And-all I could smell, when we made love,

so well,
Was cabbage, snuff and chicken-wings.

#1196 2/10/06

2

The He-bee

The He-bee
Said to the she-bee
“Stand still a while,
I’m going to make you smile;
Give you some honey~!”

#1195 2/10/06

3

The Nut in the Rut

Here’s to you ‘Nut!’
Who’s stuck in a rut—,
With slimy hips and all;
I’d rather die, in some
Pumpkin pie, than kiss

Those drippin’ lips!

#1197 2/10/06

Flat on her Back

Flat on her back she
Called to me—
Said she had something
And it was free… —
But something for nothin’
Didn’t include pussy…!

#1198 1/10/06

Note: you see in Siluk’s poetry a zest for life, with some sparks; he lives in a world that is his own, for the most part, most of the time, and has lived in most places he’s written about. He lived in Alabama for 2 1/2 years in the late ‘60s and again in the late 70’s. His German poems, take the road he traveled in Germany, as well as his time in Seattle, San Francisco, Minnesota and Peru. Some with humor like the ones on African American Poetry, and some on tradition which deal with Peru; and some on the winters of Minnesota. Thus, he seems to reach to whatever his mood is for the places he’s been to. Rosa

On Poetry/In-between

I’m not sure how to present this or say this, it seems more subjective then mainstream, but it has been used by poets, I’ve used it, and at times not knowingly, and at times knowingly. It’s not prose, and it is not an ode, or an epic, or even lyric in the form of what a lyric should be, yet it is personal or can be. No I’m not double talking, It’s poetry for the most part that is in-between the stream. It is a more natural poetry I do believe, and often a more descriptive form of poetry. Robert Frost has used it, as well as Robinson Jeffers, to pull two poets out of the hat, who has used it well.

It is like a wave of warm air reoccurring and you feel it, quantity or accent, or both, or by way of syllables attached to a rhyme schema, however you got it, it is there. And it should have this or it is not what I am describing. It is real poetry, and perhaps at its best because it has all the ingredients, perhaps not a perfect beat, but the understanding is usually better.

I think the warm wave, or recurrence, a regular enough one to be embedded with a mixed but soft rhyme schema is the quality of poetic life, in this and in most any poem: if it is pronounced moreso, it rings high tone; I prefer the low tone. If you don’t have it I’m not sure if you can call it a poem, it is why out of 1200-poems, I’ve only translated perhaps 250, from English to Spanish, you lose sometimes that wave of warm air.

I do believe in this kind of poetry, the poem remembers the turning or waves of life and its death. Let me rephrase this. A poem to me has a heart and soul, it belongs to you, but it has your residue, thus, it has you in it. It knows it has waves, and if that is what you are looking for, and lacking, it knows it has death, because you don’t have what you want for it. If that makes sense, and everyone who reads it knows it. It is kind of like having a bad day, and you try to hide it, and you can’t, you might just as well say, I’m trying to smile, but it’s hard today; something like that.

I am not giving advice on poetry, that’s a job for the professor at the University, although I’ve been offered such a position, I’ve declined it, I am giving my opinion, and that makes it all right. I may say strong or soft form of rhythmic poetry is the best, but then read something to the contrary, and have to take it back. My poem called: “The Fifth Moon,” lacks rhythmic form—it does have a shallow and soft wave to it, as it was planted into it but it is more on the prose and meant to be, and does not really deal with permanent things, and doesn’t avoid exaggeration. It may be original and rare though, I don’t see much of that prose kind of poetry nowadays, and so I think it is good. It has its own beauty. But when we shift to the poem “Passing by the Cathedral,” we find a different kind of poetry, almost in-between. But it has a regular movement, but meter is not tidy, but the warm air is there. And in the recent poem, “Grandpa’s Cellar Ghosts,” we see even a moreso, in-between poem, as I call them: with waves of life not death, not for the poem anyways.

Jerusalem Weeps
[Judas Iscariot] Poetic Prose


JUDAS: what luck have I, a fisherman, to save the world through me, oh, I must be the prophet of doom, for doom is what will save the world, through my secret knowledge which will be light onto the world. A small gift for honest and one eyes. I heard the voice, it sounds cruel I know, I am Judas Iscariot, who shall take my place! There is no one willing to. My father as you know was and is a simple storekeeper, he will be proud once he knows the reasoning. [Says Judas, enthusiastically to Peter, by the temple in Jerusalem, in an alley.]


PETER:
friend: do you think misfortune will bring your salvation? Is it not love he reached, and now you tell me, your love for the world, and willingness to sell Jesus to the murderers will produce an escape for man’s sin, you are the goat, the sacrifice, and the prophet.

JUDAS TO PETER:
to see me joyful is hard I suppose for you, I am only the one to balance things out, I am not the sacrifice, although I am sacrificing myself in a way, for I know people will not be merciful, to me, in future time, and now I can see the laughing of many at me for selling out my master. But I did much more than that. I did not, like you, deny my master three times [Peter trembling] I will not hide from the glory I’ve sorrowfully produced, I did what man was meant to do, yes, it is a mystery, hidden knowledge I have, what you do not understand. When I kissed Him, I felt a burning fire, and I remembered the prophecies, I heard them in my heart, Jesus even told me: the world did not hear him, at the table, I but I heard Him.

PETER:
no, Judas, those that see and hear God clearly, do not place their sins on the alter and forgive them themselves…say they are Jerusalem’s hope; you are a criminal to God’s court, you have sentenced his Son to death!

Elements of Poetry:


there are many elements in poetry, I’ve written on a few before, I normally do not make it a habit to do so, I’d rather swim in with the piranhas, and let the skeletons do the narrating on what is and is not poetry. But here is how I see a few things, take it with a altering view please, nothing is written in stone here:

Free Verse without fixed meter or rhyme but using formal elements of pattern verse (e.g. assonance, alliteration); it is a popular way to write poetry, everyone who has published contemporary poetry seems to have used it in one way or another.

Suspense in poetry can be created by what is called lines enjambed; that is, a clause or sentence can run over into the following line (I have used it many of times). Thus a kind of mystery is forced, or expressed, emphasized: as used here in the first sentence of my poem, “To Death”.

Chachapoya Countryside [Peru]

As one rides by in a car, visits a house or two on foot, a few shops in the villages and towns of the Amazonas, whole families walk by with mules and cows, along the roads to these locations: farmers on battered dusty carts, wagons with wooden wheels; no clocks in the city squares, some houses have no glass windows, nor screens: everything’s bare; some horses with no saddles, just a blanket; ploughs-gear old as the houses, a century or two. You can tell by their faces: their ancestors lived here for a thousand years, perhaps still walk the ground far and near. At the end of the road, or the road leading in (at the other end) of each town it seems to have chickens and dogs running around, laying down in the dust for coolness; mules stray.

Here in the Amazonas you wear long rubber boots for mud is unavoidable; women wear derby hats; landslides are like muck pies, thick and troublesome: everywhere, gangs of workmen cut through them: shovel-by-shovel: it’s another world.


Note: #1328 [4/23/06], Lima, Peru, Written at the Author’s home in the evening.

Kuelap’s Spirit, Impenetrable Darkness

Kuelap’s Spirit,
Impenetrable Darkness

It would be likened to a disembodied
Blind spirit—
Wandering through unlit space!

If not for the swish of winds
Around my—
Soft, warm naked face…!

Silent sounds roars from the dead
Embodied in stone-darkness—
Inside Kuelap’s Fortress

Here lost souls, wail for peace
Ripping and sweeping in madness
With fitful gusts

As I regained my frozen feet
Felt the pounding of his heart beat
It halted…

Shuffled was their sacred ground
Of which they laid
From Horizons Dawn

I assured them from whence we came
We would not disturb them
Ever again…

Thus, he abruptly left back into his
Abode, stoned-darkness
(This Roaring dead soul)!…


#1300 7/28/2006; written at El Parquetito, Miraflores, Lima, Peru, during lunch. If you happen to stop by, ask for Dennis, he'll be glad to say hello. Rosa

Note: When I was in the Chachapoyas (Northern Peru), on the mountaintop in April of 2006, I visited the grand fortress of Kuelap, next to Machu Picchu, it is the grandest site in Peru, here I was with an archeologist friend, and a few others. Thus, the spirits are alive here, and are mad of the disturbance being caused them, so they told me, and so I told my team. The site is a pre-Inca site, that overlooks a valley, and river, most beautiful, not too easy to get to. A car can make it most of the way, providing there are not a lot of floods along the dirty dirt and clay roads, and there are many, many of them. And once at the site, you will have a small walk to its location, a guard, and tour guides are there, usually.

The House of Early Horizon [The Cultures of Ancient Peru; The House of Blue]


In the House of Early Horizon
Is where the Chavin, Recuay,
Nazca, and Moche stay:
The Ancient ones of long ago

In Northern Peru; from the
Coastlands, Highlands, and
The Southern marron plains;
The Ancient ones, the Recuay

[And Chavin] of the Andean societies
Of this classic, enduring age:
Here farmers and herdsmen—
(Of the Valley de Callejon de Huaylas),

Worked and prayed, by hilltop
Fortifications; here they carved
Monolith stones; Supernatural figures;
Textiles, all sophisticated art.

#1398 7/28/2006


Note on Peruvian Cultures: The Recuay culture dates back from about 400 BC, to about 800 AD, and resides in the region known as—Ancash, a region located in Northern Peru, its capitol city is Huaraz, and its largest city is Chimbote. The name of the region originates from Quechua “anqash,’ meaning ‘blue.”

The Nazca are from the South, and perhaps had the best colored, and details poetry know in the ancient Peruvian world. The Moche, are from the Northern coastal areas of Peru, such as Chan Chan, etc. Tiwanaku, also having equal art in poetry as Nazca, but not as colorful, live in what is now Bolivia. All having fine art, textiles, potter, and so forth; the Inca empire, consolidated all of Peru.

There was kind of a cultural exchange shift, in northern Peru, in the North Highlands, following the Chavin’s collapse in 100 BC [perhaps its early horizon was abut 400 BC; but its footprints can be dated perhaps 1000-years earlier], and the interactions between them and Recuay. Perhaps a second one between 200-700 AD, with the Moche and in 750 AD, the Wari; thus, we can see a complexity in their societal ancient character, if we follow them from one stage to another.

The Color of War [Iraqi: war poem]





Introduction: Here is an unusual war poem Dennis has written today, on the Iraqi war. He said after following it for four years, “…it is getting old; yet it sells papers doesn’t it?” He was for the war when it was a war, so he told me, but now it is not, it is more a police action, he explains to me, and feels perhaps we have overstayed our welcome. “And what are the motivating factors now?” he asks. He adds, “When we get into questioning the motives, after a war, when they are not clear, it is perhaps time to leave…” Dennis being a Vietnam Vetern knows a little bit about how it all works; and here in this poem, he paints his picture of war, the Iraqi war, and how he sees the colors of war through color crayons of a little boy.

The Color of War
[Iraqi: war poem]

I saw the other day—
A little boy coloring away
(With crayons) in a sketch book;
With every colored pencil
Under the rainbow—
And then some…

And when I took a second look
I thought of the Iraqi war
(American and Allied soldiers)
And all the colors it stood for:

Red was for the blood they’ve shed;
Gray, for depression of their families
Far away…
Blue was for sad skies;
Black and white, for death and life;
Green, for the spoils we’ve not seen;
Brown, for the dray and dusty nights
All the solders had to fight—on
Foreign ground.

I pleaded, for the boy to stop,
Surprised, he looked up at me—
With his deep blue eyes, haunting
Me, he said, with a tear on his cheek:
“I wanted to color the soldier’s feet!”
I looked and there it read: ‘Peace’
Already colored-in, with gray:
Said the boy still looking at me:
“That’s the way it came.”

#1371 6/16/06

Lima’s Devouring Winter Dew

The mist of the pacific flows cool and fair—
On city streets that are far and near
With haunted blows, from Lima’s shadows.
Ah! Its pale magic mist now fills the air

Here I sit, at El Parquetito’s café
With a splendid delightful cup of coffee
As the phantom sun awakes and sweats
Trying to peek through Lima’s wintry cloak!

#1376 [7/5/2006] Written at EP Café, on a pale winter afternoon in Lima [July], Peru; dedicated to Rosa and Enrique, who had the pleasure to look up into this drab misty sky with me in Lima at 1:00 PM. Then after lunch, around 2:00 PM, the sun came out, but our lunch was now over. Wintertime in the central part of Lima is pale; with misty grays a lot of the time. And when the sun comes out, you got to bottle it, or run to it to enjoy the few hours you will have it. Winter’s in Lima are ‘Pale Dawns’ all day long, or can be. That is because you sit almost on top of the ocean. In farther out areas of Lima, the sun does come out. So today I was inspired to write about its bleakness, whereas, I normally write about all the positives; yet this can be taken as a positive, because when the sun does come, I parade around like a wild duck trying to suck up all the sun’s rays I can get.

Sipan’s Valley Tomb

What is it in thy grave? That bleeds your sacred name

Of bygone years: Once long-forgotten in

A midnight tomb

Foredoomed!… Now resurrected for mankind.

O turn thou head to me In whose empty eyes I see,

Eternal legends! For I know, no need for thy

To say anything.

Ah, your hour did flee Ruled across the Sipan Valley:

That old glory lost in years Now remembered…:

Returns motionless—;

As the sun grows bright Once again, over Sipan’s tomb…

today, is yesterday’s sunset

Renewed…!

#337 5/2/06 written at El Parquetito, Lima, Peru; notes: in April I took a trip to see the tomb of Sipan, and its surrounding environment [Northern Peru]: its tombs, and its pyramids, and its valley; all seemed to carry a force, a hidden force in the sands. The bones of the Lord of Sipan are in a nearby museum, and a replica has been put in its place; this dread, can also be felt, as you stand by the outside tomb, some fifteen feet deep, as you look into it. The Spirits are annoyed to say the least. The Lord of Sipan, equal to King Tutankhamun of Egypt (so it has been said), equal in its worth of a great discover that is, dates back to 200 AD; it was originally discovered in l987, thus, it is a newer discover, like Caral, in Northern Peru, discovered in l992 (the site dating back to 3000 BC). The tomb has been replicated to look as it did on the day of discovery: five bodies within the tomb, with all its royal attire; it is a moving site, nonetheless, even with the original bones of the Lord of Sipan, taken out for posterity’s sake.

Poetry Tips




Here are some tips that come to mind, things I use in poetry, and perhaps do not always use, and should:

1—I find [or believe] a ‘fact,’ in poetry, is not poetry, nor can it move the mind’s eye, thoughts, and one’s imagination.

2—I find repetition is, or can be effective, or can be valuable, but not when it shows the lack in, or scarcity of the imagination.

3—I believe, the use of semicolons and commas become or can become hideous, or hazardous if not used wisely. The poem can reek with wrong [ly] breaks.

4—I also believe in genuine poetry, or that, genuine poetry should vibrate; there is a vibration that exists, one needs to find it and use it. A kind of force; or something to carry it; most poetry does not emerge from the page it is written on.

5—Poetry I believe must have been felt as a personal experience. Again I do think the great lyrics (most of those I’ve read, and considered great) are clearly simple in diction.

Note: Fact with truth: modern poetry, has what may be considered an invaluable element to it, but it is nonetheless, the way life is, it is almost a requirement nowadays, as priceless as it is, it costs, and it resides beyond the mind, beyond thought and expression, idiom, appearance, and I hate to name it (as you may already know) it is called: good advertising, like a product, to put it over. Thus, poetry then must be unusual and sensational, a burden it must carry to the first step of the ladder. And when all the good poets are dead, we will find no more truth, I dare say, only detail and reality.

King Toledo of Peru, vs. El Perro [The Hero dog]


Here is my new poem on the Hero of Peru, I do hope the King of Peru, Toledo, does not get mad, for the new hero has taken his throne away for a few weeks, the spot light I mean. But before I give you the poem I shall simply update you: El Perro (the dog), who has a name, ‘Lay Fun,’ to my understanding, was a watchdog on duty, and he killed a robber. And to the public’s dismay, the government, and Toledo is the Government in Peru, wanted him crucified, but some group came up with money and lawyers, and saved the dog from his doom, destiny, to a national hero of the month status. This of course, took the focus off the King of Peru, which Toledo, whom is on TV 7/24 I think. I doubt Sipan got as much attention as this little fellow got; I’m not saying he’s a bad king, he is Inca, so I know better—save, I could be roasted alive for writing this. Plus, he does like freedom of speech, and Americans, a few attributes not plentiful in South America nowadays, so I give him credit, and applaud. But on the other hand, I think his spouse (whom is out of control most of the time) ran off with a bunch of mummies to Paris or London or some place to cash in before the king steps down in a few days from his throne. So, having said all this, here is my little poem, dedicated to King Toledo:

E Perro—the Hero [of Peru]

There is hero in Peru these days,
El Perro, ‘Lay fun’ they call him
(I think it’s a he)—He killed a
Robber, I hear say, and he went
On trial the other day, for dog
Slaughter they say.

The Republic of Peru, took
A stand, and lawyers saved his
Dog, hide from the man:
Now he’s the hero of Peru,
I thought this could only happen
In America, I was fooled.

#1396 7/24/2006

Fifteen Poems Out of Iraq

By Dennis L. Siluk
Dec. 13, 2004

(Dedicated to the freedom fighters of Iraq: in particular the Iraqi men, children and women; also, the American, and British Soldiers ((and the pint-size Coalition))

Pain and the Whip [#1]

If you are feeling no pain; and you do not see the whip (the whip of the strongman looking down from the clouds): why is it? Now ask an Iraqi the same question, and see what you get. Possible: “We feel the gust behind our necks, and the pain has never ended.”

(Isn’t it great to be an American?)

#413/12-2004

Blind World [#2]

Faithlessly the world hid, hid from the strongman of Iraq. We saw all the signs of desperation (and turned our backs). We hid (for twenty-years) completely within— like a fossil in petrified wood.

#414/12-2004

The Evil-Coalition [#3]

The inner ear was mute— it is so good at doing this—the United Nations has adapted it for Iraq. As has its evil-coalition: France, Spain, Germany, Russia and China (and half of America); but they can hear the syllables quite well in: bribes, contracts and oil. I think Saddam got them spoiled.

Human sounds: the crying of women and children; food for oil, while the evil-coalition took all the spoils. Recoiling sounds, never made it around—never pierced the deaf ears of the evil-coalition. As they walked on water to their United Nations positions.

#415/12-2004

Friends [#4]

Friend: they all call everyone friend at the UN; and put their foot, but not their heal, everywhere.

How is it that they do not love Iraq? They see their world, but not them. Without the United States they’d have no friends.

#416/12-2004

Holy Ground [#5]

Yesterday was like every other day. I got out of bed, turned on my computer and read. Tried to find some beauty in current events especial in Iraq.

I seen hundreds of Muslims kneel and kiss the ground—; building over and over again; as the world looks on.

#417/12-2004

American Soldiers in Iraq [#6]

The American soldier in Iraq changes everything. There are no thorns to hold them back: freedoms knocking at their door.

I’ve heard it said American Soldiers shouldn’t be there by those who would befriend the evil-coalition.

By folks like Robert Bly, that would rather give a lecture and not blink an eye on the Iraqi’s who have died—died, tortured, under past regimes (cannot anyone hear their screams?) How greedy we are to keep our freedoms to ourselves.

But the windows are open now, there is no wall to fence them in; they are neither ‘those nor them.’

#416/12-2004

The Question [#7]

Go to sleep Iraq, taste the freedoms on your back. Twilight has no secrets—anymore. People are running to and fro…. Two worlds with different doors; one that leads to democracy, the other that leads to scorn. Run, run fast, before the UN cracks your back.

#417/12-2004

The Hand of the United States [#8]

When Christ returns, he will be on a white horse, with a sword in his hand, it will not be a flower my friends. And so we march on to meet Him, as a warrior, no less than He would have us be.

They try to define you Iraq; radical or not! They wonder about your motives a lot. In the United States they say: ‘There is hope,’ and you are that. But not everyone knows how others think. While the world hides: grab the hand that is willing.

#418/1-2004

Note: created out of protest for the war; the author believes the war was right and just (proper), even against world opinion, although he does not believe we should be rebuilding the whole country; he believes it is not the job of the conquers to do such a task, especially at the expense of American tax payers; plus on biblical grounds [Ref: Old Babylon; and the Book of Revelation]. And he believes it is wise to bring the Americans home as soon as possible. We have almost accomplished what was necessary.

------------





Poems On Iraq [Dedicated To The Freedom Fighters]


By Dennis L. Siluk
Dec. 15, 2004

[Dedicated to the freedom fighters of Iraq: in particular the Iraqi men, children and women; also, the American, and British Soldiers (and the pint-size Coalition)]

The Spectator [#9]

(The Birds)

How would you know the cries of the Iraqi’s? when you simply turn your TV on and off (channels fixed for football and planting flowers, cartoons, Jay Leno and David Lettermen’s night talk shows, poking fun at hurting folks; no better than the insurgents; making amusement at everyone’s cost: no blood in their face: no shame. It’s not what the birds sing—in Baghdad.

#418/12-2004

The Spectator [#10]

(All Eye)

The eye sees, sometimes like a snail; a snail climbing over a dead body in Iraq. The ear translates sounds, but cannot talk, like water over rock. If all you have are opinions from the media, you do not long for conviction; stay in your hole, stir on…; better to lay down and fart out an egg.

#419/12-2004

Sensitivity: children of Iraq [#11]

It is too bad we cannot taste the tears of the children of Iraq—out of their dusty eyes. They hear their own voices when they echo back, (when I think of them) not knowing foe from friend. In this poetry I’m never sure what I’m gong to write. It can be a very silent subject with quill and mind; so many answers from so many minds.

#420/12-2004

The Soul for Iraq [#12]

The soul is the character of a person. It has a big job—more so than the eyes, and ears, the voice and even the legs of a person. LOVE comes from the soul: everything else vanishes; so if we give to Iraq, lets give soul.

#421/12-2004

Gloomy Faces [#13]

How easy it is in so many countries to see ones road, ones life path, that is set in for them. Hard to move a person from it, against the cold that blows—. “Leave my prosperity alone,” they say.

But the worms are the same in Iraq, as in Europe. They sit silently waiting for dawn, a new day, beginning. When we die, we are like the worms, waiting for a new dawn, what will we say on that silent day, to the worm gatherer?

How marvelous to look out my window and see so many gloomy faces—go to Iraq and complain.

#422/12-2004

Europe’s Dust [#14]

[And a little in Canada]

Most devils have now gone to Europe more dust to hind themselves in, and there is no wind. With feminine hooves they stand, side by side with their mates, as if to celebrate the dust inside their heads; Canada’s no different. The hoofed devils find it hard to believe, how easy they are to lead.

#423/12-2004

Europe’s Favorite Son [#15]

The Europeans play with Iraq, like a gang of school kids trying to inflict terminal doubt, throughout the schoolyard.

They never have looked seriously at Iraq’s will for freedom; but rather like a mother whose lost her favorite son (Saddam).

#424/12-2004

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An Old Man In Baghdad


By Dennis L. Siluk
Dec. 18, 2004

[Poetic Prose]

How many people must die in the name of peace?

In Baghdad, the birds are not singing, softly, like in my backyard; men and women walk guarded all around. An old man, a public man sits in a park. He’s been in the trenches of course; he’s heard the hounds of war. He’s not over seventy yet. Just watching, a smile, his lips quiver—burnt-out fire in those old tired eyes. ‘How many people must die for peace?’ he murmurs.

“What an experience,” he mumbles; restless, moving about, his body not able to slow down. Only he knows what he is sorry for; ashamed of. He had killed many things that had been lovely in the world. There was a reason to his thinking. It didn’t matter anymore. There were tears in his eyes, “I’ll never talk about it again,” he sighs.

“No one comes out of war untouched,” he groans, looking at the hounds eating scraps of rat meat. “The war, mud—muddy people, how did I live through it,” he grunts. He looks about, solders, solders, everywhere, ‘…grab your moment, do your loving,’ whispers the old man. He chants, ‘In war you get to hate all people, it is only the bystander’s yelling peace.’

“The bystander, the spectator, they forget, forget—that for every dead man’s life, you put out a light, a life beyond them.” This is why the old man was weeping; a soul, American or Iraqi, or who knows—souls tossed out of their bodies and thrown to the desert winds. These were the images he brushed aside, now looking down, alone with himself, down for the weeping dead, all now anonymous, reduced to a dead pulse for him.

The warm air of the park hung motionless over him, as he swallowed the sounds of shifting feet, resting his back on a tree, falling slowly to sleep.

#426/12/16/04

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Earnest Hemingway: Poet Or Novelist?


By Dennis L. Siluk
Dec. 20, 2004

I got a lot of Earnest Hemingway's books, many First Editions. Did you know he started writing poetry in l912 [couldn’t have been much older than 19 or 20, if that], and never stopped until l956, and as we all know, he died less than a decade after that, a suicide case, all history now of course? I’ve read a lot of poetry, although that does not make me an expert, but I do know who I like and do not like. But first things first, as a historical fiction writer, or non-fiction writer, he made his mark, and was good at what he did; yes, he was worth his salt; even if he had excessive dialogue, and short sentences, and a few misspelled words in his first editions [but most people do; Faulkner had 50-errors in one of his books, and Joyce it took 13-years to wipe out all the errors he had in Ulysses]. Nonetheless, “A Movable Feast,” is one of my most cherished books. And although I have his first edition of “The Old Man and the Sea,” I can’t stand the pace; when all is said and done, I think he could have written the book as a short story of 6,000-words vs. his 21,000/24,000. I like the book, “Across the River and into the Woods,” written in l950, he was sneered and jeered for that book, but I liked it, and he fell in love—to understanding—with one of the main characters of the book

(But again I can’t blame him; Faulkner had a mistress on the side so I’ve heard and some black blood in him from his great grandfather ((good for him)). Anyhow, he had to prove himself, so he wrote the Nobel Prize winning book, “The Old Man and the Sea.” Again, I prefer the previous. But as a poet, how does he fair in my eyes is what this ‘overview,’ is about.

How can I put this: with poetry I do believe he needed God’s help, and alas, God never gave it; need I say more, no, but I will; by the looks of things he used poetry to get out his emotions out—at any cost, which is good, and in the process though, he made a joke out of it; but again I must say, so did Dr. Seuss. I think Hemingway slammed every poet alive to include Graves, Stevenson, and Kipling to mention a few, which is fine, since I’m slamming him. He also used it to vent against his Christian views; he criticized them in essence; I wonder what he is doing now, I don’t think too much criticizing. But again, it was his way of dealing with stress and pressure, and getting mad at God for allowing two wars, and why not God. I mean, God didn’t’ start them, but I think he wanted Him to stop them; something like that. But why should God stop them, when man would just start them up again; that would be my view, if I were God. I’d kind of think: you made your bed, now sleep in it. But we all try to punish God for our own dirty lives, like the gays, and aids, and all that crap.

I use, I know, a few bad words now and then, but read his poetry and you get a massive structure of swear words to express his emotions that could hold up the Empire State Building. Reminds me of Allen Ginsberg [a nasty old poet], but Hemingway wasn’t that bad. His short stories, most of them I don’t care for, like Joyce’s and Sherwood Anderson’s; not half as good as O’Henry’s, or some of Fitzgerald’s. So I always end up back in Paris, with Hemingway, and “A Moveable Feast.” Although “To Have and Have Not,” was a great movie, the book didn’t sell that good, and I suppose the reason for it being a great movie was because William Faulkner did the screen play. Oh well, we can’t have everything in life can we now.

------------

Hymn To Darwin


By Dennis L. Siluk
Feb. 1, 2005

Lead us by the nose, take us
Down the path of endless roads:
For gloom, confusion and despair
Who cares, lead anywhere!
Who can guess better than thee?
Lead us to your vacancy.

Wrong or right there is no quest
For Darwin knows the very best!
Tomorrow we shall hoot and rave
Never knowing we are slaves—:
Slaves to the mighty whims,
Of Darwin’s Evolution.

Bury God and the ghastly Devil,
Hell and Heaven just as well;
For we have thy Hymn, of Darwin
Better than a Fairytale—.
Ah, yes! –yes, where will it end?
By and by, it will be man.

The Poles


By Dennis L. Siluk
Feb. 24, 2005

I am human because

Of ice

On both sides

Of the Earth…

Currents make us

Warm or cold…

Water flows

The way the Gulf Stream

Goes…

Should Greenland disappear

So would the thick ice

And cold air…

Solar energy warms

The atmosphere

The ice starts to melt

Shiny ice reflects

We’re cold again

(my friend, I’d guess)…

Salty-evaporation

Flies into the air…

The wind takes the heat

From the west to the east

Thus, it sinks

And so we start over

Again…

Water sinks

It stops flowing

Now where does it go…

—To the North or South Poles?

There is more to this poem

Than meets the eye

Or mind

An ice-free world

Is a possibility…

Climate change

Could mean many things

It is all about balance and heat

I think….

------------

Poets And Their Mental Disorders


By Dennis L. Siluk
Mar. 6, 2005

Well, it shouldn’t be any secret, most poets have some kind of mental disorder. If that doesn’t sound familiar, just do a case study on any of them. Just for information sake, I’ll mention a few of the poets I like, and what I think was their mental make up, maybe I’ll even add myself into the picture, see how brave I am. So on one hand I may give my personal diagnosis on these poets, on the other I’ll leave out the prognosis, for most poets are guarded and it is hard to do. So empirical data is what I shall go by, that is others empirical data, and their writings.

Poets like Hemingway, and Dylan Thomas were all alcoholics, so we can attach an Anxiety disorder along with that obsessive-compulsive craving. Most poets are bipolar; we that is to say, have a few ounces of mania and depression to both sides of their personality, inwardly and outwardly. The bad thing with alcohol and depression, the more alcohol you drink the more depressed you get, one feeds the melancholy, to a deeper disorder.

For the suicidal caseload (of which I am not one), we got Hemingway again, Ann Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Thakl [The German poet, died at 27]; and a few more I’ll add in later. Some with organic personality disorders, like myself, and others with anxiety disorders, NOS/Neuroses]. George Sterling, one of the great poets, also committed suicide at a young age; in having I believe a bipolar disorder.

Schizophrenia is also another disorder not contributed to physical conditions to my knowledge, as would be organic type disorder. But a many poets fall into this category as we’ll for many with the bipolar disorder; Schizophrenia is simply boarder line with them.

In my early studies, and that was many years ago, I had to study Abnormal Behavior Patterns, for one of the many psychology classes I had to take, before I got my license to counsel, and it is impressive, if not annoying to see how many personality disorders are created by the organic type diagnosis. I had to deal with a verity of schizophrenia type cases also, finding most were above average at one time in intelligence, but catatonic stages whipped them dry, or paranoid type episodes sucked them into a vortex they could not get out of; often times leaving them with affective features.

But let me go on with the poets in general. Alcoholism, excessive drinking, addiction, drugs, opium barbiturates, they all play a role as psycho-stimulants, and have their down fall for the poet; no poet lives long on drugs or alcohol that is for sure. Although I do believe James Wright had some kind of mental disorder, a Minnesota poet, and did drink a lot in his day, died in l980, at the age I think of 53, it was cancer, like Clark A. Smith, who was a great poet, and H.P. Lovecraft, all dying to my knowledge of cancer; all three loners, reclusive to a high degree; possibly all with bipolar disorders; others with limited ability to interact, other than superficially with workers, supervisors, and the public in general; and when they did, it was normally brief at beast.

Robert E. Howard, after his mother died, committed suicide, he was a great weird writer, but his poetry was superb. As was Victor Hugo’s; Hemmingway’s poetry, of which I have little of, was arrogant, satirical, so his suicidal world was plagued from the start I do believe, by not only paranoia, for he did believe the FBI, as well as Castro himself was after him; thus he would fall into some alcoholic psychosis area/infection. Believe it or not, James Joyce was a great poet, the rest of his crap you can throw in the garbage. I do believe I could place him in an odd category called transient situational disturbances. Even Theodore Roethke, was a known manic/depressant, but good poet. Neruda, a poet from Chile, had two strange sides to him likewise. Ginsberg, was homosexual, and had his share of bazaar lifestyles, with Williams Burroughs, who could play the poet, but was not a real one in my eyes. So you see here, we got a pot full of crickets.

So it comes down to: do we have any sane poets out there? I doubt it; and if they are, they are most likely not giving you the Picasso in poetry they’d like to give, because they can’t. I could mention many more poets, but these are the ones that come to mind, lest we, and we should not, forget Emile Dickinson, and V. Woolf, both strange in their own backyards.

------------

Ambrose Bierce (Poet Or Political Activist?)


By Dennis L. Siluk
Apr. 19, 2005

I’ve read Ambrose Bierce’s historical short stories concerning the Civil War, and some were most interesting; and I am sure he was a good reporter during that era--likewise; but a poet he wasn’t. I am not sure if political poetry is of any use to anyone, which I find tucked away between almost every stanza of every poem; so I say again, a political activist he was with his poetry; and not sure if it is of any use to a reader of poetry: lest they find themselves hard up for poetry. I have never found any use for it, nor has anyone else I know. Robert Bly, whom is a real Poet, has used it to get his protest and view on and for the Iraqi War across, which spoiled if not soiled his skills and reputation in so doing so; they do more damage to poetry than good. But than folks like Don Swaim, feels real poets like George Sterling, are a lesser breed than he, not sure if he has written any poetry, or just read it, but he feels qualified to degrade him; he says in so many words: if he had wrote like George Sterling he might have committed suicide himself (how kind he is with his unfamiliar spirit, leading him); Ambrose Bierce did similarly (suicide), he disappeared into South America, why? I would guess, for the same reason Sterling committed sucide, to lock himself up in a world he couldn not endure outside (kind of like, having a house without windows); But then, maybe Mr. Swaim is ahead of the game and knows more than all of us, that being, the art of poetry, imagary, and even more than his beloved Ambrose Bierce, who felt Sterling was his superior in poetry; glory to the hound-dogs.

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Two Poems:Two Poems:
Dedicated To Islam And The Chinese Poets

By Dennis L. Siluk
Dec. 12, 2004

Overbearing
[Dedicated to Islam]

Many come by me walking
I shan’t remember but a few,
For those who came overbearingly
I have forgotten you…
…
…

It is like the bobbing of a tree
Bowing in a storm
I remember not the wind at all
Once the storm has gone.

#407 [12/10/04]






A Few Hours More
[Dedicated to the Chinese Poets]

New eyes An old man
Cow bells ringing on cows in Garmisch
The Valley of the Mesa Verde
The fish-fry in Beijing
On my plate of life
Appear many things…
A war that never goes away
Music and poetry that helps me
Live each day…
My bookcase is filled
My lamp is warm
I see night approaching
As I read on…
The birds are now gone;
So much I notice now—
Things, things I never did before.
Along the road of life I’ve learned
There are many, so many doors.
Tomorrow, I know:
I’ll still hear those cowbells ringing
In the Garmisch winds;
How marvelous to have been part
Of all of this, I’ve lived—;
To have been…
One of so many…that might
Have been, and was.
I am what I am, just a
Breathe on earthy shores—
Content as a fish, I might say
With a few hours more.

#406 [12/11/04]

"Overbearing," and "A Few Hours More"

Three Summer Poems



1) Summer’s Song

Enter July, happily,
Summers here, and fair
Fancy-free, and young heats beat
With lovers everywhere!

Bright and dark eyes, smiles sweet,
Some tears along the way,
But ‘Winter’s gone,’ and
Summer’s here,
Laugh your troubles away.

#1392 7/17/06




2) Summer’s Edge

With you, my thoughts are sweet and dear
And my heart is trouble free, but
I sit and let the seasons by
Looking out my window frame—,
And wonder with my heart stretched thin:
“Is he in Paris again?”

#1393 7/17/06



3) Pretense Friends

They shook my hand, and smiled clear
They spoke with check and brow,
And all I heard was what they said:
“We’re friend forever now!”

And they were playful and mild
Who whispered lies to me back then,
The soul that grows in July,
May never mend again.

So young I was, and unwise
And so many a hearts, they split,
And little did they realize
They were only pretence friends.

Who brought me silly talk in June
Shall meet a bitter end,
For July is nearly over now
And my heart has yet to mend.


#1390 7/17/06 Written at El Parquetito’s in Miraflores, Lima, Peru; if visiting Peru, stop by the café and say hello to Dennis, he is usually there writing something, having a cup of coffee, busy writing over some Lomo Saltado, with a coke. Rosa

"Who" [Dennis Siluk’s first poem]

Who made the earth:
who made the sky,
who made the clouds,
burst inside—?

Who made the moon
and stars that glow
—He’s my Lord
my love, in my soul.

He gave man light
to live and see;
He gave man dark
for a silent sleep.

He gave us feelings
and choices to use,
and we can plan them
as we choose;

But most of all
He gave simple laws,
such simple things
with great causes!

For when the day comes
and it will sure be:
when flesh and bone
meet gravestone—

Our heart and soul
will be judged as one!


Note by the Author: “Here is the first poem I wrote, to my knowledge, dating to 1959. I discovered it after my mother had passed on, in 2003; I had reviewed it I see my notes on it in 1980, so I had not seen since 1980 to 2003, some 23-years. My mother always read my poetry when it was simple and plan, and to the point, when I was young. I was back in 1959, eleven (11) years old, perhaps closer to twelve at this time. In this poem, it expresses I do believe my faith in God, Jesus Christ. It was written while I was living on Cayuga Street; I was I do believe sitting on some stairs leading up to our attic where me and my brother slept; we live in an extended family, with my mother and Grandfather. Perhaps it was my escape from the tough neighborhood I was living in. In 1958, we had moved from 109 East Arch Street, to this new neighborhood, at 186 Cayuga Street, St. Paul, Minnesota. My brother was perhaps fourteen at the time, or going on that age I suppose.
So for the first time ever published, here is my first poem, out of 1400.”
[Dennis Siluk’s first poem]

Old Man Jay [Poem: written 1960/61; #8, Jr. High School Days]


Old Man Jay
lived in the trees
Old Man Ja
had ten mph shoes
Old Ma Ja
had a secret
Ol Ma Ja
could not forgive the self
Ol Ma J
had it under control

To different trees
he conveyed each night:
his hopes, and wishes
under the sky’s light

Ol M J
walked twenty mph
O M J
asked for forgiveness
o m j
spent all his time
trying to control
being out of controlling.

No one noticed
No one knew
that he existed
but…. o w j.

And because
he couldn’t
control,
his heart gave away
he died at thirty-three,
the city’s newspaper read:
“Vacancy!”

Note by the author: “Perhaps this should remind me (rereading this old poem after letting it sit for 25-years, and writing it 45-years ago), that when we are kids, we are displaying our gifts, if only we could see them; here I’ve noticed a pattern of diminishing letters, and the psychological melt down; perhaps that is why I majored in psychology in college, and a minor in literature. We think we are doing strange things, when we are not, we are doing, or writing what is inside of us, what we feel is important. Control is a major power player in any part of human behavior; in the Army, or family, or place of employment. The Government, the word power never rises as high as control I do believe. Influence is based on leadership, but behind leadership is control, and behind that is power. This poem was written in l960/61, number #8, while attending my first years of Jr. High School, at Como Park, in St. Paul, Minnesota.”

Mr. Ground, the Hog (A Poem written during my Jr. High School Days))1960;#7))

Old Mr. Groundhog
who always seemed
to be around,
playing with us kids
from sun up to sundown
lived long ago, in the city
of St. Paul, Minnesota;
yes, the land of much snow.

With the city’s children
he’d play each day,
in parks, in every kindly way;
a legacy carried over from
his father’s day.

He became well known
all around, here and there,
the envy of parents,
who really didn’t care;
who had no time to play,
but shunned their kids out,
and would swear:

‘…there’s that crazy old man
that lives down the street!’

Note by the author: “Here again is a poem from my youth, another poem unpublished, and found tucked away in and among my many papers lying about, and for the jest, or better put humor of it, I have placed it in this collection (of six recently found poems, from my first years of Jr. Sir High School days, and two poem from my Sr. High School days). I’ll publish them one by one, and most likely put them into a future book, but for now you can read them first. This one here, “Mr. Ground, the Hog (1960),” was written I do believe when I was twelve-year old ((12 years old)). This is poem number #7 of #1390 poems to date written.
I first started writing poetry at the age of eleven, my first poem being “Who (1959),” which I found three years ago, after my mother had passed on. I will publish that also, which has never been published before and: “Typing (1962 #15),” written in 1962, and published in the book, “The Other Door,” my first book, and the “Beyond Man (1964 #17)) written in Journalism Class, at Washington High School, 2nd year, I was 16-years old;” also “Old Man Jay (1960/61 #8)) written during my attending Como Park Jr. High School, in St. Paul, Minnesota. So there is a little history here. During this period I wrote between 17 and 20, poems, the rest I’ve yet to find.”

Epigrams #33 (Witticism: to Wake Up to (in Spanish and English now))





1—

There’s an old saying that’s quite true:
‘If there’s a will, there’s a way,’ alas,
Make sure you make room for a way
back though.

6/2004

2—

People don’t choose their fears—;
their jealousies, envies and hates,
they do.

3—

The secret is not that an alien race
has come to earth to visit us, it is in
that, it dies on a sunless planet,
someplace in nowhere.

4—

The Human Origins: possibly is
a mixture of ancient genetic mutations
and a face lift from Homo Habilis,
to the Homo creatures we are today.
But who did the uplifting?

5—

For every effect there is a source;
and who shall have the right to
possess it? It is a good question.

And to kill a killer, you must be
a more sever killer, or be killed.

6—

For every effect created
there is a price to be paid
by the population that safe
guards it.

7—

Faith believes, it also trusts—,
and it also tests.

8--

Evil breeds evil—thus,
the initiator has something
to look forward to… 9—

There are things more powerful than Hell
and its demons: it’s called: self-interest.

10—

Sometimes we’re in the mouth of the whale—
and still other times we are running from the lion;
seldom are we in the jungle undisturbed; thus,
when it comes about, we must grab the moment…

Note: Epigrams: 11 and 12 written 1/2006

11—

Tragedy

When there is pain
It becomes more important
(for some reason), when
happiness is nearby.

1/25/2006 [#1105]

12—

Cold Displeasure

Cold Displeasure leaves a man twisted
so tight it gives him exasperating absentee
thinking.

1/28/2005

Note: The following two Epigrams on
Character [13& 14] were written: 2/1993

13—

Character #1

I hasten to say—
Statements into man's character
Also refers o his soul!...

14—

Character #2

Character is often molded more by
[induced by] self interest; thus,
leaving man chained to a clock
that is about to crack.

More: Epigrams: 15 and 17 written 1/2006

15—

Imagery Poetry

Poetry: Imagery—(or, Imagination) in
poetry, is the life and character of a
poem—lest you clip its wings and
call it cosmic….

#1122 1/29/06

16—

The Living Ears

They stand along side of me,
those ears, filled with sounds—,
hand-made speakers (reversed)
by some angelic being; they
stand, those sea-faring twins,
my brethren, bringing their
emerald sounds into my head.

#1123 1/30/2006

17—

Barred Windows and Lost Shoes

In a world of figs and power-brokers,
Satan runs after poets; thus, I can’t
apologize for what is truth, but poets
always seem to be looking for a lost
shoes— save, they don’t jump out of
windows first…!

18—

Was God a boy scout? No one
thinks so but Americans.

#1136 1/06

19—

Believing in one religion to
another, because it was given
to you at birth, or at face value,
is like marrying in haste and
trying to make the best of it.

20—

An Ideal

An ideal (your ideal) remaining an ideal
within one’s self, until it becomes a
public nuisance (becoming annoying
to others), is your own fault if there is
a price to pay.

#1135 1/2006

21—

The Double Flag

What can America say to the world?

It hasn’t said already? —with
it’s granite walls, and pilgrims rock;
for its civilization has no one flag, it
has them all. And so it shares its
flag with the world!... (where we’re
all from).

#1129 1/2006

22—

Advice for Mice

I’ve leaned for myself, my senses
are better than my mind [thinking or
deliberating]. And another’s advice
bears self-interest; thus, what can
I do? Die as you will; pray as you
may; and avoid in-laws who have
more say with your spouse than
you.

#1130 1/2006

23

Character #1

I hasten to say
Statements into man’s character
Also refers to his soul!...

2/1993 [#1146]

24

Character #2

Character is often molded
More by (induced by) self-interest
Thus, leaving man chained to a clock
That is about ready to crack.

2/1993 [#1147]

25

The Outside World

Perhaps we are not supposed to have
contact with the world (s) outside;
what can it do but bring us conflict:
distort, possess, alienate—yet, it seems
to be part of our inexhaustible needs.

#1148 [1/2006]

February Epigrams

26— Part one and two [#1157] 2/2/2006

Time

If I find anything unforgivable,
it is squandering of time, in
a world we have so little of.

Wasted

Being unhappy is the norm
for some people; to point it
out, is simply throwing gun-
powder into a fire.

27—

Don, John and Me

Don said he was going to beat the crap
out of me for screwing his wife. He even
chased me around the pool table in the bar;
then I said: “Ok, let’s fight!” I tried to explain
that it wasn’t me, but he said John told him it
was. The following day, I said to John: “Why
did you tell Don such a lie?” And John said
to me, “Because you’re tougher than me, and
can beat him up.”

#1158

28—

Christ and Taxes

We kill a million Christmas trees to
celebrate one man’s birthday each
year, he is special of course, and is
worthy of this ritual. And some folks
have complained; but to be quite
honest, the IRS, cuts more down for
taxes.

#1162 2/2/2006

29—

The Old and Dying

When my mother died it was like blowing
out a candle, almost as if she was ready
for a vacation; when death comes, I hope
it is that simple; perhaps living was much
harder than dying for her; plus she had
Christ in her corner, she felt safe. She
wanted to go, so she told me, thus it
proves the old and dying are the wiser.

#1162 2/3/2006

30—

Scheduled Poet

Hopeful poets die hopeful,
standing around waiting to
give poetry readings when
they could be living—getting
high off of life.

#1199 2/11/06

31—

Emptiness in Kyoto

God created man from emptiness,
Who created form from the emptiness—

God used—and the ‘form’ had eyes,
Like the sea had islands; and it was good.

#1200 2/10/2006

32—

Delightful Rebellion

…many youths are drunk

with rebellion—
as if welded into it. My
advice is: get off the drunken
stage, before you fall off.

#1204 2/12/2006 Dedicated Ximena H.P.

33—

Cold Eyes (Haiku)

The Devil wiz’s along
The edge of earth,
With cold eyes.

#1206 2/13/2006

IN SPANISH
Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Epigramas
(Un poco de Ocurrencia)

Nota: Epigramas: 1 hasta 10 escritos 6/2004

1-

Hay un viejo refrán que es casi cierto:
“Si hay un deseo, hay un camino”. Ay de mi,
Sin embargo, asegúrate de hacer sitio para un
Camino de regreso.

6/2004

2-

La gente no escoge sus temores-;
Sus celos, envidias y odios,
Ellos lo hacen.

3-

No es un secreto que una raza extraña
Haya venido a la tierra para visitarnos, esto esta
En eso, esto muere en un planeta nublado,
En algún lugar en ninguna parte.


4-

El origen de la Humanidad: posiblemente es
Una mezcla de antiguas mutaciones genéticas
Y una expresión disipada de Homo Habilis,
Y las criaturas del homo somos hoy.
¿Pero quién hizo incitar?

5-

Para todo efecto hay una causa;
Y ¿Quien tendrá la razón para
Poseerla? Es una buena pregunta.

Y para matar a un asesino, usted debe ser
Un servidor mas asesino, o será matado.


6-

Para todo efecto creado
Hay un precio para ser pagado
Por la población que resguarda
Esto.

7-

La fe cree, esta también confía-,
Y también examina.

8-

El mal crea mal-así
El creador tiene algo
Para mirar hacia delante.

9-

Hay cosas más poderosas que el infierno
Y sus demonios: esto es llamado: interés propio

10-

Algunas veces nosotros estamos en la boca de la ballena-
Y aun otras veces estamos escapando del león;
Raras veces estamos nosotros en la selva tranquila; asi,
Cuando esto ocurre, debemos de grabar el momento..

11-

Tragedia

Cuando hay un dolor
Este llega a ser más importante
(Por alguna razón), cuando
la felicidad esta cercana.

1/25/2006 (#1105)

12-

Frió sinsabor

Frió sinsabor deja un hombre torcido
Tan firmemente le da al ausente pensamiento
Exasperante.

1/28/2005

Nota; Los siguientes dos Epigramas sobre
Carácter (13 al 14) fueron escritos; 2/1993

13-

Carácter #1

Me apresuro a decir-
Los comentarios dentro del carácter de los hombres
También se refieren a su alma….

14-

Carácter #2

El carácter es a menudo moldeado más por
(Inducido por) intereses propios; así,
Abandonando al hombre encadenado a un horario
Eso es, cerca de sufrir una crisis nerviosa.

Lord Canary [Written while in Social Studies Class
At Como Park, Jr. High School, 1962]


Lord Canary—
(Not sure why we call him that)
A teacher at Como Jr. High,
Teaches us students about mirrors,
Mirrors, mirrors, everyday,
Simply yelping on and on…!

Common sense is never given
In this class of Social Studies
[Not in the least];
All us students would like to tell him:
“He’s Crazy!”
Yet, he’d simply go on and on,
Anyhow, about those blasted
Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors:
Reflections of mirrors,
Anyway…!

But came the day,
(As all days do—)
He yelled with dread,
While looking in a mirror
And said, “Oh my gosh!”

We all (us students) saw him as a
Chirping Canary, and so we drew one
One day, right there in our classroom
On his blasted old mirror!!



Note by the author: “This poem was written in 1962, while I was attending Como Park, Jr. High School, Social Studies class, bored out of his mind, as was every other student. I wrote this poem, until now unpublished (and recently found among my old papers), as you most likely will agree, as it should be, was written with a teenagers hand. But for the fun of it, I have added it to this collection. This is perhaps one of my first twenty-poems (#17).

Wars, air of Ambiguity [in Spanish and English]

Dedicated to 1st. Lt. Laura Walker
(From an old soldier/Vietnam Veteran)

[Advance] We fight in foreign lands not because we necessarily love its culture or land, but because we believe in pragmatism (life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness); simply as it may be, it can be costly.

The Poem:

We all lose something in war
And sometimes gain something:
Idealism, physical, cynical
(no blood in the face),
Psychological, innocence—;
We’re all victims of violence
For sure… (accepted or not).

A character in a book dies in
The clap of an eye—,
In real life, it is not so simple,
No dreamy solution.
It is the duty of the soldier to kill
(Or accept being killed);
Just when, is when it becomes
Complicated?
Disillusionment creeps in…,
As does an air of the unknown.
In war there are only epigraphs;
Death, to a part of the human race
Is really what takes place?
It starts as it ends, with
The human effort exhausted.

There is nothing more admirable
More brave, more flawless,
Than one who gives their existence
For another’s—especially in
A foreign land! for pragmatism…

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Guerras, aire de ambigüedad

Dedicado a la 1r. Teniente Laura Walter (De un Viejo soldado/ veterano del Vietnam)

Por Dennis siluk

(Avance) Que luchamos en tierras extranjeras no porque necesariamente nos gusta su cultura o tierra, pero porque nosotros creemos en el pragmatismo (la vida, la libertad y la búsqueda de felicidad); simplemente como esto, puede ser, puede ser costoso.

El Poema

Perdemos algo con la guerra Y a veces ganamos algo: Idealismo, físico, cínico, (Sin sangre en la cara), Psicológico, inocente-: Todos nosotros somos victimas de la violencia Pero seguro… (Aceptado o no).

Un carácter en un libro muere en un abrir Y cerrar de un ojo. En la vida real, esto no es tan simple, Ninguna solución, soñadora. Esto es el deber del soldado para matar (O aceptar ser matado): Solamente ¿cuándo, es cuando se hace Complicado?

La desilusión entra sin ser sentido Como un aire de desconocimiento. Con la guerra solo hay epígrafes: Muerte, para una parte de la raza humana ¿Esto es realmente lo que ocurre? Esto comienza como termina, con el Esfuerzo humano agotado

Nada hay más admirable Más valiente, más impecable, Que uno quien da su existencia Por otros, especialmente en ¡Una tierra forgion ! por pragmatismo

Note by Rosa: I don't know much of war, my husband was in one that is all I really know, but in my heart they are the brave, who are willing to give to strangers, freedom, at the price of their own lives. And I think Mr. Siluk sums it up quite well in this dedication poem.

A Poet, Dennis Siluk if you wish to see his website please select another article, poem or short story of his, it will be on those...

Six-Poems from: The Other Door

Note: Written in l981, not previously published, written while in West Fargo, North Dakota.

The following poems from the l981 book:


“The Other Door,” author’s first published book [poems 69-74].




1) Grandpa’s Vision
[Pink Elephants]


He said he saw pink elephants
[At the age of eighty-three].
They said he was unnatural—contrary.

They said oft, “How can you see
Such things…ay! Abstract visions”
And worried [wondered] for whose collision?

He said one day, back to stove,
“I know what’s real and me,
So if you doubt what I vision,
Come, join my world—there you’ll see.”



2) She Gave All

She told her secrets
And told him all her cares—
She was stripped bare.


3) Hades Fire

Hell is not kindle
But living, secret mistakes
And future heartaches.



4) Lovelorn


A woman in love…
Ah! Triumph is in conscience
If ill will befalls.



Written in St. Paul, Minnesota, l979-80


5) The Cardiac Acclamation

To die old and bold
Is to die with venial sin
And fertilely win.


Written in Alabama, l979




6) The Roar


Light broke the frosted clouds,
Yielding the silver swan as it swam
[With a borrowed hand] through its brow.

And for these foe—the seagull—
No more could be heard
Over the roar of the bird.

Then as evening assailed—estrangement!
Atmospheric glaciers dehydrated,
Alienated amazement!

Thus, passive dependent thoughts prevailed
As the plot sailed!
Now with cue, one knew

The reason God raised his hand,
The real psyche of man.

Poems of an Inner City [Minneapolis, Minnesota, 1980s]
Poems of an Inner City






Poems of an Inner City [Minneapolis, Minnesota, l982]


Note: The following 7-poems were originally published in the Minneapolis independent news paper “Insight”, between August 12, l982 and January l983.


Index/Outline

58-1- First Avenue [August 12, l982, Vol 9, No 22)

59-2- The Big Henn -epin Avenue [[September 23, l982, Vol 9, No 25]

60 & 61/ 3-&-4 - Bus Stop No. 1 and The telephone Hood [October 21, l982, vol. 9 & No. 28]

62-5- Elsie’s Christmas: back in ‘32 [December 16, l982]

63-6- About 10:00 PM [January 6. ;093]

64-7- Ritual --on First Avenue: Mpls, MN [January 20, l983]

These poems were written as the author hung around the corners of Hennepin Avenue in Mpls in the early l980’s. Most of the buildings have been replaced now, and the whole area has a new composure. And so these poems may provide a piece of postarity.




1- First Avenue:

I saw a man die yesterday
--A man I never knew--
With all the dignity of a dog,
He died at twenty-two

He lay face down on a sidewalk
Two bullets in His flesh:
His black skin absorbing the sun
Observers, motionless.

O! I know it’s not uncommon
For such a happening
Within a crowed asphalt city
Where people are just things

But then it hard to submit
--even with our morels and mores
A life taken so simply;
When after--the unspoken door.

The paper read: “1 man dies…22
Shot and killed…First Ave…
From…Oklahoma…7 P.M…
Outside ‘a bar-called Gem…”

I heard the killers got away:
The motive--
It was hot that day…


Note: I had stopped in the bar, call Gem that day. And was walking down the street when I heard someone running. I turned around and heard a shot, one man ran up to Hennephen Avenue, the other down the opposite way. The man dropped about 15-feet from me. The ambulance came within 12-minutes. I did a lot of drinking and bar hopping back then. It was a very hot day.



2- The Big Henn-epin Avenue [Mpls, MN ‘82; 7:15 PM]

On your street Mr. Henn…
By 7th -- in an archway [hall]]
Marked “Magazines…”
To a passer by -- a stranger calls:
“A joint my friend;
Something else then.”

Between 4th and 8th -- Hookers
Rest their feet --
In your busy taverns;
While cops walk their beat
Looking in.

And outside a hamburger stop
A cluster of provocative
Use unlawful talk.

Then in a car-lot in back of
An Inn -- six argue
Over a fin.

Along 6th Avenue a block away
A Wino picks up some butts
While being accosted--
In the light of day.

A’d by a parking meter
Not far away -- an old Vet
Waits for prey.

Down on 1st -- walk two young studs
--Checking out cars
For a neighbor - run.

A’d on all the bus stops
Within this square --
Tax paying people--
Watch and stare.

At 9:15 --it’s clear to see--
It repeats its - Self by three


Note: as I had mentioned above, I would walk the streets back then, at night. I was working, divorced, and into what was happening. I lived in St. Paul, and played in Minneapolis. I guess there is a time for everything.

In this next poem, I can remember many times waiting by a bar, or inside a bar, or in a building in Minneapolis, for the telephone. And it seemed every time I was on the phone, the person waiting would stand two feet from me listening. A way of saying lets gets going. What provoked this poem was one day I was on the phone, a lady stood the two-foot distance I was mentioning from me. I looked at her odd, as to say step back. She would not. So I told my friend I’d call later. I got off the phone. When the lady got on, I stood two feet away from her. It really irritated her. When she got off I asked how she like it. She simply gave me a discussing look, and got away from me. Thinking maybe I was a crazy. Then I went to the bar, sat down after that experience, and wrote the following poem, called: “The Telephone Hood”. It should be noted, even though these poems were published in the news paper, I never have given a commentary on them. So you are the first to get a little back ground. Although, they can be self explaining.


3-The Telephone Hood

Something I’ve noticed
And never understood
Is--a Telephone Hood.

You’ll be in a restaurant
Tavern or shop--
S/he’ll be Five-feet away
And feeling they should;

Staring, mocking--silently
Thinking their Mr. Bell System
You see.

But then it’s their turn--
And supposedly -- WELL
Understood

Their phone call is private,
Personal--get away
Telephone Hood!


Dedicated to the Telephone hoods in the downtown area of Minneapolis, Minnesota.


4- Bus Stop No. 1

His cheek-bone
Contracted from swelling;
His neck, three shades of red;
His temple, an open wound--
With,
Blood oozing sown His
head;

His clothes
Textured with soot;
His eyes, pale with death;
He
Stands--this young lad--
By bus stop number one,--
On
The corner of sixth and
Hennepin
He curses the by-standers
For staring, not helping;
He laughs with gestures of pain;
And
Carries on, and on, and on--
With vulgarities.
As I approach with empathy
I take a helping stance--
I rush to a near-by tavern
And call an ambulance.
As
I return to the walk
I notice He’s walking away
[laughing, joking, kidding with
Friends];
A police officer looks my way
With five words to say:

“We’ve done our deed today.”
Three
Days pass
He’s back again
The same corner
With a bottle
Of Gin;
I think now--Should I, I
Befriend?
For He’s calling Wolf again:
This ugly looking human shock
--That happens quite a lot--
On
Bus stop+ 1...


5- Elsie’s Christmas
(back in ‘32)

A note about the poem: Elsie is my mother. She loved Christmas Trees; decorating them. She is today 81-years old. She doesn’t decorate them any more, but Christmas time, the buying of gifts, the cards and all, seem always to be the best of the year for her; and of course Christ’s birth. I wrote this poem in December, l982, and it was published on December 16, l982. Now, almost 20-years later, I re-discover it, and share her memories with you. I remember talking to her just prior to creating the poem. I asked her what came to mind. And when I gave it to her, she care for well, keeping a copy in her bedroom drawer.


Part I

It was back in ‘32
When a paper-doll would do--
Icicles, wooden shoes.

And just about Christmas
Time--I remember--
I’d be huddled
With a brother, sister
Friend…
On a street corner
Watching fire-engines,
Street--cars, --Racing
Through town--
On cobblestone streets,
Where children sang songs.

And not far away
Was an orphanage
--I recall--
St. Joseph’s (in St. Paul):
I spent some time there
After Ma died;
But it never got me down--
Remembering how she loved
Christmas year-round.

O! how I love Christmas time--
With all its beauty and rimes;

With the horse drawn sleighs
And old street lamps,
The Salvation Army
Ringing their chants.

And each Christmas
I’d walk with dad
To the market place--
Hauling a Christmas tree
Home that same day;
Dressing it with tinsel,
Bulbs of all kinds.
Listening to the radio,
Playing Christmas chimes.


Part II Elsie’s Christmas [l982]

It’s now ‘82
Times have changed;
More Santa’s
Are doing their thing.

Artificial Christmas trees
Year round Christmas socks;
More children on skies,
Snowmobiles in the parks;
More toys, TV’s--
Parking lots;
Christmas cards that seem
To talk.

Festivals of merriment,
Ice-fishing on lake
McCarrons;
Ice Castles, Parades --
Not quite the same,
Not --
Quite like ‘32
But it’ll do.

But the church bells
Haven’t changed;
The white snow-flakes
Still remain; and
The North Wind -- still howls
With a whispering chant.

O! how I love Christmas time --
With all its beauty and rimes;
Like back in ‘32
When a paper-doll would do.

Part III

Some things will never change
Like back in ‘32 -- we all knew:

In a stall in Bethlehem,
In a land called Judea
2000-years ago--
A baby child was born, called,
Jesus Christ our Savior.


Word count: # 989/re-edited 2001

Added new version: Part IV

Elsie’s Christmas--2001

O! the fun has never stopped even at 81
I watched her as she watched me
Open my gifts a few days ago, as if
She was but ten

Still the love for Christmas lays
Deep within her heart
Like back in ‘32,
When a paper doll would do.


And although she can’t reach or walk
Like she use to way back then
She still can wrap them gifts

And so this is my story to you,
A Christmas at 81, for my mother,
the whole
Year through…


6-About 10:00 P.M./I met a Demon
(San Francisco, l969)
Poem deleted for present



7- ritual – on first avenue (mpls minn)

How shall I write
This poem with tears
Fears scholarly years
With love?

In a pub on first avenue
By fifth its 9: 15 p.m.
I’ sitting on a wobbly
Wooden stool
Sipping light cold beer
Thinking thinking
This is where its at
The new now me
Generation crowd
Comes goes

To support their
New now me atomic
Basic needs

The bar-tender says
The same sir “sure”
He smiles…no tip
He’ thinking now
I think he’ thinking
Next time buddy

Music diffuses throughout
Bubbling complaints
All about
Politics religion girls
Sports wrongs
A million sold I bet

I’m thinking of a poem
A poem poem to write
Something peaceful

I say but who would
Understand
In this world of
Forced-fed complexity

No that wouldn’t go
Be read

A picture on the wall
It’s staring at me
Crowded skies dense mist
Surrounding its terrain
Realism I say!

But that brings pain
Too hard to live with

Maybe a sonnet haiku
Something with rhymes
Stress’ metaphors
Similes classical
Flowery psychological (?)

I now look sown at my
Light cold beer
I must have been sipping
Sipping sipping
It’s nowhere

My ash-tray is filled
Butts butts butts
I believe there’re mine
Everyone’ busy
Pretending I bet

Body’ bottle’ and minds
I doubt they notice mine

I know! A universal
Subject
intoxication

Silver Shadows [Dedicated to Nora May French] Elegy

I have vainly sought love and lost, yet wait—alone
I must fall fathoms-deep, before I find it, this I know

And to my sweet, but broken heart a silver voice replies
‘Like a butterfly: death will take you, and make you alive’

There will be no repentant eyes, nor broken wings,
Only a moment of faith, from hours of heart felt tears.

Oh tangled winds, with silver wings, do bring, do bring
This fallen bird, eyed with light, eternal love and night!

Do bring, do bring, silver shadows, to this lifeless thing,
Then I will sing, sing, in the far off hung sea waves—

I will sing, sing, in the gave, to the sea’s harsh heartbeat,
And as our voices meet, farewell, farewell to humanity;

The sea morns with grief, brings to me its mystery—
I hear it calling, calling, with untroubled, misty eyes:

I hear it calling, calling me: “Come, I will set you free!”
Fathoms deep my echoes reach: ‘I follow at thy will!…’



Notes: #1387[7/12/06] Died November 7, 1907; born: 1881 in New York State; attended UCLA; associated editor on the ‘Argonaut’; Poet, Journalist, killed herself at George Sterling’s (Poet of San Francisco) home at Carmel by he sea, by way of cyanide, November 13, 1907.