Poetic Tender Riffs (three poems)

Here are a few poems I wrote today, in the process of writing them, I wanted to give them all one common name, because it all came out in one long afternoon chain of thoughts (so I named them: “Tender Riffs”), as I sat under the sun, my coffee in hand, and eggs and steak nearby, at my favorite outdoor restaurant, in Lima, and the waitress (Sarah, brought my food, said “Mr. Siluk…” meaning stop whatever you are doing and let me put your food on the plate, that is what she was thinking, not saying, and what I was reading, eyes tell a lot. Her hands patiently hoping I’ll finish my stanza quick so she doesn’t have to hold the tray much longer. I have to always finish the sentence you know, or the stanza. My wife, Rosa, is under the big yellow umbrella, I sit under the sun—she likes the shade. Then after I eat, finish eating that is, back I go again to see if …whatever is needed gets it (2-18-2007):


1) Angel or White Shadow (Surr’el)

My guardian Angel—
I’ve named you—Surr’el
I hope you don’t mind

I’ve never heard your voice
But I’ve seen you—
At least one time.

I’m the one you’ve protected
For so many years,
You stood, beside my bed once…

(when I was dying, almost gone…
and I got a glimpse of you—
tall and white and broad:)

You are my white shadow
Who I wish to meet someday,
I have thought of you often…!

#1696


2) Flyover

An F16 Jet, flew over our heads
(on my way to the café, today))
Several times, like a Roaring lion))
The earth moaned under my feet,
As I walked the neighborhood,
Lima, streets…folks were outside
Sitting, watching, listening…numb,
Women, with hands over their mouths,
Absorbing the terrifying sound…!
After the flyover (a military air show I hear),
The jet now out of sight, I look back at the
Two women, still they remain in fright…
And the others, speechless…!

#1697


3) Rosa’s Newspaper

She tucks the newspaper—tightly
against itself,
Taps it on the table, to insure one section
Is even with the others—as if she’s going
To give it a rest (and drink her coke,
Perhaps talk); then she—Rosa, my wife,
Opens it a second time, and reads it
Again (not sure what the tucking
And the tapping was for) but now she
Adjusts her eyes to the small print,
With her new glasses—‘Guess’ (squints)
And grips it as if the wind may move it
(what wind, I ask…myself); She’s firm
in her posture,
Glances onto the next page (doesn’t notice,
I notice her)) I think…?). I ask,
“Anything interesting?”
“No,” she comments, and then adds:
“There is a man in Pakistan he blew
himself up….”
She glances at me now (as I write
this down (stoned faced) unaware;
Then she shifts her eyes back to the paper
and continues to read again….

#1693Three Poems) "Angel...." & "Flyover" & "Rosa's Newspaper"