Thursday, December 23, 2010

Poems of Our Soul (by D.L. Siluk)

“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates,
admires, and exalts.”

Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009

Poems of Our Soul

Selected Poems (Volume Four)

Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Andean Scholar, and Three Times Poet Laureate

Parts in English and Spanish, Illustrated

Poems of Our Soul
((Selected Poems) (Volume Four))
Copyright © 2012 by Dennis L. Siluk

All Illustrations by Dlsiluk, except if otherwise indicated
Front cover is of the ‘Circle of Giants,’ in the Golan Heights, of Israel, a drawing by the
author who has visited the site

Back Photo by Rosa Penaloza de Siluk; and all English translated into Spanish by
Rosa Penaloza de Siluk

Photo-painting, of Larco Mar, by unknown person, credit would be given
If his or her identity were known (taken from the internet)

Dr. Siluk’s books are available: United Arab Emirates, Australia, Belgium, Bahrain, Switzerland, China, Germany, Spain, Finland, France, Hong Kong, Indonesia, India, Japan, Kenya, Kuwait, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, Netherlands, New Zealand, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Thailand, South Africa (to include: throughout the United States and Canada, and England)

Notes: For those who have read Mr. Siluk’s poetry, his natural private imagery, perhaps more on the nonacademic side, you will discover what he is trying to do is, tell how it is to be alive today, about the present, saying: ”This is a state of mind one should visit every so often.” He uses powerful descriptions and intense imagery to have an effect on the reader, he implies “…that’s the job of the poet, to effect!” Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

This is the author’s 45th book, and most versatile, resourceful. He lives in Minnesota and Peru with his wife Rosa. the author with Garrison Keillor National Radiobroadcaster, author, poet, and storyteller; they met at the World Theater during a poetry reading, February, 2005, in St. Paul, Minnesota. And
Present Alan Garcia n Lima, Peru, May, 2010.

“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.” Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009

I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your short story, “Uni’s Street Corner” in Lake Area Business this month. Thanks for sharing this wonderful piece!! Gloria Stafford, Minnetrista, MN

“I received your book “Last Autumn and Winter”…. It's beautiful you have really captured Minnesota. And I love that it is in Spanish and English. … Thanks so much for sending this treasure to me Dennis.”

Gail Weber, Editor and Owner of “Exploring Tosca” A Minnesota
cultural magazine (5-25-2010)

The Synergy Group Recommended Reading (April 2010) pertaining to topics on Behavioral and
Emotional Health, the book: The Path to Sobriety…” by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

C o n t e n t s
† The cross indicates the work is in:
Parts in English and Spanish

1— Many Windows
((A Poem - "Bringing it together" with Commentary on Form and Structure)
(Written: 2-2010; from the book “The Cotton Belt”))) Published in the cultural
Midwestern magazine “Exploring Tosco,” Winter Issue, 2010.

2— Wounded and Maimed:
Coming Home Soldiers Poetic Prose
((Mpls, MN) (observations at the VA Hospital)) No: 2711/5-29-201

3— In the Valley of the Beast†

4— A Cry from Pakistan

5—Winter Smoke
No: 2692 ((5-16-2010) (dedicated to Mike and Zaneta H.))/CE
A Donkeyland Poem

6— the Lost Millennium
[A short epic poem]

7—The Bulls of Bashan (A Prophetic Poem/revised) In Poetic Prose; Written 8-8-2010

8—Common Sides
No: 69/1981 (North Poetry Review)

9—I See the Boys
((Of Donkeyland) (Written: 4-2008)) From the Manuscript “The Donkeyland Hooligans”

10—Grandmother’s Plot
(Dedicated to Ella Siluk—1900-1933)

11—Spring Cleaning
(A 1960s, Minnesota Poem)

12—In My Time
(Written at the Chicago Airport, in Poetic Prose) (Unpublished, written: 2-2006)) †

13—Lights, like Fires
((In the Tunnels with the Miners) (in the Mines of Volcan)); in the manuscript: “Poetry of the Miners”)
Written while in Cerro de Pasco, Peru; 7- 2007 †

A set of Poems on Grieving a Mother
(Written in 2007, four years after her death
Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk, 1920-2003) †

15— Man with the Cross

16— Sailing Away
(A Poet’s luck)

17—Siege of the Gaza Flotilla


19—Sense or Nonsense
Ten New Poems of: Sense or Nonsense

20—Little Bird Voices (Lima, Peru)

21—My Baby (Or: Mother of the Sky)

22—Letter to the Haitians
(In Poetic Prose, for the Haitians)

End Pages

The Works:
Reviews, Acknowledgements and Biography of the Author
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

See the Spanish Version at end of English Version


Many Windows
(A Poem - "Bringing it together" with Commentary on Form and Structure)

If I shine or if I'm dull
Little does it matter now?
Days fly by like drops of rain
As I slip an' slide
Past the windows of my life
Down the unseen highways!
I stand looking out my windows
Little do I think or say
Blue, yellow, green and white
(All the windows of my life)
They all kind-of look the same
Kind-of look way too plain...
No matter where stand
No matter what I say
No matter where I go it seems
A Poet's vanity, will never change
Like dirty windows, dirty panes,
That constantly needs cleaning!

Notes: Poem No: 2662 (2-18-2010): this poem was inspired after seeing the painting By Christine Tulgren, "Bringing it Together"

Commentary (on form and structure): When you look at something, you are looking at what is a structure, and the structure is made up of parts, like a book with chapters, or a poem with design, or a painting. The meaning of the word structure sounds—for the most part, as "fitting together..." something. The most obvious part of structure—that we normally look at is called elements, the basics; in the painting of Ms Tulgren, "Bringing it Together," one can see way the lines fit together into a shape or pattern (for me they are windows, zooming by, like drops of rain, in place of days; at least to me this is the 'why' or part of it). To somebody else, the painting (or perhaps poem of mine), at first glance has no form to announce—the relatable question might be: "When does it take on this form that amazes you to want to buy the painting or cherish the poem, or finish reading the book?" I'll answer that question in a moment. We must remember we are psychological beings first; but second: some writes prefer rigid forms, as do some artists: exact words, exact lines, exact everything, an extra syllable here or there, a brush stroke here or there, paint within boundaries, paint outside of boundaries—thus you get a psychological perception: the point being, the poet like the artist demonstrates his skill to the reader or observer when they can feel the pleasure of an obstacle overcome (if this makes sense, then buy the book, or the painting or put the poem on the wall); hence, the reader, the poet and/or the artist, we all succeed.


Wounded and Maimed:
Coming Home Soldiers
((Mpls, MN) (observations at the VA Hospital)) No: 2711/5-29-2010

Among a few men come trailing down a hospital corridor,
one man among the few pushes a wheelchair—that looks like a coffin,
in it sits a torso.
Legs are gone from the hip, from his hip,
yet the upper part of the commanding man lives,
nothing more, nothing more and nothing less.
My brain centers and my speech, and my bodily rhythm are broken
I gulp down his growing awareness, as if sucking nectar threw a straw
and watch this young man, soldier, come trailing down the corridor
(broad stalwart, strong sturdy hands, burly shoulders, once big— ;
brave clean-shaven face, wearing a skullcap.)
From an intersection, a crisscrossing crosswalk, they meet,
another young soldier, pale to white, without arms,
and legs amputated at the knees—being pushed the same,
there’s a sign on the back of his wheelchair that reads:
“Baghdad Rats!”
What I’m creating here seems to be a poem but it’s really an emergency
we’ll elect a new congress and president soon—I have to confess,
they’ll say what they need to say to be elected
end up being party to all this…again, and again and again!
—there is no end, wars without a crisis to the Nation!

On the front of the wheelchair of the first mate, I read:
“I’d like to walk pal, but I just came from Hell.”
We’ll elect a new congress and president, soon, I confess,
who will resell all this: a crime, the crime of all times!
—there is no end, wars without a crisis to the Nation!

There they both sit, in wheelchairs, supporting themselves:
one by his arms, the other armless swings his body to change his seat,
a young soldier pale face, legs amputated at the knees.
Another soldier walks by; his arm stumps carry a letter:
where’s the media, the media, the protesters, I protest?
It’s not like it used to be, protesters all over the place,
on buses, and marching on streets, they’re all asleep
in these two wars (Afghanistan and Iraq)—
waiting for someone to take a picture, take a peek,
who’ll smash down the door? They’re simply waiting, sleeping!
Tell the munitions manufacturers no more ammo
for this week, that week, the next week! Then the war will end.
Too many soldiers lying in the hospital beds, too many wounded, maimed!
The Armed Forces must have good salesman, organizations, perks!
These two wars seem not to have any knee jerks.

I have to shake and scratch my head—everywhichway
and think, just think, thinking on an empty stomach.
I see a sign that reads “Food, Cafeteria—this way!”
(“Food, food, food, food…” my stomach is saying.)
In the cafeteria, the procession drags on, along the food line.
Slowly I wait, all is still, all is nil, and everything has a chill
and a few soldiers walk around me, by me,
I’m looking at the jelly, it is yellow, and the chicken it is licking well
still no indigestion, not an accusation, just a statement.
An one-eyed and one-armed soldier pushes his way around me
I say under my breath: “…at least he’s not in that damn wheelchair!”
Other soldiers walk by, in heavy black boots, they move slowly
perhaps thinking of war, and that everlasting darkness: a
snipers rifle registers in my head, I start back up again
follow the food line to its end…so much unbridled wisdom
in the voting process—we’ve created an ongoing crisis for our Nation.
And I, for my part, have lost faith, in the old human race, saying:
for freedom and for faith, faith in our nation, do we fight and stand,
for liberty and justice for this land, they throw it all out to the soldier
like white on rice, as if God, Himself, has given us this command
this unblinking green light,
to change the world and build all red, white and blue
gas stations, coke cans in every store, an American Soldier at every door,
and I’m a war Veteran, and I can’t take no more!

After I’ve finished eating ever more and more soldiers
get up from their tables walk toward me. “The bastards are shooting!”
someone says to someone else, walking by me looking at the someone
as if wanting to shout. They look at me, face to face, faith to faith,
hast to hast—it is a strange moment indeed (they know, somehow know,
I was wounded too—maybe they had noticed early on I had a limped);
then something snaps, they quicken their pace.
His life is a grim for him, perilous—I agree,
he’s surely in a mental state, I am gasping.
My jawbones are tight; I had noticed his lips were pressed tight too,
his eyes are cold and on-edge, his face looks like trenches…like death,
he ploughs his way through a group of women
(where there is back and forth mumblings, whispers, confused din):
some are nurses, others with aprons on, some just soldiers,
and he stumbles along with an air of secrecy:
as a roar of fury goes on in his head I suspect; now he’s being carried off
with a scornful gesture.
He’s a hanger-on, I confess, who may never be happy again,
the real profiteers, are those that sent him to war,
the so-called middlemen, who know at first hand
the superficially of it all, so I’ve learned, and they’ve labeled:
“For America’s Safety, Liberty and God’s Will…”
Those fellows make immense profits, of course,
and because of those swine, we have to live with a bellyache!
I say under my breath, “Perhaps he’s better off in a wheelchair.”
And I think: wars without a crisis to the Nation are bad,
they set a wrong precedent, and I think and confess:
we’ll elect a new congress, a new president, soon,
who’ll become purvey to all this.
The cafeteria is starting to fill up again with people,
like wild wounded bloodhounds!

There’s music, women, dance and song, going on in a room nearby…
People huddled in a corner; wounded, so wounded they cannot leave
the hospital, be taken elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere but here
and this is where they’ll die.
Someone’s holding a drink to a wounded man’s lips,
too bad it’s not brandy, it’ll calm his wits—I tell myself.
The wheelchairs come in and out, with hoots and screams,
cheers and shouts, in the background…
that’s all I hear as I walk by awaiting my appointment.

And it comes to mind, once I read, that God said,
“All those you speak of are dead,” but what was He really saying
or telling this certain person…?
“The swine no longer live? And they will be judged.”
All the dirty people will be submerged, swept away, devastated
on judgment day—if not sooner? And he will send forth his soldiers
and all this will be ended, it will be finished—?
That it already has been written…it’s just a matter of time.
I think I’ll stick with the statement of: “The swine…”

This poem will not bring change, yet I bellow it to you
all the same, with incredible hope,
if there be any understandable words, let them be…:
that we need to reset our brain centers, for we are deceived,
and I do believe, we are higher than Darwin’s remarkable apes
and monkeys, higher than their fingertips—or are we just becoming
a global lynching mob with intercontinental missiles
that will crisscross the world, to make our dreams
and enforce our laws?
(To have all those: red, white and blue, gas stations, on every boulevard?)


In the Valley of the Beast

Agaliarept, Henchman of Hell

(In my time :) They were assembled for the feast, the banquet of victory, in the Valley of the Beast, the Valley of Armageddon!

The vaults of Hell now were opened, to assault the nations of the earth: hence, Hell spoke:
‘Cursed is to those who do not heed these words: join us in the Valley of the Beast, for war!’

And so the world sat waiting on war, with blood soaked knees, in the Valley of Beast. And they came from far and near: from bog, valley and woodlands, mountains and the sea; from the north, east; and far-west—brother against brother (to fight for the Beast, in the Valley of Armageddon).

They came from Hell’s abyss, commanded by none other than, Agaliarept, Lucifer’s henchman: with hissing, clutching at the feet of nations, until they cried: “War, war, war…!” And there they stood with flaming swords—and weapons galore, and many died caked with blood up to their thighs, as the fury roared—two billion, two billion died; and thus, the Prince of Darkness was shackled for a season, but he will be back— as it is written!

Note: written at the Café “Tarata” Lima Peru, 5/1/2006 [afternoon, during lunch). No: 1510

Spanish Version

En el Valle de la Bestia

(En mi tiempo:) ¡Ellos estaban reunidos para el festín, el festín de la victoria, en el Valle de la Bestia, el Valle de Armagedón!

Ahora, las bóvedas del Infierno estaban abiertas, para atacar a las naciones de la tierra: por lo tanto, el Infierno habló:
“¡Malditos sean aquellos que no presten atención a estas palabras: únanse a nosotros en el valle de la bestia, para la guerra!”

Y así el mundo se sentó esperando por la guerra, con rodillas empapadas de sangre, en el Valle de la Bestia. Y ellos vinieron de lejos y cerca: de los pantanos, valles y bosques, sierras y mar; del norte, este; y del lejano oeste—hermano contra hermano (para luchar por la Bestia, en el Valle de Armagedón).

Ellos vinieron del abismo del Infierno, comandados por ninguno otro que, Agaliarept, el secuaz del Lucifer; con silbido, agarrándose de los pies de las naciones, hasta que ellos gritaron: “¡Guerra, guerra, guerra…!” Y allí ellos estuvieron con espadas llameantes—y armas en abundancia, y muchos murieron cubiertos con sangre hasta sus muslos, mientras que la furia rugió—dos billones, dos billones murieron; y así, el Príncipe de la Oscuridad, fue hecho prisionero por una temporada, pero él volverá— ¡como está escrito!

Nota: escrito en el Café “Tarata” Lima Perú, la tarde del 1ro de mayo del 2006 (durante el almuerzo) # 1510.


A Cry from Pakistan
(The Great Flood of 2010)

Restless Monsoon rains submerging
The Country under tawny floodwaters
Pakistan’s like a horde of wet flies—dying
From water-born diseases and cholera;
Corpses are increasing—scattering
Throughout this nuclear 3rd world country:
The same place where the world’s enemy number one
Bin Laden is hiding, secure from harm
(I’ll bet he’s not under a tent—but dry and warm!)
Pakistan’s like a horde of wet worms—
Living under tent cities,
Their own country can’t find them, help them (?)
The United Nations, America can’t feed them all
Twenty-million people restless!
The fight, the delirious fight from beast to beast
—to not become part of the living-dead
Out of brutish necessity—suffering
Failing to keep pace, with the need for peace—
“The U.S. owes Pakistan, for helping them fight
Terrorism” a commentator of CNN says
(as if it was counter productive).
“Eat your nuclear weapons,” someone else exclaims!
“No,” says Pakistan “Feed us or we’ll use them!”

Did they ever thing: God sent the rain?

No: 2777 (8-19-2010)


Winter Smoke

We don’t know for sure what woke us—
(Perhaps my dead mother’s voice)
Cold moving winter smoke seeping
Throughout the house, hard to breath,
The world about to leave us…
They wanted to burn our house down—
With us in it—hollowness in their hearts;
My wife screamed for me to wake up.
And she killed the fire with a broom and towel.
I wanted to help, but I seemed helpless.
My own children and son-in-law are murderers.

No: 2692 (5-16-2010) Dedicated to Zaneta and Mike H. CE (2005)


The Lost Millennium
[A short epic poem]

In a corner of the world
There was a land called Sumer
Whose waters once reached...
The Euphrates valley and the
Syrian Desert, its high plateau,
As a result, the mud of two northern streams
Created a delta, with a pitiless sun
But rich was the soil, as anywhere
On earth...and God created man
And man here made his home:
This was the beginning, diversified
By marshes and reed-beds,
Rivers flush with their banks...
After the Great Flood, retreating
Waters and cultivating took place.
Hence, into Sumer the giants of old
Went, degreed a civilization, among
The dark-haired people...sporadically
Circumstances would promote social unity.
And there was Susa, Musyan, Elam
And the Persian Gulf--Mesopotamia;
And Queen shub-ad created style, and
Pottery formed, and temples were born.
And kings came and left, like King
Gilgamesh; and thus came, gold vases,
And royal graves at UR, and the
Sumerian hymn and they hummed
To the gods; and the villagers wore
Garments of sheepskins, and molded
Clay figurines, roughly chipped
From crystal, they wore necklaces
Of this kind, and beads;
This was the lost millennium.
They thought somehow or another,
Virtue was a necessity for the gods, thus
Came sacrifices and the daily ritual,
And spells that bind, hoping to remain engaged
To keep their favor, feast-days came and went,
Animals killed like flies, barbarism, yet
It drew the gods, and mans moral judgment.
Prompt, the gods exercised their power,
And man then started to build statues
To their likeness,
And now human sacrifice found its way,
With magic from the dismembered angelic beings,
Those who gave birth to giant children, and
So it was, an unusual phenomenon came.
Astrology was born, Sumerians now ruled
The skies; astronomical knowledge came
From the gods, and the gods (angelic beings)
Came from the sky: ecclesiastical beings.
Mesopotamia came under Sumerian rule,
And Ur, Lagash and Nippur honored the
Moon-god, and then came more public works.
And it became the Sacred Way,
And the walls of the Ziggurat [Temples]
Were built, sanctuaries, with an inner court,
And doors decorated, narrow chambers,
The holy of holies, shrines, sacred vessels;
It was an unusual phenomenon...
This day and age...platforms, brickwork, statues
Gods and goddesses, oil-jars; a lost dynasty.

#1522 10/19/2006


The Bulls of Bashan

(A prophetic Poem)

“I am the punishment God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”


“I am the punishment
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”

home to the
Angelic Renegades,
the dark abode
of torment,
torture and agony!

Given to those who
left their first abode,
who shed their house
from heaven—,
That heaven gave,
for flesh and skin,
to cohabitate
with earthly women,
who gave birth to those Giants of Old,
called the Nephilm
and Rephaim—
in those far-off days,
in the time of Noah,
whose sons
at the Circle of Rephaim:
Stone Heap
of the Wildcat!

The very ones
to be released
from Tartarus,
cast into the end-days

((that everlasting place
of woe and darkness;
now restraint in chains
only to return
to get revenge—
the angelic renegades)
(here they wait,
in that pit of darkness
with their sons of old—
the Bulls of Bashan,
and the demonic foe))


“I am the punishment
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”

These giants
of old
were bold:

Greek Titans,
partly celestial,
these were the Nephilim,
the Star People—
the ghosts,
the spirits,
the dead ones,
the Bulls of Bashan…
the Lord cried:
“The Bulls of Bashan…
have weighed down
my earth…”

(says He
who speaks
in Psalms).


“And then I saw the Legs
of mud” said Daniel.

And they were of miry clay—
made of dust,

And there the world was,
without boundaries
Global terrorism—
nuclear proliferation,
a cosmic threat,
a new world order
a new horizon.

Don’t be surprised,
the Nephilim are alive.

They, they are
the men of miry clay
(the dead
that once
were of heaven’s abode,
the old,
the cold ones,
mixing with iron…
to no resolve).


Like in the days
of Noah!
(From the roots
of Gaza, and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
were left to fight…)
and now,
comes again,
this beast!
And the Trinity
cries in Psalms,

“The kings of the earth
are against us…
how silly can they be!”

O somehow
aim to throw
off the shackles
of God—
an unpalatable

“It is because the Rephaim
will not be resurrected,”

says Isaiah
in those far-off days—

“…and so it shall be
soon, as it was
in the days of Noah!”

(From the roots
of Gaza,
and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
will come to fight.)

“So shall the end-days be…”

reiterates Jesus.

What on earth
did He mean?

The return
of the
Angelic Renegades:
into the window
for their illumination,
the enormous window
of everyday life
(look for Zeus—the
False Gods are coming),
the hologram:
that was,
and will be,
the three
dimensional map
for us earthly beings,
the “B’nai Elohim’
this hard cold breed
of angelic beings,
the Nephilim—
are on the rim
of earth
ready to integrate—
the world at large.

And the Lord cries out:

“Your gods are here…!”

They illuminate:

And the Lord cries out:

“Man appointed mortal sorrow;
but the blessed God shall come
down, teaching and shall the
despair rest and be comforted.”

So do not fear,
but pray,
and pray hard.

And to all those
who profit
by death,
stare into forever
for God has sent

“I am the punishment
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”


there shall be
no order
out of chaos.
And God does not need
to protect Israel,
(or anyone.)

all the shadows cascading,
the New World Order
becomes restless,
and that means
no more Jesus,
and that means,
now more America,
and Moscow,
and Iran,
and Jerusalem,
and the yoke
the White House shredded,
the White House
become thin:
in an angry world,
the President,
an instrument
of God—
to be used for man’s
to initiate his plight.

Says Nostradamus:

“(Your American President)
he is in prophecy—you see,
the Last King of the South
to be: the Great Power,
who came from the dark
side of slavery.”

As people
were drawn to Hitler,
so they will be
drawn to Him,

“…but be aware of the power
given the Dark One:”

says Nostradamus—
the Antichrist
is near…!

He is
by those hierarchical

which can descend
any ordinary mortal—

a common
unsanctified man.

Says Timothy:

“In the last days these will be
very different times:
for people will love
only themselves…
They will be boastful
and proud, scoffing at God…
ungrateful. They will
consider nothing
unloving and unforgiving…
they will betray their own
friends…puffed with pride…
stay away from people
like them! They are
the kind…they have depraved
minds and a counterfeit

the leopard
comes up out
of the sea
((Obama) (USA))

last king
of the south.

He will provoke Russia,

look in the
Book of Revelation,
Chapter Thirteen.

I stood upon the sand
of the sea,

and I saw
a beast
rise up out
of the waters…

the name was

(the rise of the

And all
I could remember,
and I smiled

“Thou shalt break them
with a rod of iron;
thou shalt dash them
in pieces like a potter’s
vessel.” (Says the Lord)

Notes: references: Jude 6; 2 Cor. 5:2; Josephus Flavius; 2 Peter 2. 4, 5, Testaments of the 12 Patriarchs; Traditional Rabbinical Literature; Psalms 22; Revelation 11; Psalms 2:1-3 (The Trinity); Reference to angelic beings “B’nai Elohim”; the Septuagint (written by 70-scholers, in Alexander, Egypt, 15-years to write, Old Testament into Greek Language (see: Genesis 6:1-2 Bene HaElohim “Sons of God” referring to angels, the fallen ones the Nephilim, born of the earth, and the hybrids, their offspring); 1 John 11 and 12; Job 1:6; Luke 20; Obama reference to Revelation 12:1; Tartarus, in Greek means hell, a dark abode of woe. Poem No: 2772 (Written 8-8-2010) Revised in style, 11-2010.


Common Sides

Youth has its age
And age its pride;
One thinks he knows
The other thinks why;
But youth and age
With separate ties—
Have common sites:

Life, death, and quest,
And a hope chest
That never rests.

Note: written May of 1981, No: 69/review by Poetry North, Anchorage, Alaska, by D.A. Sterling, Editor: “(the poem: Common Sides)…very smooth and conveys real feeling….”


I See the Boys
((Of Donkeyland) (1960s))

I see the boys of Cayuga Street; it’s summer (it is in the early sixties). They are sitting on the steps of the neighbourhood grocery store, in the evening it will be the church steps, down on Jackson and Sycamore (with the heat, and the summer winds).
They are talking about the neighbourhood girls chewing on green apples from old man Brandt's backyard—next to the empty lot.

These boys of the neighbourhood—called Donkeyland by the police—are curds in their recklessness! Sweet and sour, like honey on fire: the jacks of folly, with fingers like bees.
Here in the summer's heat, they sneak under bridges, catch pigeons, scale the beams with no doubt; even in the dark they feed their nerves. After twilight, after leaving the church steps they will go down to the train tracks, open up a boxcar empty it out—jump over the cemetery fence, and get wasted with the cases of beer they’ve stole—no doubt.

I see the boys of Cayuga Street, it is still summer they divide the night and day with mental images of what they’re going to do: they got on dark shades; and as sunlight paints in the moon, they are building bonfires in the empty lot (over by Indian's Hill) to party soon.
By the looks of things some will die young, others in the war in Vietnam; still there are a few others who may die old, and perhaps alone...

There, in the night all the houses and everyone in them are sleeping, but the boys in the neighbourhood turnaround (some have chains of keys hidden behind their coats: Mike, and Gary and a few others will borrow cars to ride throughout the neighbourhood tonight, putting on a show).
All the boys, are with their gals, holding onto their bottles of beer, and wine and whiskey: smoking, joking: a fight or two most likely will come about: Big Ace is making loud noises like singing that damn old Black Bird song, dancing hoodwink like—David laughing, I'm somewhere around; it's a hell of a crowd.

4-22-2008 (#2359) Dedicated to the Donkeyland Gang of the 1960s


Grandmother’s Plot

Ella, she was my grandfather’s second wife, the first was a drunk, and she one day up and left—and that was for the best. Both came early on in life for Grandpa, who was ten-years older than Ella. And she gave my grandfather nine-children, nine-children, two stillborn, dead, and then she became dead To no ones surprise and she too was buried in the cemetery nearby. But little of that story is ever told, perhaps too old for anyone to remember. The two of them lie somewhere now, in separate cemeteries.

I don’t know what’s carved on her gravestone—never have known; as though it was by someone’s design—untold, never to be told, buried in some remote corner, if not hidden in that cemetery plot: as if she didn’t belong. And at that, I write this poem.

No: 2694 (5-18-2010) Dedicated to Ella Siluk


Spring Cleaning
(A 1960s, Minnesota Poem)

During spring cleaning my
mother worked the house
as if—she was having a GI-Party:
one of those Army clean-up parties
where everything had to be ‘Spick and Span.’
Every nook and crack in every inch
of the place, clean and shiny. She
moved the furniture around—awkward
as it was—sofa chair, table and television
lifting up rugs—and still having
strength and stamina to wash walls
clean. And in the midst of it all
I often wondered, she never rearranged
the rooms. Perhaps because she didn’t
want grandpa to become disoriented.
Thus, no one had to deal with change.
And no one knew the inexhaustible
efforts she put out (or if they did
no one said a word, nor she).

No: 2695 (5-18-2010)
Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk


In My Time
[Written at the Chicago Airport, in Poetic Prose]

It’s funny how time works, but it works sometimes like this: I’m in Chicago sitting at the airport (at this moment writing this) it is about 6:30 p.m., (February 14, 2006), five people are sitting by me—I don’t’ know them, but they are in my time, just as well, as I’m in their time; as Oprah is, at this moment in my time (somewhere, wherever she is); as Elvis was at one time, in my time, but no longer is, and I am, and he is not. But Elvis was before I was (was he not? Yes of course). And then he and I become, and then was not, or no more. So what can we say about all of this? One of the five people took off, just up and went, up and left. So I will never know if he will remain in my time or not (when I am dead and he is dead, and if we meet each other, we can say, we came from the same time zone, if we have good memories, we’ll remember each other, or he will remember me, I got a bad memory; if we meet that is). We all think it is our time and our time only, when this is not true, the same again: it belongs to all of us. We all get only a portion of it (some more, some less, not much, but enough, we were put here for a few reasons, one was to die—to experience it), and we are all assigned to a process, to spend it, spend our time, like dollars or euros, soles or yen; if you are alert you will know it is called ‘time passing,’ and time does pass us, it will, it has. Thus, we are assigned to spend it around each other; otherwise we’d not have been put here altogether. How we deal with it matters, even though we want to cut off its legs so it cannot walk any further, get away from us, but it does (that is why we get face lifts); it matters even though we want more of it to belong to us, me, you, but it is our time, and again I must say, short at best, long if you are adventurous (and don’t get thinking you deserve more: we all deserve to get less than what we got, so enough with this: why did God take him or her, we all deserve a short day, probable sooner than later). Why? Just because! If it was only your time, you would be on earth alone, so when I say hello to you, it is only because we were assigned to the same time zone, it is as simple as that, its all simply a gift, one we never knew we’d ever have until we got it.

#1209 2/14/06 [written at the Chicago Airport, while my wife was sleeping]

Spanish Version

Nuestro Tiempo
[Escrito en el Aeropuerto de Chicago]

Es divertido como el tiempo funciona, ya que éste funciona algo así: Estoy sentado en el Aeropuerto de Chicago (en este momento escribiendo) es alrededor de las 6:30 de la tarde (14 de Febrero del 2006), cinco personas están sentadas cerca a mi—no las conozco, pero ellas están en mi tiempo, como también yo estoy en su tiempo; como Oprah lo está, en este momento en mi tiempo (en algún lugar, en cualquier parte donde ella esté); como Elvis estuvo en cierta época en mi tiempo, pero ya no; yo estoy y él ya no está. Pero Elvis estuvo antes que yo (¿no? Sí, desde luego). Entonces qué podemos decir sobre todo esto. Una de las cinco personas sentadas cerca de mi se fue, solamente se levantó y se fue, se levantó y se marchó. Entonces nunca sabré si esta permanecerá en mi tiempo o no (cuando estemos muertos, si nos encontramos el uno al otro, podremos decir, vinimos del mismo tiempo, si tenemos buena memoria nos recordaremos el uno al otro, o ella me recordará, ya que yo tengo una mala memoria; esto es, si nos encontramos).
Todos pensamos que éste es nuestro tiempo y sólo nuestro, cuando esto no es verdad, otra vez lo mismo: éste pertenece a todos nosotros. Obtenemos sólo una parte de ello (algunos más otros un poco menos, no mucho, pero suficiente, fuimos puestos aquí por algunos motivos, uno de ellos es morir) y todos estamos asignados a un proceso, a pasarlo, a gastar nuestro tiempo, como dólares o euros, soles o yenes; si estás atento tú sabrás que esto se llama ‘tiempo pasajero’, y nos pasa, lo hará, lo hace. Así, estamos asignados para pasarlo alrededor de cada uno. Cómo lo tratamos es lo que importa, aun cuando queramos cortar sus piernas para que así no pueda ir más lejos, escaparse de nosotros, pero este lo hace (es por eso que nos hacemos estiramientos faciales); esto importa a pesar de que nosotros queremos que más de esto nos pertenezca, yo, tú, pero éste es nuestro tiempo, y de nuevo debo decir, corto en el mejor de los casos, largo si eres aventurero. Si esto fuera sólo tu tiempo, tú estarías solo en la tierra, por eso cuando te saludo, es sólo porque fuimos asignados al mismo huso horario, es tan simple como esto.


Lights, like Fires
((In the Tunnels with the Miners) (in the Mines of Volcan))

The Open Quarry at Volcan

Walls are all I seem to see, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
They just seem to look at me, and stare,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.

I do not know a thing, not one thing about them!
Wherein this deep, underworld maze is the key?

This world down here has a funny sun,
that is all I really know, and see
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.

The tunnel lights are burning bright,
the tunnel lights are a dazzling sight
—at each end, and in-between,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.

They burn and burn, like fires…torching
the walls, of this once, eternal night, here
down here, within the mines of Volcan;

Shadows creep along these walls and floors
ceilings as well—reflections of dotted fires
here and there, everywhere, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.

No: 2094 12-7-2007

Spanish Version

Luces, como Fuegos
((En los Túneles de los Mineros) (en las Minas Volcan))

Paredes, es todo lo que parezco ver, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Ellas sólo parecen mirarme, fijamente,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

¡Yo no sé nada, nada acerca de estas!
¿Dónde en este profundo, laberinto subterráneo
está la llave?

Este mundo aquí abajo tiene un sol curioso
es todo lo que realmente sé, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

Las luces del túnel están ardiendo vivas,
las luces del túnel son una vista deslumbrante
—en cada final, y en el medio;
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

Ellas arden y arden, como fuegos…incendiando
las paredes, de esta una vez, noche eterna,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan;

Así, las sombras se mueven a lo largo de estas paredes y pisos,
techos también, con destellos de fuegos esparcidos aquí y allá,
en todas partes, acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.

# 2094 7-Dic-2007


A Set of Poems on Grieving a Mother

Introductory Poem

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!

Lost Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)

She was getting weaker
the last months of her life;
her blue-eyes lost their
rapture, their chase.
A congestive heart helped take
her vigour away…!
And then, then came, those
long lost days.

12-15-2007 No: 2104

Spanish Version

Días Perdidos
(La agonía de una madre querida)

Ella se estaba debilitando
los últimos meses de su vida;
sus ojos azules perdieron su
alegría, su asechanza.
¡Un corazón congestionado la ayudó a perder
su vigor…!
Y después, después vinieron, aquellos
días largos y perdidos

15-Diciembre-2007 No: 2104

Final Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)

I sat by my mother’s bedside
as death drew near,
and saw her white skin,
turn pale (while in the Hospital).

I wrote a poem a few days
after she passed on….

The first twenty-seven days
of her hospitalization
she talked a lot,
the last words to come,
before the coma.

Out of a window, near her bed
was a July summer blooming…!

In those last days—so honest
she was, she saw angels
in her room.

Each day
(almost everyday)
we talked together—
I, in my droopy melancholy despair;
her, with smiles and laughter,
which filled the room…(with)
butterflies, as she dwindled away.

No: 2101 (12-15-2007)

Spanish Version

Días Finales
(La Agonía de una Madre Querida)

Me senté por el lado de la cama de mi madre
mientras la muerte se dibujaba cerca
y vi que su piel blanca.
se volvía pálida (mientras estaba en el hospital).

Escribí un poema pocos días
después que ella murió…

Los primeros veintisiete días
de su hospitalización
ella habló bastante,
las últimas palabras que vinieron
antes del coma.

¡Fuera de una ventana, cerca a su cama
estaba un verano de Julio floreciendo…!

En aquellos días finales—tan sincera
ella fue, ella vio ángeles
en su cuarto.

Cada día (casi cada día)
hablamos juntos—
yo, en mi exhausta desesperación melancólica;
ella, con sonrisas y risas,
que llenaron el cuarto… (con)
mariposas, mientras ella se acababa.

No: 2101 (15-Diciembre-2007)

Forty-Two days

After my mother’s death
I looked back at the calendar,
it was forty-two days—forty-two days had passed
since we ate cake and ice-cream at the restaurant,
along the banks of the St. Croix River.
Stood out by its fence,
waved our hands at the camera;
my mother seemed to stagger a bit.
I wonder now,
now, if
she knew
she only had
forty-two days left?

Notes_ 12-15-2007 No: 2102: In this poem, the author is referring to the St. Croix River, that flows through the town of Stillwater, in Minnesota, USA.

Spanish Version

Cuarenta y Dos Días

Después de la muerte de mi madre
volví a mirar el calendario,
eran cuarenta y dos días—cuarenta y dos días habían pasado
desde que comimos torta con helados en el restaurante,
a lo largo de la orilla del Río Saint Croix.
Parados por el cerco,
saludamos con nuestras manos a la cámara;
mi madre parecía tambalear un poco.
Me pregunto ahora,
ahora, si
¿ella sabía
que le quedaban
sólo cuarenta y dos días?

Nota.- 14-Diciembre-2007. En este poema el autor se refiere al Río Saint Croix, que fluye por la ciudad de Stillwater, en Minnesota, EE. UU.

Last Day

This morning Rosa woke me up
“What for?” I asked.
I put my cloths on, went to the bathroom,
took a pee, cleaned up (quickly).
I sensed something was wrong,
something, staring back at me…
my mother had died.

No: 2103 12-15-2007

Spanish Version

Ultimo Día

Esta mañana Rosa me despertó
“¿Para qué?”, pregunté
Me vestí, fui al baño
hice pis, me aseé (rápidamente).
Sentía que algo no iba bien,
algo, volvía a mirarme fijamente…
mi madre había muerto.

# 2103 15-Diciembre-2007

A Day of Recovery

After the surgery,
after they cut out half her insides,
she started to recover,
but she would relapse, after a day
(in the interim,
I checked on how much morphine
she was being given).

She wanted me to bring her home,
had a dream she was in a taxi,
and it wouldn’t stop at her house.

She was a breathing, scrutinizing coffin,
just waiting in the bed to die;
she didn’t worry though,
she said: she had lived longer
than she had expected.

Her ardent last awaking days
were full of power and praise.
Talking away on old passionate associations,
of what went before, now eight-three years
old: now brief, calm and bold.

No: 2105 12-16-2007

Spanish Version

Un Día de Recuperación

Después de la cirugía,
después que ellos le sacaron la mitad de sus intestinos,
ella empezó a recuperarse,
pero ella recaería, después de un día
yo averigüé en cuánto de morfina
ella estaba recibiendo).

Ella quería que la lleve a casa,
tuvo un sueño en que ella estaba en un taxi,
y éste no se detendría en su casa.

Ella era un féretro respirando y observando
sólo esperando en la cama para morir;
aunque ella no se preocupaba,
ella decía: que había vivido mucho
más de lo que ella esperaba.

Sus ardientes y últimos días conscientes
fueron llenos de fuerza y elogio.
Hablando sobre las antiguas asociaciones fervorosas,
de los pasados ochenta y tres años:
cortos, tranquilos y gozosos.

# 2105 16-Diciembre-2007

Days Grew Heavy

Days grew heavy throughout June,
of 2003; after the 26th, I knew
I’d have to bear her death.
They bathed her and fed her,
as her trembling hands
signed the last checks
to pay her bills.
Yet she smiled, as
I watched her dying,
failing, of old age.

No: 2104 (12-17-2007)

Spanish Version

Los Días Se Volvieron Apretados

Los días se volvieron apretados durante Junio,
del 2003; después del 26, sabía
que tenía que soportar su muerte.
Ellos la bañaron y alimentaron,
mientras sus manos temblorosas
firmaron los últimos cheques
para pagar sus cuentas.
Sin embargo ella sonreía, mientras
yo la miraba agonizar,
empeorando por la vejez.

# 2104 (17-Diciembre-2007)

Days of Depression

There were days of depression
(for me) waiting for the light of life
to be blown out, after
my mother died…. I knew
I wouldn’t, or couldn’t
commit suicide, but my doctor
and wife, wasn’t so sure:
throwing medicine my way,
to stabilize my brain waves.

No: 2111 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Días de Depresión

Hubo días de depresión
(para mi) esperando por la luz de vida
que se apagara, después
que mi madre murió…yo sabía
que no debería, o no podría
cometer suicidio, pero mi doctora
y mi esposa, no estaban tan seguras:
poniendo medicinas en mi camino,
para estabilizar las ondas de mi cerebro.

# 2111 (16-Diciembre-2007)

A Pretty Good Day

She ate (or had):
soup, Jell-O, chocolate milk
(mostly, tasteless)
the last days of her life.
She was bored, but
comfortable in the hospital;
as she dehydrated—

She’d say,
“Bring me some good chocolate!”
And I did, once—
before the operation
(she hid it from the nurse).

That was a pretty good day.

No: 2112 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Un Día Bastante Bueno

Ella comía (o había comido) —:
sopa, gelatina, leche con chocolate
(mayormente, sin sabor)
los últimos días de su vida.
Ella estaba aburrida, pero
cómoda en el hospital;
mientras ella se deshidrataba—.

Ella diría, “¡Tráeme algunos buenos
chocolates!” Y lo hice, una vez—
antes de la operación
(ella lo escondió de las enfermeras).

Este fue un día bastante bueno.

# 2112 (16-Diciembre-2007)

Trying Days

I tried, during those trying days
to remain dry-eyed and half-sane
—silent (pained and paralyzed).
I was trying to understand, --

She laid in a coma for three days
I told her to let go, and go home,
home to heaven, with the Lord,
and she did—; that brought me
into a horror.

No: 2114 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Días Difíciles

Intenté, durante aquellos días difíciles
de permanecer sin llorar y medio cuerdo
—silencioso (mi dolor, paralizado).
Estaba tratando de entender, —

Ella entró en coma por tres días
le dije a ella que se liberara, y fuera a casa,
a casa al cielo, con el Señor,
y ella lo hizo—; lo que me llevó
a un horror.

# 2114 (16-Diciembre-2007)


The Man with the Cross
((By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D; Poet Laureate) (Written after returning from Jerusalem))

The Author carrying the Cross in Jerusalem

Bowed by the weight of a wooden cross he leans:
Upon man’s sins, he raises, gazes to the heavens,
The fullness of the ages upon his shape,
And on his shoulders, the load of the world
They gave him dejection, despair and gloom
He gave them new hope, rapture and life.
The God incarnate, that grieved and always hoped,
There he hung, stunned the world, savoir to all!
Who undone and pulled down the old brutal law!
Whose hand that was that slanted back man’s brow!
Now, His breath blew out the old candle His Adversary had lit.

Is this the Man-God, Lord Saviour, who made and gave?
Who has dominion over land and sea (the whole world?)
Who was and is, and always will be, the Eternal Deity!
Who made the stars, and searches the heavens,
And holds all life within his palms?
Are we the creatures he dreamed, to shape his universe?
The ones who marched forward, in ancient days?
Who have dug so deep to reach the roots of Hell, and its gulf?
There is no time, more terrible than this: the same
As in the days of Noah! So I believe—
More tainted with disasters, lust and diseases,
Yet still filled with cries contaminated eyes of greed
More tarnished decaying souls—
Like those in the days of Sodom and Gomorra
More packed with fear and danger, hearts dry and cold.

What resides between Man and the living God?
Lord and Savoir of the world, what is he to Him?
And Darwin, Satan’s wheel to swing man’s mind
Such long reaches, peaks near heaven,
The curse of man, the wilting of the rose!
And so the dying shape of the world looks on;
Man’s tragedy is in that bowed stoop:
Yet humanity dreadfully still betrays,
Plunders, and desecrates, and disinherits himself
Protests to the God that made him and the world,
A dispute that lingers in divination…

Oh peoples, politicians, presidents in all domains,
Is this all you have to offer God?
This earth you’ve distorted, hearts deadened!
How will you ever stand before him?
Look into his immortality, at his divinity;
How can he look upon you with light?
Rebuild in you the composition and his dream?
Make right your blasphemous, and infamies,
Disloyal anguish, your unresponsiveness?

Aye, peoples, and rules of the world,
How do you deem your future with this Lord of Lord?
How will you answer his questions in that hour?
When you will have no recourse, to turn about
No longer time to rebel and shake the earth!
How will it be with all those watching you
With those who cast you, to whom you are—
With this silly resistance, before Judge and King;
And then, then comes the silence of the eternities?

No: 2779 (8-21-2010)
Dedicated to Man, and God (or Lord)


Sailing Away
(A Poet’s luck)

A prolific poet, perhaps knows too much
a scholar, 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, friends, and so many
of life’s confrontations; used and unused furniture.
He brings to his home, along with: the wives
and children he had, with all their Christmas’
and toys, troubles and pains and insane days—
his country’s songs, but he never sings along.
He reads and writes, from early evening to
the break of dawn, that’s a poet’s life.
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:
when the time comes to stack it all into one big bag
that’s going to be is rough! How precious life was,
and is to a poet, and yet it is never enough,
it is never ever enough, and sometimes
it’s all way too much…way too much:
he wants to sail away!... far away, way far 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, and rest assure, the devil follows him too.
Neither the most restless angles are as busy as he,
but he never protests: in fear the poet may die
suddenly, and alone, where forth, he wants to
to be in the good graces of God, to write his last poem.
Hence, 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, cats, and plants,
little birds, and the stars, and marvels—
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,
they live in disgust, way, way, way too much…
they want, and want and there’s never a abundance;
but that’s a Poet’s luck. And somehow, someway,
the Poet just sails away…!

Note: (The word ‘he’ is implied a lot in the poem, but he in this poem means s-he, or me. 6-18-2007.)


Siege of the Gaza Flotilla

“Siege, of the Gaza Flotilla!”
Screams the world at large…
And the flies have gathered around the din
Around the dung in candle light at dusk
Hours pass and hours pass
What are the flies up to?
Ships, at sea, the Gaza-bound flotilla
has been under siege…
I hear voices mimicking the UN:
“It’s the Jews again!”
The Turks call it a bloody massacre
The flies quiver, will their mission success
(The Turks and Hamas’ Palestine).
What comes later can’t be rushed,
And the beckoning gestures of
The Muslim world for Jewish blood.
Uncertain smiles here and there
And everybody, everywhere, everywhere
Everyone has their own perfect story:
And they swear and cuss and swear
From Malaysia, to Turkey to the US
They torch Israeli flags,
“Cut U.S., dollars”!” signs read!
Nine lost their lives!
Palestine will sing loud tonight
Not for the dead—that’s a rusty silence,
But for revenge, for once
They got the world’s sympathy,
And attention!
What comes now are lies and bluffs
Diggers and the daggers,

No: 2713 (6-1-2010)



In the stir-less night
Of nights that have no seams
Rooted in death, it seems
Down a narrow spiral path
They rattle like rattlesnakes—
Buzz like dozens of blundering flies
Monstrous weeds upon their heads:
They crawl and howl like:
Snakes, dogs, rats and cats:
And sore like hawks and eagles
Half-ignorant vial and rival ghouls!
Splashing and dancing,
In their world of grotesqueness
Gnawing and pawing one another
While prancing in the nightshade
As if on parade, until dawn…!

No: 2672/ 4-13-2010 by Dlsiluk


Sense or Nonsense

Ten New Poems of: Sense or Nonsense


Sense or Nonsense

Making sense is the other side of making nonsense “What is what?” that is the question. (And who knows?) My advice to the reader of these poems—is not 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 summer clouds can no longer be seen by your naked old eyes, 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’m old, getting older and I’m 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’m sure I looked alone, and I was alone, but was I lonesome? Never until I was alone in Paris for my first time, then I knew and felt alone, because now I was alone, and felt lonesome. (I even swore never to return to Paris again, alone!)

Then I left Paris, alone, but less lonesome—even though, now I knew and felt alone: even though people were all around me, and a little girl said, “If I am here then you are not alone.” And I remarked, “I guess so!”

Note: We become aware of things—more so 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 forever. And perhaps appreciate being what it was meant to be—a tree.

(Poem Five)

He would and he was—meaning, he didn’t and he tried. But 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’s 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 is called ordinary kids; they try to learn, with a third of their capacity, everyday trying hard to do with 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. But would he learn? Or 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 Haves
(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? And get back what I had? Had I not thought about this, I would not have had to have written 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? Or 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,
But the little pigs could care less.
The Big pig saw everywhere
(and the little pigs knew)
He could see right down through the fields
And even see other animals hidden
And so the cows and all did not dare
To hurt the little pigs
Seeing the big pig stare.
And so.
As you know.
And as you have read
When a big pig running low
Loose in a field of snow
The little pigs know they will not die soon
(as long as the big pig is watching)
And so they know, and knew.
And yes, to be true
They wondered too:
“What’s all the bother?”
Then appeared a man
And he hit the big pig on the head
Hoping he was dead
And he tried to get away
But there was no way.
The little pigs watching—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 was no more.

And all the little pigs runaway
To tell the other big pigs
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,
But to run if one can…)
And this is life,
And it happens just like that.

No: 2645 (October 6, 2009)

Do we need?
(Poem Nine)

We need what we need which is air. You know it is more than a habit, to do this 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. Believe it or not, it is true: we all need what one another needs, which is blue 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 these are the poems he wrote that afternoon… (all to be under one blanket) 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” being poem, 8 of this sequence, or 2645 in sum total. Also, poem 9 “Do we need?” was written on the October 13, number 2646, for the record, by the author.

“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 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 even will rip its way—around and about: furniture, or buildings and even a house—just to play, and 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.


Little Bird Voices
Bird on a Branch

The little voices of little birds,
that pass the day away
With light steps within my garden,
From branch to branch they leap and sway,
Appear to be cheerful, happy and unraveled
(most of the time) filled with spunk,
And with living life, to its fullest;
I hear them in the light warm sun
(laying about as if on vacation)
Murmuring, chips, and chirps, and buzzes
Croaking’s and songs
I think they’re talking, singing
Begging and a little frightful now and then
as each day goes on—
(kind of like: children)…

A new sparrow, with no back wing
was frozen in fear between
The steps and the
Garden, today; when I was tending
to it, and I just kind of drifted away—
From here to there, allowing it time
To think and escape to a branch near
The nearby Peach Tree! And quick it did.

As the other birds gave peeps, and Israel
The dove, bill snaps, and his mother
And father, bird mating and naps, as
Others did some drumming with their wings
I call it, wing beating, or clapping…

Birds are busy and messy, little creatures
all day long
And they like everything clean,
As I work, and they sing their songs.
But I love to hear their rustles in
the leaves,
Their chips, and chirpings,
and that deep croaking sound,
all those beautiful little bird
Voices, all day long…

No: 2796 (1-19-2010

The Birds of the Garden (special note):

Special Note: For those interested, concerning the names of the birds in our garden, they are as follows: Croaking ground dove (also known as the Peruvian Turtledove) Saffron-crested Tyrant-Manakin, Plumbeous Pigeon, House Wren, The Ash-breasted Sierra-Finch, Hummingbird, Morning Sierra-Finch, Rufous-collared Sparrow (the Mohawk), and the White-throated Sierra Finch.

The Bird Poems and this book dedicated to my wife Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


My Baby

Baby there are those roads, believe it or not that feel
around in the darkness…that no matter where you are,
nor how old you’ll become, should something happen…

to you, my heart would be shredded, abandoned, collapse,
numb, it would burst—; you are the fulfillment of the soul,
crafted inside of me, by hands of Jehovah—

I slept restlessly, in the sloping dark, before and after,
I gave you life—; confessions, I have none, but I know
when I saw you, I had swallowed the earth, the deep

hungers inside of me, collapsed, everything I need now
is buried, under the sun. How much I love to fly alone
in the rain, knowing you are part of the universe now,

part of me. So much ecstasy…Alone on the unused seas!
I am a mother that can feel her child through all time
and distance…I am the seagull that follows the ship,

in uttering small cries, to let you know, my long prayers
will follow you…my Baby! Gail, you’ve become a mother
of the night sky—full of life, it all has come to this.

No: 2800/1-23-2010

Dedicated to: Gail Weber (I hope I have captured through Gail, the essence of the indefinable love the mother has for her child, that untouchable near magical moment that stare or glace, consciously or unconsciously into the wonderment of giving life to another and watching it mature, that only a mother has and can give, for her baby) by Dlsiluk

Note: The Ghazal Form, developed in Persia around the 10th Century, (Arabic Verse), was brought to India in the 12the Century. Often used for music, movies, etc. In my case, I do not adhere to the strict pattern of the traditional form, which is in part five to fifteen couplets (perhaps seven will do, in my case six), repeated word or phrases have stipulations, and each couplet is about the same length and meter. The end couplet usually has signature line. In all cases, I really abuse it for content and effect, but I like the style.

“Dennis.I just read the poem and posted a comment. I can't put into words how honored I am. Your ability articulate something as profound as the love a parent for a child is nothing short of miraculous. I just can't thank you enough. How wonderful you had an incredible bound with your own mother…and that you recognize it! Thank you so much.” 9-24-2010 (Gail Weber)

“All mothers should read this poem. It is incredible!!!” Gail Weber


Letter to the Haitians
(In Poetic Prose, for the Haitians)

And I heard what the angel said, when he left heaven:

“I am the punisher God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”

And I heard in heaven, a voice says: “Can the blind lead the blind?” and I think he meant that the Haitians have not sought out Godly leaders. “And shall they not all fall into the ditch?” and I think he meant, Haiti has been in that very ditch a very long time “…The disciple is not above his master…cast out first the grin (the smile, the defiance, the arrogance towards the Lord) from the eye and then you see clearly, and then you will see clearly the dirt, that bothers it. Can a bad tree grow good fruit? And a corrupt people expect Godly things?” And I think he meant: are you listening Haiti? For are you not known the world over for your sins, your corruption, and your Voodoo gods? Did not God turn his face from New York City, on September 11, 2001 for America’s disloyalty to God? “I have sent you good men to bring you good treasures, out of the abundance of my heart, but you continue to do evil, blasphemy.” I think he meant, he has sent Christians to preach the Gospel, and food organizations to feed you, and others, yet even they will in time get weary, for there is many things in his warehouse He can send Haiti like He told Job; if indeed, Haiti is stubborn, and needs more pain: perhaps an earthquake, and a great storm and cholera, are just among a few plagues He has in his storeroom, who’s to say, I do know, those he loves the most, he punishes the most to get them back in line “And why call on me to save you when you go to your false gods. Those gods can show you nothing; you are like people who build their homes in quicksand, what do you expect? From evil you want to be well to do more evil, and when your house falls to ruin you wonder why. Go your way and tell your family these things you’ve heard, and you will see the people cleansed, the poor raised. Tell the deaf to listen, the blind to see,” I think he is implying, He has not found so great a faith among the many as he’d like, for they have offended their Creator; and he will leave you as you are, shaken with the wind in the wilderness, and naked…

Dlsiluk (11-13-2010)

Dear Dennis
Thank you very much for the message! I understand everything you say!
We have a hurricane in Haiti for several weeks past, but it seems more or less today. Only 16 people have been wounded and 11 disappeared! Cholera has killed about 601 people already, and we always drive to take precautions to not affect.... I could not work in my church since the storm began, for the top of the church is not yet covered and there is not a wall to keep back water. This means that we can not operate when the rain because there is too much mud on the inside! You must pray that the situation becomes better. I have noticed that we Haitians, we very much for your prayers!
After an earthquake has devastated the country, about 200,000 people are dead, we just suffered a hurricane and our spirits are subjected to an epidemic at the same time ... pray to God that no more orphans in the country and the homeless!
I will tell you when I have the book in hand. Did you put the check in or the money?Your true friend (Pastor) Naason Mulatre (Haiti, Cap Haitian, 11-13-2010)

Works by the author

Books Out of Print
The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)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
Visions, Theological, Religious and Supernatural

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon (2002)Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants (2002)Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib (2002)
Return of the Nephilim to the Circle of Rephaim (2011)
Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]Tiamat, Mother of Demon I (2002)Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II (2002)Revenge of the Tiamat III (2002)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)AutobiographicalA 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) NovelettePerhaps it’s Love (Minnesota to Seattle) 2004 NovelCold Kindness (Dieburg, Germany) 2005 NoveletteSuspense, short stories, Novels and Novelettes:Death on Demand [Seven Suspenseful Short Stories] 2003 Vol: IDracula’s Ghost [And other Peculiar stories] 2003 Vol: IIThe Jumping Serpents of Bosnia (suspenseful short stories) 2008 Vol: IIIThe Mumbler [psychological] 2003 (Novel)After Eve [a prehistoric adventure] (2004) NovelMantic ore: Day of the Beast ((2002) (Novelette)) supernaturalEvery day’s Adventure ((2002)(short stories, etc))The Poetry of D.L. SilukGeneral PoetryThe Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]Poems of the Soul (Poems) 2012

Minnesota PoetryLast Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]

Poetry out of Israel

Stone Heap of the Wildcat (2010)

Poems from Patagonia

The Sailors’ Graveyard (2011)
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 Juan Parra del Riego) 2009

The Natural Writings of D.L. Siluk
Cornfield Laughter (and the unpublished collected stories…) 2009 (Vol. 1) Men with Torrent Women (Two Short Novelettes and Sixteen Short stories) 2009 (Vol.II) A Leaf and a Rose (a comprehensive library of new writings…) 2009, (Vol. III) The Cotton Belt ((And Other Selected Writings) (Vol. IV)) 2012
Donkeyland Hooligans ((A episodic novel) (2012))

Back of the Book

“Poems of Our Soul,” was, for the most part, written within a six-year period, now one of the many insuperable poetic achievements made by the three time poet laureate. This book features the author capturing the spirit of the soul, in its enduring form, while engaging new assets to have an effect on the reader.

From the award winning author, Dr. Dennis L. Siluk’s new volume of poetry, consists of: the wittingly and charming “Sense or Nonsense,” a set of poems; and his philosophical, macabre and grieving poems; also include is the controversial poem “The Bulls of Bashan”: and the theme poem “In My Time” written at the Chicago, airport in 2005 (twenty-one poems in all, all in English, some in both English and Spanish). This reestablishes the author as one of the most distant poets alive today, in both North and South America.

This is Dennis’ 47th book, 14th Volume of Poetry. Back picture is of the author with Poet Laureate of Minnesota, Robert Bly, 2005, in St. Paul, Minnesota. The author lives in Minnesota and Peru, with his wife Rosa.