Death Rids a Pale Horse
For here in truth do we belong—in the yawning tomb? To let our youth tell our tales not as we have told them—Not at a glance, but the pale truth; our earthly wormy circumstance…
At last, at last! Death who rides a pale horse, fills out our earthly score, puts his hand onto the horrid scroll, and hands it to us—cold dead!
Dismal at sight, pity runs deep to the core—he murmurs for earth and breath, which is no more: “At last he feels the dirt of the grave (says the man on the pale horse)—the dead who once raved upon the earth, he raves no more. He is with his immortal kind, the demons and ten-winged Lord, the dragon. Dethroned from earth and no one morne’d.”
No: 3000 (Night Poems III) 8-5-2011)
Vision of Apollo
((From Prophetic Visions 1984) (Midnight Poems III))
Apollo—long golden laced hair
Strong body, like a Charioteer’s—
How, how—he slipped into
No lyre or golden fire
He grinned and looked
He pointed me out
(to his entourage)
Stood within my reach
Wanted to violate my faith
Why I was not crushed
In this vision
Was not his decision!
When I turned my head
Instead… I said: “Be gone”
Knowing Christ was near
Then an angel appeared
And his wrath became
Feeding of the Crows
(A Poem on Truth) Midnight Poems III
O Truth! Here my soundless notes,
Ring…where are you?
What my imagination seizes is this truth?
All the passions that have ever been
that has existed before me, that
Have been spoken into my own soft—
Is this truth…?
Perhaps I dreamt it, or did I see it?
a boy feeding crows—
The winged creatures thoughtlessly
nearly fainting with surprise,
In the open unplowed fields
Under the shallow roof of time—:
Is this truth…!
O dim-mouth’d Poet… what is truth?
No: 2994 (8-1-2011) Midnight Poems III
(A Poem for the old folks) Midnight Poems III
There’s no use whining over lost Children
We know most lost children stay lost.
But it’s probably best also, to let the whining and
Whimpering rest… time is short at best.
And the pallbearers, they’re waiting…
The old can never pickup on their lost dreams
It’s most difficult to make up for those lost days.
We can still tell stories about our younger years though,
And we can still feed the pigeons in the park.
And the pallbearers, they’ll still be waiting—
No: 2973 (7-9-2011)
Upon a Slab
(A Poem for the living) Midnight Poems III
The silent-hearted (dead) hears no words from the living— the tomb attends to the grieving. None come back from there that they may whisper in thy ear how they fare… When the dead are dead, we are no better than meat on a conveyer belt, going to the slab. And nobody takes their goods with them.
No: 2977 (7-16-2011) 11:30 p.m.
If I Cease to Be
(A Poem of a vision, prophetic) Midnight Poems III
I no longer have the fear that I may cease to be—
With pen and hand I have wrote what I have seen,
Beheld the starr’d face of Christ, his hand;
Hence, if I should never look upon thee more,
I shall relish the past, reflecting that joy….
No 2997 (8-2-2011)
((A Story of Stone Heap of the Wild Cat) (Midnight Poems III))
Stone Heap of the Wild Cat
Before times heat-beat was
The wide wings of Haagentis
rustled the air; thereafter,
Along with the bruised brows
of the Giant Warriors of—the
Great Stone Heap of the Wild Cat—
in the Bashan Valley, he seize,
It was a den—of devilish brute men,
Half human, where their groans and
roars: thunderous and torrent
Hoarse voices—echoed all the
way to Jericho—(fifty miles or so).
As they were, they were seldom tired, battled
as if just awoken from a rest,
Shoulder to shoulder—with monstrous
arms, they insulted the valley
With a nest of woe—with
Weapons made of carved hard flint —they sat
upon a heap of stones, rugged stones
in four plus circles…
With Haagentis the once Arch Angelic being:
Now full of blasphemy (from the star Alphand)
Stubborn with iron fists—now
having assembled the Rephaim Giants,
With a feverous boiling pulse,
And as he had tired and failed
in heaven itself—
Blinded and cast down to earth,
in despair—shattered—now again,
he was in, Ur’el’s grasp—yet
still a barbed tongue—; in due time,
He’d be, the prophetic doom—
of the once Rephaim Glory…!
In war and battle Haagentis was
fierce—conquering the valley—
All the way to Jericho—even to the
south, where the Giant Nephilim ruled.
His ponderous iron fist shattered
ribs, necks, and with poison in
His eyes, he crushed skulls, grinding
them with his heel to pulp.
With thought and woe in his heart
he brought feminine
To the once bountiful valley
And in his wide-winged imagination, he
had no rivals—and the
Giants of old, broad like elephants
tame and mild now, were grazing like
Ox, in the fields, worried no more of God’s
wrath and scorn—but there would be a
Second war—not far hence…
When King David would cleanse
the land and kill all who
Lay before him—not one indistinguishable
shape would exist (to include king Og)—
Thus, when this second war began
Haagentis’ damp and slippery wings
Lost their footing among the Giants of old
More horrid still, would be their doom, in the
Valley of Bashan…
With trembling arms, Haagentis hid—
As the supreme God had sent Ur’el to find him—
Heavy with rage, fear and anxiety—
He was chained under the heap of stones!
Fate had pour’d once more, divine oil
over him, blinding him.
And as a result, an old world was destroyed
from the blood of the new one!
No: 2996 (8-2-2011) Midnight Poems III
Evil to Evil
(Absolute Evil, owns its Evil)
Fighting evil with evil is evil…
But what makes it absolute evil
is knowing it’s evil, and enjoying it!
And what makes it right is
believing in a cause or mission—;
Even though it remains evil!
No: 3001 ((8-6-2011) (12:02 a.m.)) Midnight Poems III
There’s a reason why the birds never settle down on one branch—and I’ll tell you why: it’s because wars go on, on, and on—(day after day, year after year, and decades after decades, into passing centuries, and millenniums); until young men turn old, and the wars, they turn into tales told and retold. This, the old poets will never tell you (lest they have little to write about).
No: 2978 (7-9-2011) For Gail Weber (Midnight Poems)
((Cynical but true) (Midnight Poems))
It’s okay if we’ve never had the right amount of love, we’ve expected!
Nor as many happy days as we’ve wanted… (in life).
And that perhaps we’ve lost friendships along the way.
It’s all right to let people think what they want to think—idiots or not.
It’s all right to die when no one is looking—
Let’s try to agree on one thing though—(if possible): someone dug a lot of big holes along our pathways…for everybody!
No: 2976 (7-9-2011)
Dedicated to Shawn, Cody and Zaneta
A Storm is Driven
A rain of Satan ascends, and from the
depths of hell, a storm is driven:
“Make the fire!” says Satan,
And the blaze burns higher and higher
“Mix and drink the wine!” says Satan,
and his henchmen do so abundantly—
“Grief will profit us, my friends!”
says Satan “for this is our medicine!”
And thus, with wine filled devils—
to cast out thought—a storm is driven.
No: 2978 (7-17-2011) Midnight Poems
What can I say, Lord God, Almighty? —that, you look down upon man, see his false his fancy, vanity, and then he appears to have a race of gods, while you hold all things among men and your universe together?
What can I say, Lord God, Almighty, but: “Bring on the Flood!...”
No: 2979 (7-17-2011) Midnight Poems
The Old Hacienda Gateway
(in Huertas, Peru)
There is an old stone gateway to a Hacienda that
stands high and wide through the foliage
It is thick like an elephant and appears to sand
twenty feet high!
Before it ascends into the sky (built in post Colonia
It is just an old stone relic of a front gate to a
once Hacienda in Huertas! (A reminder of times
gone by… that man is no immortal!)
Note: The old Hacienda Gateway, has been, ruined disastrously, in the past five years, —the author has reconstructed its old glory by reviewing old pictures of it, and making a sketch of it, he had visited Huertas, August 4, 2011, and one of the original photographers took him to the site, of the old gateway, perhaps 150-years old, post Colonial times. Dlsiluk No: 2998 (8-4-2011) Midnight Poems III
The Gray—Half Dead
(or, “Brother to the Demon)
He loiter’d in the park square
I saw him there I swear; I swear
I saw him there (he who could vanish
at will, as if in thin air, there I saw him there)—
hence, his spirit, like
a demon fled, across the open soil
over the church, across the graveyard…
To the coffin’d dead, there he fled to the bones—
Of the dead… (this brother to the demon).
Ah! this he said, he really said:
“Hear me, hear me:
imprudent man, you are condemned,
damned, destined to
the living half-dead; to our ancient
whims, to us Grey Lords
(the ones dethroned from a far-off star
and cast down onto the living earth,
—to sleep among the worms, in dirt)
Then, we who are half-dead (who cannot breed
but can command)
feed off the bones and blood of the living
…! A thousand times risen
(a dying alien race of disgrace, brother to
And those, wrapped within their grip,
blood and tombs—
Forget the sun, stars and moon;
Forget the waters in the creeks—:
The marshes and the lakes—the rivers
and the rains, even the seas! For
This is where they try to breed, with earthly
blood and bone marrow!
(with the spirit’s core, heart and soul…)
Hence, moisten your lips with tears—
For there is no peace, no peace, with such
creatures and beasts!
(A brother to the demon)
O melancholy Gray, despondingly I say—
You are a dying echo, baptized
in your own poor blood, cursed
To your unknown doom: to walk the
Earth alone (God’s mad, half-dead)!
No: 3002((8-6-2011) (1:1:00 p.m.)) Midnight Poems IV
of the Dying Drunk
Time after time, as if in a smoky shroud—
We die in drowsy ignorance,
in some dreary dark room
Drunk or drug sick, pale and gasping,
No peace: the heart, and brain
on fire—burning, burning…!
In the dreary gloom of this room—
cold doom drips on one’s lips…
wild thoughts, dead spirit—;
Strange it all is: striving to keep
one’s pale shadow aloof
And when you awake, you wake in Shoal
all one remembers is that last
drunken spell, fix, —
Those tremulous shakes, and the
ghostly moans your voice last made!
Now, you are a shadow, a ghost
a shade—in unholy shoal
Kneeling by a demonic chapel,
As someone rings the bell—
And what is really painful:
is that there are no drugs or alcohol!
No: 3003 (8-7-2011; 9:30 p.m.) Midnight Poems IV; dedicated to the Alcoholic
(and his/her partner, the drug addict: the two peas in a pod)
(Or, ‘Soldiers Lament’)
“It is easy to be brave from a distance…”
Part one of three
Generals, generally die in bed
Privates and corporals
Get shot in the head—
And all the civilians live on and prosper
Untouched now by their once existence.
One man says to another
“Perhaps he would have died anyhow
a different way!”
The other man says:
“War demands deep hulls…what more
Can I say?”
Part two of three
We have fought ineffectual wars
And gone our separate ways
We have danced to the devil’s rite
And dearly we have paid…
To serve two masters, one by night
the other by day!
Part three of three
Sing a song of death and war
Pockets full of lies
Four and twenty politicians
Hope that you will die
Hope that you will fail
So they can be the first
To profit from the sale
Extremely earthy people
Stacking cards on your fate
Men without souls
Stick them up your …hole!
No: 3010 (8-9-2011) Midnight Poems IV
In a Loop Café & Bar
(The Fall of, 1967, Seattle, Washington)
Poetic Prose in Anecdote form
A fat middle-aged man—more short than tall, sat in this loop underworld Café & Bar drinking coffee with shots of rum, and eating chicken wings, sitting at a stool at the counter. He smiled at the waitress and stirred uneasily at his girlfriend outside on the street—she was helping him pay for a four-acre hobby farm outside of the city, from the money she made in the streets (they had just recently met, living together in a nearby studio apartment).
He wanted to buy her dinner, but he feared his girlfriend would take notice. And so his secretly wishing he might become her lover after such a dinner was just mental gossip, for the moment that is.
Boastfully he talked on and on, throughout a good portion of the evening, to this waitress—; this was a spot in the city, he had just gotten to know—a place from which disease, poisoned more often than not, the people that hung around there too long, and seeped out into the city’s mainstream population.
A smile came to the edges of the waitresses’ mouth. Her second place of work, was upstairs from the café and bar, there she laid waiting for him.
Through the influence, he tried to think— as he found himself drudging his heavy body up that stairway, that long flight of wooden stairs leaning on the wooden railing—step to step—but in his own mind he knew he was in trouble—everything was getting blurry, —instinctively he waited for his mind to clear up, he saw the march and he countermarched trying to avoid the demons, tramping on the bed as the waitress went through his wallet, the Mickey the barkeep had given him, had taken effect. And he couldn’t even feel his heart squeeze, as if a python had gripped it with all its might; in consequence, he disappeared from the ground, he once walked on—and last he heard were swinging doors.
Note: Often time’s Poetic Prose takes the form of stories, or anecdotes, and normally are brief; thus, not being poetry and lacking regular meter or rhyme. It may although distinguish itself with an intensity figurative language, that wouldn’t normally be in literal prose. In the story “In a Loop Café & Bar,” it has I believe such qualities, which make it more Poetic Prose than prose itself, with a touch of rhythm. I admit although, more of my other Poetic Prose, fits the bill for Poetic Prose more so than this story such as “Hunters of the Turtles,” but nonetheless, it is distinct from prose. The story takes place in Seattle, 1967, the year I went there, and it could be said, the story is inspired from an experience I had, although in this story, it was taken over the edge—or to the extreme to make a point.
No: 824 (8-16-2011)
The Tale, of:
The Vulture Goddess of Croatia
The Mistress Demigod
On the cliff top near a village on the Adriatic Island now called Cres,
There Fly’s a griffon vulture, known as the Vulture Goddess of Croatia… This is her story:
In the year 12, 999, BC, a buzzard circle gracefully overhead, a goddess from hell in the form of a vulture, she was looking for a nest with food, so she would tell Aka, when asked…
She had been confined to the labyrinths of Hell for 13,001-years, a sort of prison where dead spirits lived, and had been turned into a demon after her first existence, 26,500 BC; and those chosen for special duties by the henchmen of hell, would be allowed to be turned into demigods with special powers, and sent out into the upper world to do their bidding, in this case it would be a daughter of one of the angelic renegades, who left his first abode, in heaven, and cohabitated with flesh on earth, eons before, now chosen to be the Vulture Goddess, and sent to an island called, Cres…to find out Aka’s secret, thus if she could, she would win the heart of the Henchmen of Hell, and until the end of time, be earthly bound and known as The Vulture Goddess of Croatia, and be allowed to walk among the living, in hidden form of course, and thus, she was given all the Black Magic Powers related to the order of demons, for domination of this main task….
This is the story about how the Vulture Goddess became the Vulture Goddess, it all didn’t happen by chance, nothing does, it happed because of the following reasons; demonic control…
Aka, the Golden Man of Croatia
(To be a day of reckoning)
He was called Aka, the Golden Man, he was said to be superhuman, perhaps from another world.
It was a time when Atlantis, in the Atlantic Ocean, near the Pillars of Hercules (Hercules being superhuman also, a demigod, from the village of Seville), was at its peak, and Lemuria, in the South Pacific was at its downfall, one being a military power (Atlantis, being controlled by Prince Poseidon, another half human, born from an archangel, and of superhuman strength and intelligence, as would be in time, Gilgamesh of Sumer, 2700 BC) the other, Lemuria being a philosophical and mental power (likened to the future, Greece and Rome, you might say) when there were wars and skirmishes, across the globe.
Aka, he had flesh made of gold, as if armor plated, and he preached the rhetoric called, ‘A Rumor of Battle,’ and always ended with the words, World Apocalypse, a simple word or phrase, depicting total world disaster, and it would come of course, when Atlantis would sink into depths of the sea, and Lemuria would be confronted by Atlantis, and sink also, and between the two powers, the world would be shaken off its axis, and thus, calamity, and Aka preached as would Enoch (in time), the religious credo of one Almighty God; in consequence, he preached before the Great Flood of impending disaster. But this was neither the time nor place of that epoch. And God said to him, said to Aka, of this far-off millennium, the Almighty God, the God of the Universe, not the demigods, the one and only, God, said “No man can harm you, lest you tell him your secret, where your weakness lies. And you shall live a millennium, and be able to withstand the trials of war and battle, undermine all disasters, become rich, own a million acres of the best land…” and this was in 12,999 BC. And God was true to his word. And all sought his secret.
The Vulture Goddess approached Aka, near the cliff top, on the island of Cres, flying about as if in a daze, hungry, and she spotted Aka, flew low, and surely enough she noticed this man was ancient, and gold plated, and Aka noticed her flying low, near a nest (knowing no devil or demon, nor angelic force could harm him she wanted to draw his attention, pretend she was hungry, needed a nest to rest in). And Aka saw the griffon vulture circling near the nest, a large nest with new born in it.
“Why do you fly low over my head?” asked Aka, as the vulture paid much attention to him as he sat overlooking the cliff, and pretended to him, as if she was deciding to invade the nest, or simply make acquaintance with Aka.
And so she landed on the cliff, next to Aka, said in a sweet voice,
“I am a demon cast into this vulture’s body, and my job is to circle the island, and to bring back to the Henchmen of Hell, evidence of the weak, who live in the villages on the island, so they can be dominated by their hidden forms, and their wives subdued by notorious scorpion demigods, and the men of the wives crippled if they are not to leave this island, and fight the wars on the mainland for the glory of Hell. But I heard of you, and that you are untouchable. No devil or demon, or flying thing can harm you, you are the chosen one.”
“But I will kill you, and then what will you have to say for yourself?” said Aka.
“You cannot kill what is already dead, only separate me from this body, these wings, but I will find another. I am like Venus and the Moon, you cannot touch either, and I can appear in other objects as well, different forms and shapes, even as shadows. I have a duty. Like you, but there is a way to stop me?”
“And how might that be?” replied Aka.
“Concentrate, if you will, if I give to you my secret, you must give me one?” said the Vulture Goddess.
And as they sat there, both pondering, thinking, and deliberating, He seemed to be having an awakening through his heart, an extremely gentle one. He leaned back and forth, unfolding his hands to keep his sitting balance, lest he fall over the cliff. He had never thought so hard, and it was that this creature was so spontaneous, and pain now disturbed him, a mental pain, as if there was entering him a psychosis (or fixation, phobia), almost as if he was having an allergic reaction to this vulture creature. And he told himself he should destroy this creature, save, she may have found out his secret, and if so, he could have made a deal and saved the island (she on the other hand was using all her black magic, knowing it would not harm him in the long run, for he was resistant to it, but in the short run, it would confuse him at best, and that is what she wanted, and this was simply his spiritual and psychic reaction, a kind of cushion, to its more deadly effects, had it been a human being, in which case, the person would be dead, or completely bound by her, if not insane).
“I am having some unexplainable reactions,” said Aka, looking deeply into her eyes. And she was bluffing, she was trying to show, she had some of the secret already, whatever that might be, and possible she could come up with the whole thing once given time, and she looked to be persistent to Aka.
“Make me a deal,” said the Vulture Goddess, “today I and hell, all will be bound by our agreement, tomorrow not so!”
His celestial will, the questioning his faith, wondering if he talked in his sleep, if somehow, she had something on him, knew something, that was destructive to him. She had created doubt in him, just a muster seed, but doubt nonetheless.
Then he thought, I am almost a thousand-years old, I perhaps am going to lose my powers, for God said “a millennium” I think it was a figure of speech, but that is what he said. I am old, torn down and now this, I am distressing. He said all these things in his mind, looking down the cliff, up in the air towards heaven, then at the demigod, thinking about the good folks in the villages, all the ones he knew, the birds in the nest, maybe he could do one last deed before he perished.
“Trust me, and surrender your secret, and you will have your island safe for eternity,” said the demigod—inside the vultures body, biting her lip.
“But what do you get, and hell, what does hell get?” he questioned.
“I get to play games on earth, until Armageddon, the last great battle to be. And for hell, I think, and I do not know for sure, they get you out of the way, and they do not like things they have no control over, nor a do-gooder.”
“Okay,” said Aka, and at that very moment, there was a written contract that appeared, as if out of nowhere, and it was already signed by several demonic beings from hell, and by the Goddess, she did it in transfigured form from her previous life-shape in hell, and quickly transformed back into the vulture shape she was, and by the blood of Aka, he signed the document, and he said (in a saddened voice),
“There is nothing in the world that can attach itself to me, I am like pure gold, and there is only one thing that if touched…by it, it will attack in full force right down into the core of my soul, and thus I would become a dull human color, no longer gold, no longer protected by the visible eye of heaven, the substance, it is called Mercury.”
The Vulture Goddess, thought, “Oh yes, yes indeed the attack of mercury onto gold sucks into it like water to a sponge, why did we not think of it, and with the wave of her wings and yelping to hell, of her victory, a storm came, and it rained water with mercury, and it covered him, and she declared to hell, her feat was accomplished.
And the henchmen from hell appeared to confirm her statement, and they pushed the old man off the cliff, and he died, and Agaliarept, Satan’s number one henchman, confirmed, it was done. And the Giants born of angelic beings, called the Nephilm came to see this feat, and all celebrated.
((Even the Grand Duke of hell, and Belphegor, the King of Demons, and the Lilith, Serpent Queen of Hell, even Haagentis, once an Arch Angel came)(Lilith: the first woman? Who out of pride abandoned Adam, and she was transformed into a demon; as a result came, Eve from the rib of Adam.))
Lilith, Queen of Hell
And Agaliarept whispered to the Vulture Demigod, Goddess, “He didn’t realize, hell is not bound by anyone, or anything, we lie all the time, even to one another (having said that, the Goddess looked at Agaliarept, frantically), silly he should believe such a simple lie, but then, so did you, because you will remain a Vulture, but a Goddess Vulture; plus, you will never, ever be beautiful again, or lose the shape you are in, although you can circle the island until the end of days, be that as it may!”
And he laughed until he turned purple, on his return to the docks of hell.
2-8-2009 © “The Tale of the: The Vulture Goddess of Croatia” by Dennis L. Siluk (reedited, 8-2011)
Dedicated to: Nenad B.