Monday, August 1, 2011

Midnight Poems II (by Dennis L. Siluk)

Midnight Poems II

(Three poetic prose poems…)


For the Heavy-dead

Come quick, quickly, oh sweet death soberly,
Down-looking devils, and with a blazing white
Hidden in the midnight corridors of my mind’s light,
That thus so clearly I myself can be,
Sinking deep, deeper in their fiery sea:
Unknowingly, a victim of their plight
Sinking deep, into their hideous night,
Be it not seen, bewilder’d and speechless

The serious devil toiling for my death
Restless he leaps, pursing his wit
He carries a harlot’s smile, against my smile.
O, hideous demon! How you fidget.

O, you from the Heavy-dead, eyes of red
Bygone in Christ’s name, that’s all to be said.

No: 2993 (August 1, Three past Midnight)


How Wick’d is a Man
“Nothing comes from Nothing”

How wick’d is the man, who cannot see
Upon his last days his soul’s needs,
Who curses all the days of his life’s journey!
While stealing a fair name to impress another.
It is as if the spirit would pluck itself,
And reap the treasures within its mist, —
As if a demon, like a meddling imp,
Should darken his one short day with muddy shit!

No: 2992 (7-31-2011)


The Beast and His Shadow
(A short poetic prose vignette)

The Beast and His Shadow

As long as vice stares down upon the earth
Arises at twilight, seeping out from its berth
May God in Heaven curse the Beast and his shadow…!

No: 2979 (July, 18, 2011)

The psychosis began with the snap of a whip. A Shadow dropped with a wound to her head, and the man who had slashed the whip turned to run, growling a concise peril at the pale-faced male who stood by petrified; then the living thing dashed away among the leaves and branches of the trees, in the deep foliage of the woods, along the edge of the lake, looking as if he was riding on a wild stallion (an insane unicorn) with a horn upon its forehead, between its shaggy mane and long pointed ears, with its hairy underbelly, crouched in a gallop. Within the hour, stern-faced men, were searching the Boundary Waters—weapons in hand—; through the horrifying night hunt the wounded lay struggling for her life. “She’s become quiet, settled down, calm, hushed, she’ll live,” said a voice that came out of the tent, and then all you could hear, from there, was a burst of neurotic tears.

The noise of a gallop had been so great, greater than the conversation of the several men standing by the tent, drinking whiskey, whispering to one another within the night’s wind, of the beastly man and his shadow, on his wild stallion. There in the tent opening, she stood, small, pale, sphinx-like—likened to an Indian Warrior awakening and awaiting the vanished phantom, in anticipation of his return, his seeking a human sacrifice, and there she stood sphinx-like, petrified, leaning against the tent pole, with deep rooted eyes of fathomless fires. Then without even one spoken word, she turned and fled into the deep foliage of the night woods, as something that looked like the head of a wild unicorn flashed by, then dwindled from sight, under the cloudy grey canopy, that allowed but a spark of light through from the moon: chasing, pursuing, ever running after this human heart with some cosmic power, trying to draw her soul, into its un-terrestrial gleam; as all those men stood by ramblingly, as the hoofs of the beast hammered and thundered in their bosom and brains, hearts, fiber tissue and muscle, leaving them vibrating, disjointedly—surprised and dismayed at the happening.

In passing, there isn’t really much more to tell, I must admit harshly, if not listlessly, for only death would stop either one, or an ankle sprained on a hidden root in the dark gray glares from the moon; but what was left behind was this: involuntarily hands clenched by the tent, a terrible scream in the woods, trees and foliage all smashed up, so a backwoodsman passing that way would say the next day, say, swore that he heard: in the late hour of the night he heard the voice of the woman scream—enraged, desperate in the heavy fog that suddenly fell upon them, and he slightly seen, in this short drawn-out ghostly story, the shadow of the horse, and its rider as they rode away…!

No: 2980 (7-18-2011)
Midnight Poems/in Poetic Prose


((A poem for the times) (or, ‘Boxcar Shock’))

The Methuselah Tree

Part I, Secret Heroes

Full for fire—so we can make light for the devil… that is what is at the stake here… ‘Evil to him, who evil think’ but to him evil is not evil, even if it is. Nothing is holy on earth anymore but boxcar shock…and that’s packaged in evil.

Job cries out of man’s condition; Abram did too, and ‘Howl’ also—but none had traveled enough to talk to God or the Devil on the subject—perhaps their acquaintanceship allowed them to give their opinion—; frankly, they became unto themselves, secret heroes—to tell the tall tales of their times, of mankind, their way, as they saw it— so anyhow, that is the way I see it.

Obscure odes—prose poems, lyrics and epics— often, too often, become famous because of the Devil; such writings comes from His breathing, his body, our experience—!

My life could be a boxcar—one winding around the world, with others, one of many, crisscrossing the globe, over and over and over—one boxcar telling another what literature, and poetry is supposed to be— so they write what is common—like stale bread nothing different—a dissimilarity has to be broken down, then one can see—the one among many…

Part II Grasshopper-gods

The one-eyed dollar, the bottle of booze, a pack of cigarettes in the pocket, a rainy day—, dope on the bedroom floor, suicide movies, movies of blood and guts, movies that their vocabulary, their dialogue is shortened to four letter words: inside the dresser drawer; romance paperbacks, and piles and piles of Playboy magazines, desecrating every corner of the bedroom scene…

The Mind, the mind, has swollen in time, not like it was in the Cro-Magnon times—swollen to the point of man becoming little Grasshopper-gods, waiting to be shocked, the only holy thing left on earth…

—waiting for the big bomb to hit, and split the world in half; for the Four Horsemen of Revelation to gallop by (the Apocalypse)

—waiting for the terrorist, the mad taxi driver, a chicken bone caught in the throat; or, an olive toothpick, from a glass of Champaign: a happy death is not all it’s made out to be…


You can’t translate poetry to prose, and if you try, you’ll end up with a slipped disc, or a lopsided hip….or black eye! It’s the way it is.

Mental institutions are made for: poets, different minded people— the insane, those we blame, and some slightly within reach, others beyond redemption, the devil never sleeps ((you need have only asked Walt Whitman the fag and his cronies: Ginsberg, W. Boroughs, Jack K.; and the sick ducks, like: Pound, Plath, Sexton—; or the deep dark sinister and morbid: Poe, Keats, Howard, H.P., or C.A. Smith, Cesar Vallego, Blake—Pablo Neruda: horney as bitch with an ever lasting itch, and here and there it’s easy to find a few dozen more poets…they’d agree; whatever happened to meaningful Anglo-Saxon meter?)(and to such poets as Auden, Riego, Millay,Thomas Campion, Marianne Moore, Ellot, commings, Hughes, Dylan Thomas, Bly, Wright, Sappho, Su Tung-p’o, Holderlin Tsvetaeva, Virgil; forget Emerson, perhaps Browning, let’s keep Dickenson, Thoreau, Longfellow, Frost, Hughes, Jeffers and Chaucer, Dante, Homer: actually I’ve read them all, the best with no black eyes are Juan Parra del Riego, Homor and Bly))

See all, do all—not necessary be all. Poets see how bad the world is (has become) so they beat the drums, beat and beat and beat the drums, until their hands are numb, forgetting, always forgetting, its always been that way since Methuselah!

Part III Gomorra

Vietnam, my war, the war of lost causes and souls, the war that sparked greed with no need—forevermore in America: the war people died for, for no reason for, other than for Congress declaring it holy! (Like so many others.) People displaced, disappeared, ended up living on streets, under bridges from LA to New Orleans, all the way to New York City; living like ants, in holes—ending up killers, thieves; dope addicts in alleys. Ending up at the VA hospital, weak with Agent Orange, weak hearts, elusive brains, hands trembling— wounds and scares that will never heal; that was war, my war, the war with no reason, lost causes and souls, the war that sparked greed with no need, the war that no one cared for but Congress. And the rich made contracts, sat at home watched T.V., “I Love Lucy,” and “Gunsmoke,” football and baseball for ten years, and drank beer and made jokes, flew to Las Vegas gambled, bought whores, helped to make America, the world’s Gomorra—

that was my war! Then came another, one to win back America’s pride, —so the flag could once more, fly high, covering up that old back eye…!

The test of time; it’s a game we play in the U.S.A, a game that has now circled the world over…it tells if a piece of literature is fine, if it outlasts a quarter of a century or more...; it also tells you the taste of the times, of its society and where it’s going, where it will end up—and much, much, more (but never does it look backwards to tell you where you once were—where you came from, God forbid, that might remind you: America was once pure and good…no abortions, to fags waving the flag, the National Anthem played at the Cinema before the show, the Ten Commandments in all the schools and many courthouses, no such thing as Darwinism in all the children’s every text book, forcing the children to believe in the foolish, the unfound, saying it is science solid—when in essence it is fiction, with a theory that goes round and round… we are a bunch of adult clowns… ): literature it tells you the taste of the times, of its society and where it’s going, where it will end up— (good poetry tells you the truth, and not always with a rhyme—poets are the pallbearers of the times) it tells you what is in its head, bowls—guts, the peoples hearts, it all comes out in ink form, before it settles into populace’ minds of the times. If allowed, once allowed, the guy next door, wants to make his mark, a name, so he ups the dosage, until it’s so high, we’re all addictive to smut—and the big lie! And thus, hence we end up standing outside Noah’s Ark door, waiting for God’s thunderous roar, His storm, waiting, until he cannot take anymore! (Forgetting, God doesn’t worry about our mess, he knows sooner than later we’ll disappear from the earth, and He’ll still be left— Never does He need our help, although some religious freaks, I mean: nuts, think so…)

Therefore, no more butterflies, limits, stoplights, just one big orgy, doing what we do best, feeding our ever desire with whatever the earth has to offer, Lucifer’s creed: do it until you bleed.

Part IV the Devil Talks

Admiration, attention, someone to say: how great thou are!” We want it all; we want to be Grasshopper-gods. (That’s the highest we can go—on the totem pole, even if we don’t think so, and God laughs at that too.)

Admiration, I cannot say what it is,
It comes and goes
I only know that it sings in me
A little while, then sings in me no more.

Windows and mirrors, devils and imps, black love from Hell, Shoal, the Underworld, that Poe knew so well, and H.P., and C.A. Smith, and seemingly Stephen King too: “Do as you please” is their earthly philosophy. Hell will tell you there is no discipline or limits down there, do as you will, so why not do it here, now, “do whatever is your heart’s desire,” says Lucifer, and his demonic followers “in my abode, there is no fire, that’s all made up from the preachers on earth long ago, who want to control, control, control you, and play with your soul… (but hell has rules too, a command center, generals and nobles and cruel punishment for those who not head those rules, and the soldiers of hell are more discipline than me and you) Forget Heaven,” Lucifer murmurs on the sly, He’s the king of the airwaves and knows soon you’ll die… “Up there,” he implies, “there is discrimination, loud horns blowing all the time and rules galore, evil that is justified—you see when they use the swords up there, it’s okay; God can kill at will and so can his angelic beings, and we cannot protest—just stand there and watch, and are we not made in his image, allowed to think and talk; thus, we do not think the same, so we can’t always follow his ideas; so, it can’t always be his way, thus we claim—sweetly with grace as we play our silent music down here.” (But it’s really a bluff, and a threatening thrust, to enlarge his beachhead, with charm, and sabotage you when the time comes.)

Great literature (and poetry) creates its own pathways, its own form of writing—hence this is the celebration, perhaps the only lasting one they will ever get, for their madness (the Grasshopper-gods) —; you see, at birth they all come out of a long coma (God not really wanting to allow it, but He had hope for them nonetheless—it’s called predestination, with a choice and a glance—it was how He meant it to be, but it has to be wanted; in other words, it was meant—their talent, skill, drive—meant to enhance, not to desecrate the mind of man…but Grasshopper-gods want it all, they abuse and let it all out, let it all fall where it will, lit it all hurt who it may, and we can’t blame Lucifer for that, although he planted it, and that’s a fact…but choices, we have choices!) at death, they will all return to it, the long, long everlasting coma. No victory for the little Grasshopper-gods (not really, it will all be covered up in mud someday, and they like their works, their writings, literature or poetry, long forgotten, never again, to be on display), just an end, that is all they get, just a bleak dark, everlasting, empty nothing, just an end to it all, all of it, and perhaps we are all better-off for it; I mean the whole world is better for it, if not now, surely then.

Perhaps Lucifer at one time was a good fellow, who’s to say, like Robert Frost has so cunningly stated: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both…” thus he went his own way. Split, separated from God, now in the forest called Hell, a road now trodden by so many feet, its worn-out. But for us, in comparison to time, in comparison to him, Lucifer’s time on earth, we have but minutes;—in consequence, we must find our worth, in spite of his diabolical hand, challenge:

In some kind of content
We all struggle forward from birth
Exposed to light and dark
Confounded, transfixed
Changing places with those before us
It is a glorious fight, nature’s way
In finding the truth….!

End of Poem

Personal Note: A Statement on Poetry: Poetry in its oldest forms was meant to teach, cultural, tell a story, or tale, to enrich the reader. We as poets are responsible for what we put into the heads of our youth; if not responsible to the people who read it then to God who sees it; and if you do not believe in God, then out of respect for humankind (the exception to the rule, if you are of the demonic world, so shall you have no reason to complain of anything, and you have no rights). Like anything else, or like the fat man says, too much is too much. We have a world today, the way it is, because of the way we are. We want everyone to go by the Golden Rule, but ban the Ten Commandments from schools and courthouses. We want our young men to fight for our country and its ways, but can we blame them when they say ‘No!’ knowing its for oil, or industry (contracts for the rich and powerful, for the influential; for the United Nations Millionaire Club?) when in essence it is not for a crisis in America itself, there are only a few recent wars justified: perhaps WWII, and Afganistan, the rest we never should have gotten involved with, they were not a crisis for the United States, perhaps we should look at the Constitution, limit presidential powers, We want our kids to be raised properly, to respect our neighbors and the laws of the land, but we are put in jail for punishing them, thus they end up with no limits or discipline (perhaps that is why we have three-million citizens behind bars); stop and think about it, that’s more than Russia. A kick in the ass never hurt anyone, but nowadays if you kick that kid in the ass, you’ll be seeing the judge. We need licenses for doctors, for driving cars, for teachers, but not for parenting. Rights for Children to have abortions, is one of the greatest sins our Government has allowed—they have this right and we have no right to stop them, yet we are punished if we do not support them: food, clothing excreta; we have a million abortions a year, we are killing our legacy just as fast as we are butchering cows. So when we complain of way things are the way they are, we need only look backwards, to see how they developed. Gay rights, gay marriages, for God’s sake, what have we come to, Gomorra? Too many of us have turned into Grasshopper-gods.

No: 2983/July: 19-22, 2011 (by: Dlsiluk)


Bloodline of the Lost
(From the author’s ‘Book of Methuselah’)

The pre-Adamic race, the race God created before Adam, Adam, father of the Jews, from the Book of Genesis, the book written by Moses. Thus, between Adam's time and the pre-Adamic period there was a ruined-reconstruction period that took place. Where after, God told Adam to replenish the earth—because the sins of man before him, were great and he wanted to dissolve that lost race and because the 'death sin' was not in place, they are still living—ghosts within the bloodline of the misplaced. And thus, death entered in through Adam.

No: 2984/ 7-20-2011 (by: Dlsiluk)
Midnight Poems/in Poetic Prose


The Magnificence of summer
(—in the Mantaro Valley)

The birds have come back into the air,
for new beginnings.
The magnificence of summer
comes back to the Valley.
Whenever I walk up and down the old
Inca Road, in Huancayo
My whole body feels warm for its
Ancient cultures…

The moon appears; there is wind
sounds in the surrounding Andes.
Walking across the Plaza de Arms,
I notice the Wanka Music.
The people sitting on the benches look
up at me from the edges of their eyes
The shadows from the mountains touch
my shadow, my clothing.

No: 2988 (723-2011)
Dedicated to Mayor Dimas


On an Antarctic Road

For a long time now my thoughts have ran on and on,
now they are near flood level…

What does the penguin think deep in a blizzard—
while trudging an Antarctic Road
(making his way to the open sea?)

He thinks of having more life…that only the bold can
survive (in this most atrocious climate)

Of never seeing his children again, he had to leave—
(unable to see them, behind him)
somewhere, on this Antarctic Road!

No: 2986 (7-21-2011)
Midnight Poems


((or, Headlights) (Haiku))

My life is a deer in the
A car racing
on an icy street—

We both meet eyes to headlights…

No: 2987 (7-21-2011)
Midnight Poems


The Watermelon-seed
(—Eyeball Poem)

Eyeballs, like watermelon-seeds
sinking into the open sea
Dark eyeballs, that once asleep
never see me….
That’s my wife, five minutes
after she hits the bed
She’s like she’s dead!

No: 2990 ((7-24-2011)(Midnight Poems))
Dedicated ed to Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


The Cleaver Dream

A car pulled up beside me, on a highway
both, I and the driver had gotten out of our cars
he pulled out a meat cleaver, seemingly from nowhere
ready to kill me—
I looked to jump over the edge, where
a deep, deep canyon resided—
I said, to my head “…it is way too deep for me to jump!”
Then I thought of pulling out my gun
but the man was way too quick—
the cleaver was on its way down
inches from my head.
I thought then to scream for the police
but, with a glimpse, they were nowhere to be found!
Then I made my two arms into an X
crisscrossing them, to where the upper parts were a ‘V’
to stop his thrust,
to stop his forearms before the blade penetrated me—
And then I thought of prayer
and I woke up,
realizing it was just an unbearable dream
(wish I would have thought of prayer before the cleaver thing).

No: 2989 (7-24-2011)
Midnight Poems


Below the Planet’s Waters
(By Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.)

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

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

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

Notes: Written after reflecting in the Art Section of the magazine ‘Exploring Tosca’ ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)) the work of Marcia Soderman, in which the author was inspired by the painting named: “Contemplating Deep Waters”

No: 2986/7-26-2011


The Little Rain Roof
((or, ‘Miracle of El Tambo’, 7-27-2011) (Poetic Prose))

A child of three or four, fell today from the fourth floor, just twenty-minutes ago— ((a bang, thump and crash) (5:10 p.m.)). He fell out of a window four-floors up, onto a little rain roof two floors down, then rolled off that, and free-fell two floors more, hitting the outside building wall, onto the grass in the backyard, outside our window (I call him the miracle of El Tambo). He stood up—amazingly, walked a few steps, dizzy, looked at me through the window, looking at him, he walked a few feet more, still dizzy, shaky, lightheaded, in a half circle, half dazed, half conscious, nothing broken (not even a wrist, ankle, or finger bone, for that matter, not even a burse, so it looked) then a tear came from his eye, and he started to cry, and a young lad that was sitting by the fence on a bench, ran to pick him up, comforting him a bit. Then his mother came running down the stairway, made her way around the building; then shortly after that, the boy’s father showed up, coming home from work: my wife explained what had taken place, thus he raced—with a puff and a leap up those four flights of stairs— what can I say, the boy’s simple a miracle today, one that took place in El Tambo (Huancayo, Peru).

Note: Dedicated to Jonathan, that young boy. No: 2987, 7-27-2011.


Hunters of the Turtle

((or, ‘the Turtle Poem’) (in poetic prose))

Part One Thank God for the Angels

No matter which way the old turtle goes, sooner or later he will end up under or over the waterfalls—(or splattered on the highway) Swept to his doom— this he knows. He looks for a good death—but realizes good or bad—the henchman’s melody doesn’t differ (he has lived like a lion, to the fullest, on the edge, not like a dog, and that has made all the difference to his way of thinking). He has learned never to swallow the hook completely (to walk the edge of the highway). He’s discovered the sounds of trains, and rain, rivers and the swift wisp of the wind—dipped in the sun—that man with all this, remains discontent, at the end of the day…lost in his existence. What does all this mean to the old turtle? Perhaps that the world is lost, odd, or insane—worse than hiding in his shell for the hunters (but time heals his suspicions, worries and doubts, and he goes on….).

Part Two The aging old turtle

The aging old turtle has discovered something peculiar about humankind—that their tongues bend more than their kneecaps—how strange. The old turtle hides in his shell, looks out as if he is behind a curtain…looking for the hunters of turtles, and the world goes by moving around the heat within the sun, as everyone grabs sparkles of its sunshine, hunters and turtles alike (he’s tired of it all, ‘Nothing new under the sun,’ he brings to mind, ‘… just old hunters with new faces.’) He doesn’t feel time passing—likened to rain drops falling, although he does discover a few new little wrinkles here and there—now and then: he calls them: ‘Fine groves in the sand, on my forehead’ —looking in the water—; he even notices some new wrinkles like fishing lines driven deep into his shell, but what the hell, it’s just time passing. His legs feel cold and cramped— He knows (because things keep slipping) time is short.

Part Three The turtle keeps talking

The old turtle has been talking—more like whispering—into my ear; he has much to say, he’s trying to stir my emotions, in this new descending season. I don’t mind all of that, but he complains about my hairy ears. Grumbles like an un-tuned guitar. It’s not comfortable. I guess it’s the way of old aging turtles. If it is not me he bothers, it’ll just be someone else, so I tell myself. Sometimes I want to tell him to just be quiet—but I nevertheless bend my neck to his level to listen: “Happiness is doing a service to others,” I tell myself, that’s God’s rule, like it or not. This rule of thumb has been going on for thousands of years, it will not change. I’m sure it will happen to me, perhaps sooner than later, and the listener will say: “Listen to this old man crackle, like an old aging turtle,” as I try explaining my life, or parts of it.

It’s time now to push the old turtle’s head back into his shell. Drag the dock in—as they say, pile the wood up, for the coming winter, and enjoy the silence in a warm bed.

((The old Turtle, his bones appear eager to be laid away in the grave) (he doesn’t wish to be everlasting, in his temporary territory—permanent in his impermanent kingdom, like us; he doesn’t even know.))

Part Four The Turtle Poem

Some poems have their own skins, like bananas and oranges, not all of course are sweet, and some are bitterer than others, the poet knows words are abundant like fruit — he or she can be selective as in this poem. The dear old turtle, abandoned his turtlish-life (to a certain degree; as often animals do, or are forced to do), to live and hide among mankind—sometimes among skyscrapers and highways, and sometimes deep within the swamps. This old turtle, He’s even learned the human language to a certain degree—not really so uncommon, certainly his gestures, or body language. —Well! I must say, before that took place, perhaps deep in the woods he may have lived a scandalous life, perchance an extravagant one, by choice alone maybe—who’s to say?

I don’t want to alarm you, but so many old turtles have been lost in the bog. This old turtle— shrewd to have lived so long—evidently slipped thorough the bushes, that is why he is in this poem.

In closing, let me simply say: things move slowly in the woods. I don’t want to try and cheer you up, it’s all right that the turtle is now long gone, people like animals stroll about, some come to meet and greet you; while on the other hand, human or animal (sometimes more alike than not), come to eat you, walking over your footprints day after day, after century after century—shortening your stay on earth, all trying to make a home—all trusting that the world will not end before their time—while scholars cobble together to product it, while others try to preserve it—it’s simply maddening, but that’s the way it is, odd and mysterious, clumsy as it may look.

Note: “Hunters of the Turtle”, parts one and two written 7-7-2011; part three and four written 7-8-2011 (No: 2965 thru 2968); illustration by the author, Photo by Rosa Peñaloza


A Fine Beast

Those men who cry the loudest “We hate war!” are full of horseshit—we love it, we feed on it. We glorify it, become addictive to it, obsessed by it, making a billion dollar toy industry out of it, reminding us of it; making movies, and weapons galore while at the same time making millionaires through government contracts, billionaires. We live for it, and with it and by it, and we control through it, control the masses, and control other countries with the fear of it. It is our reason to feast, boast, raise taxes, build statues, have expensive funerals, blow the bugle loud, stand proud, we are if anything—a fine beast.

No: 2988 (written specifically for “The Meatpacker’s Boy”
7-29-2011, under the hot sun, of Huancayo, Peru) Poetic Prose


“Ready to Wake” Haiku
(By Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk)

Sunrise, be awake
The Great Serpent of the world
Is all around us!

Inspired by the art work “Sunrise at Washburn” by Gail Speckmann;
Poem No: 2991 (7-31-2011)


Blue Shadows
(By Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk)

The shadows are blue, and the world is restless.
The sun’s rays are blue, but they warm the world
As they fall, they add to the calm of my soul.
It is Sunday afternoon. I’m reading
‘Exploring Tosca,’ while ‘Fear Factor’ is on.
The shadows are blue, and the world is restless.

Poet’s poem ‘Blue Shadows,’ was inspired by the painting “Blue Morning,” by Christine Halverson, in ‘Exploring Tosca,’ magazine, Editor Gail Weber, summer issue, p. 43. (Poem No: 2990; 7-31-2011)