Saturday, May 24, 2014

Port au Prince

Port au Prince
((The Leprous touch of time) (in, Poetic Prose, a strange narration))

Port au Prince, Haiti, 1986
(Photo by the Author)

When I disembarked the plane in 1986, twenty-eight years ago,
in Port au Prince— How much I loved the city’s old ways.
Quaint with dirt-rock ridden streets, and a mystic lore of Old London,
of the 9th Century!
In those days, not so much turmoil, as those of less nobler days
(like now and before…).
I loved the busy crooked alleys,
narrow gray ramshackle thin houses with tin roofs, slumped.
Many old folks, like live corpses, whose outward shells,
preserved by a skeleton, somewhere inside, surprised me to be alive.
Along the docks, squirming with slime, the very air that seeped into
the city, choked me with sea-green pong, it reeked to the high-heavens—
And in shantytown, it was liken to the leprous touch of time.
At night I walked the city’s solstice skies:
everywhere staring dark eyes, spelling some  voodoo occult,
some lore unguessed.
Men walked with pitchforks and axes on their shoulders,
with open shirt breasts…  Made for strange shadows.

The shifting mood made strange shapes, too… over the city of the voodoo!
And from the Caribbean, coils of sliding mist flowed over the docks,
onto the roads—
And every night came the voodoo drums… much as regular
as the bells of the nearest church!
The folks wonder about the night as if in an eldritch spell; some burning
embers, creating new smells.
Some selling a Coke or Seven-up, ice separate, but it costs.

In an afar-off corner of the city an ancient woods, sugarcane fields,
Hills, dirty roads laced with rocks, and snakes and buckboards drawn by oxen.
The heated grass deformed and oddly outgrown upward—thick like brass!
As if the roots themselves were cursed by the earth.
A malformed and monstrous looking sky, all best left alone, the unknown.
Everything here grows crumbling, so it seems, —
Everything, everywhere in the air smells with a touch of the dead, bloated fungi.

This is the world within the city of Port au Prince—
Where the Black Goat walks, talks and sleeps, and intrudes in dreams,
to make nightmares for men and women...
Where the Voodoo priests hide in attic rooms: like Baby Doc, Papa Doc and Aristotle too, along with their assemblage.
For many a place of airless gloom.
It is a city where walls and rafters lean with rat-holes gnawed at its seams.
All lean at some crazy angle; in short, with some magical geometry of course!

But nothing freighted me, during my stay in Port au Prince, in 1986.
I slept on the top roof of an orphanage, of all places:
Cockroach infested, mice, mosquitos, and spider too—
Roamed that rooftop, at night, hidden by the dust and stink,
giving me bites…
And voodoo drums too, —but it didn’t bother me, I slept like goon.

To be truthful, I think the Demon Star hangs above high in the sky
over Port au Prince!
A cold, arcane, malign demon watching with a Cycloptic eye;
In serpent skin and with a rotten smell,
as if he came out of some abandon well.
As if he was some dead thing once buried underground.
Here he brings the vile corruption of forbidden wisdom—
The city trapped in sinking sand, what can it do?
Who strayed apart from Godly men… must seek like Nineveh
God’s pardon once again.
Lest it wait, and the night will come, and it will rip again.

No: 4351 (5-23-2014)

Friday, May 23, 2014

Mariano’s Cross (In English and Spanish)

English Version

 Mariano’s Cross
(A Testimony of Mariano Tapara)

Mariano Tapara, stood on main street (Huancavelica) 1938, he was twelve-years old. Spring would soon be here. He was now living with his uncle and aunt, an orphan by sad circumstances, and not treated well by his two relatives, but quite harshly.
       As he looked toward an old dilapidated adobe house, through the window, appearing was a wooden cross, standing tall and lean was a male shape on the wooden cross, a sculpture like —no, he told himself, it’s a figure nailed on a wooden cross, with his hands stretched from side to side, he had seen the figure before, but it was seemingly different this time, more real. Resilient, he got back his composure, with his own shaky hardness, and stepped closer, he thought what is this, the figure seemed alive? He saw the initials, INRI, but couldn’t decipher them (it read: ‘King of the Jews’ this he would learn later). But for now, it was overwhelming; that and everything else.
        He looked through the mud adobe window closer, pert near leaning on the  window sill, old mud bricks made the square window thick, perhaps a hundred years old, with old beams sticking out here and there, silently for the most part, he just stood and stared, mouth and lips moisten with his tongue as he held his breath, feeling the warm breeze, then hearing a voice, he let his breath out, he shook his head humbly and smiled at the figure of the man, perhaps a little grimly, he heard the voice even louder now, but not quotable, or clear enough  to understand every syllable, so he leaned inward, his head now inside the window: he let out a few mutterings, then said—his chest filled with tears and compressed tightly— “Lord, Lord, I’m so ignorant, just a poor kid, I know very little about anything, forgive me, because I really know who you are, have always known, but only now do I fully underhand,” and then the boy was lost for words, finding that the Lord Jesus Christ’s hand had left the cross, and was now settled on his right shoulder.  A passer-by stood and stared and kneeled. After all, what was this, no less than a miracle?
       Mariano stood in the dust of the day, he wanted to go inside the adobe house, but he now had to listen, Jesus was speaking, “Continue walking on this street, it will lead you to another location, follow the road to Huancayo, there you will make your home.”
       And since that day, Mariano’s right shoulder has been red and sore; and ever since the day he walked into the city of Huancayo, Peru, he has lived a meaningful and full life in the city, raising a family, and the house was never empty of the Lord. 

       Perhaps if one is to look at this metaphorically, the Lord was saying: ‘As a reminder of our meeting, our connection, I’ll leave you with a sign.’ Whatever the case, Mariano has carried his cross, and he will to his death—he now is eighty-two years old (he sells yuyo, and chuño, with his wife,  he has a stand with an umbrella on it for  passer-bys, to stop and talk, eat and congregate— right outside my apartment, on  the main street here in   El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru).

No: 628 (Written in Huancayo, Peru, 11-28-2010)
A short story- based on actual events

Versión en Español

La Cruz de Mariano
(Un Testimonio de Mariano Tapara)

Mariano Tapara, se paró en la calle principal (en la ciudad de Huancavelica) en 1942, él tenía doce años de edad; el otoño pronto llegaría. Él ahora estaba viviendo con su tía y tío, era un huérfano debido a tristes circunstancias, y no era tratado muy bien por sus dos familiares, más bien cruelmente.
       Mientras el miraba hacia una derruida casa de adobe, a través de la ventana, apareció una cruz de madera, con la figura de un hombre, parado y delgado, como una escultura. “No”, se dijo, “no es una escultura, es Nuestro Señor Jesucristo”. Estaba con sus brazos extendidos de un extremo al otro, él había visto su imagen antes, pero esta vez aparentemente era diferente, era más real. Él recobró su compostura y tembloroso se acercó más pensando: “¿Qué es esto? La imagen parece viva”. Él vio las iniciales INRI, pero no podía descifrar (más adelante él aprendería que significa “Rey de los Judíos”). Pero por ahora, esto era abrumador; eso y todo lo demás.
       Él miró a través de la ventana de adobe, más de cerca, casi inclinándose sobre el alféizar de la ventana, los adobes hacían que la ventana fuera gruesa, la vieja hacienda, talvez tendría unos cien años, con vigas viejas saliéndose, había silencio mayormente. Mariano parado miraba fijamente, humedeciendo sus labios con su lengua mientras contenía su respiración, sintiendo la brisa tibia, luego oyó una voz, él dejó salir su respiración y movió su cabeza tímidamente sonriendo a la figura del hombre, talvez un poco sombrío, luego él oyó la voz más fuerte ahora, pero ininteligible, o no suficientemente clara para entender cada sílaba, así él se inclinó hacia adentro, su cabeza ahora estaba dentro de la ventana, él soltó algunos murmullos, luego dijo—con lágrimas en los ojos y con algo que le oprimía el pecho— “Señor, oh Señor,  perdóname, soy sólo un pobre niño ignorante, porque siempre he sabido Quién eres, siempre lo supe, pero sólo ahora lo entiendo completamente, de verdad”. Y luego el niño no tenía más palabras, dándose cuenta que un brazo  de  Nuestro Señor Jesucristo  había  dejado  la  cruz   ponerlo sobre su hombro derecho. Un transeúnte que pasaba por ahí se detuvo, miró fijamente y se arrodilló.

       Después de todo, ¿qué fue esto, sino nada menos que un milagro?
       Mariano parado en el polvoriento día, quería entrar en la casa de adobe, pero continuaba oyendo la voz de Jesús que le decía “Continúa caminando por esta calle, ésta te llevará a otro lugar, sigue el camino a Huancayo, allí harás tu casa.”
       Y desde aquel día, el hombro derecho de Mariano ha estado adolorido; y desde aquel día, el entró en la ciudad de Huancayo, Perú, y ha vivido una vida significante y llena en la ciudad, criando a una familia, y en su casa nunca faltó la presencia del Señor.

       Talvez si uno mira a esto metafóricamente, el Señor estaba diciéndole: ‘Como recuerdo de nuestro encuentro, nuestra conexión, te dejaré con este signo’. Cualquiera sea el caso, Mariano ha llevado su cruz, y la llevará hasta el día de su muerte. Ahora el tiene ochenta y dos años de edad (él y su esposa tienen un lugar con una sombrilla y algunas bancas, cerca de mi departamento, en una de las calles principales, donde venden yuyo con chuño a los transeúntes que se detienen a comer, hablar y reunirse—aquí en El Tambo, Huancayo, Perú).
Nro: 628 (Escrito in Huancayo, Perú, 28 de noviembre del 2010)

Un cuento basado en eventos reales.  

The Account of – Guadalupe and Little Coyote (In English and Spanish)

English Version

The Account of –
Guadalupe and Little Coyote
((A True Story) (In English and Spanish))

Advance: No one noticed her in particular disembark the airplane in Tijuana, Mexico, in the undecided night, no one saw her sister either, to speak of, they simply sunk into the multitude of people, but in a few hours, that would turn into days and months, things would be different. She, I should say they, came from the south, that is, South America, Peru, from Huancayo, a small city in the Andes, to Lima Peru, and now as you know, they are in Tijuana. This is a true story, the names of the real persons involved are not going to be mentioned here but the names they chose to use on this drama adventure, I will share, Guadalupe, was the name she picked out, and her sister, Rosario.

(The Story :) Here they both lived for two months (in the house of the Little Coyote), their objective, and the premise of this short story is simple, both wanted the benefits the United States had to offer them: two women from Peru, seeking a new life in America, and their struggles to get from Huancayo, Peru to Portland, Oregon—let no one think, it was easy).

       The year is 1998. Normally the fees involved to fix an escort from South America to North America can range from $3000 dollars apiece (per individual), to $30,000-dollars depending on what part of South America you are coming from, and your connections, trying to get into America illegally, can be dollar costly. Mexicans of course do not wish to pay these horrendous fees, but do not mind collecting them to bring their neighbors across, and in the process many things can happen: rape, robbery, even murder, and this story you are about to read involves all three of them.
       She, Guadalupe knew this city was the place required for her invincible intent, the place where she had to succeed, yet two months went by. Her obligation was to insure the folks on the way that they’d get paid; this was done by phone, via, Portland, Oregon, to Mexico, and San Diego, California. The money was guaranteed, if indeed these two women were delivered to their family members.
       Once in Tijuana, she was introduced to Little Coyote, her Mexican representative. She was given a new Passport, and Little Coyote was to be her husband, Guadalupe was twenty-eight years old at the time, had two children in Peru, a husband (or future husband, mother of her two children, for she is married now) who tried to make it to the United States, but was captured and turned back at the Mexican border. Thus, it was her turn to try.
       And so in a car, and through the gate, Guadalupe and Little Coyote drove, Guadalupe a foot taller than her pretend husband, it felt odd for her, so she told me, but it was as it was, her new protector, respectfully, and once they got to where they were supposed to be going, and handed over to relatives, it would cost $3000 per person, $6000 total.

       She felt a chill of fear, as they drove through the gates of Mexico to the country of opportunity; now in an unfamiliar city as it was, and dependent on the good will, and consciousness of Little Coyote. She waited in San Diego for her sister, they were previously separated, as planned and now would be reunited; accordingly, once across the border, she found out there was no supernatural boundary lines between the two land masses.
       And for that reason, she felt this was halfway to her destination, unhindered thus far, and reunited with her sister. It suited her quite well, and in the process (with twenty other migrates) Little Coyote provided some frugal needs, food in particular. She noticed the Mexicans were eating out of their hands, and she asked for a fork (not the thing to do), and they looked at her as if she was asking for the moon, and consequently she passively accepted their style of primitive eating, and ate out of her hands likewise—a monkey see, monkey do thing.
       The former group, and she and her sister, were brought to a house in San Diego, a new Coyote’s house, as Little Coyote had to leave and return to Mexico, for his next group. Here six of them had to fit into a compartment or platform underneath the car, where she had to push her nose close to a hole for air, and a fat Mexican next to her whose stink was intoxicating, especially near her smelly armpits. Nonetheless, she survived, as I would not be able to write this account.

       As she arrived to the second location in San Diego, a house with two Coyotes waiting for the six individuals, she dismissed the vast illusory bodies that cramped and kept here like a sardine in the compartment of the car.   Here things would change drastically.
       In this new location, they were told they’d have to stay a while, perhaps four days, because no one came to pick them up. Matter of fact, their family members were in Portland, and to the understanding of the two Coyotes, they didn’t know were Portland was—perhaps didn’t know how to read a map: but once finding out, they put the two girls into an isolated room, with bared windows, as a result, there would be no escape. Nonetheless, a catastrophe was building up, in that, throughout the day, the Evil Coyote, fought with the so called Good Coyote, over the two girls, he wanted to rape one, if not both. All day long this intolerable lucidity of insomnia fell upon the two girls, who found out there, was no escape from the room, and that their family members in Portland were reluctant to come to their rescue, in San Diego, lest they be captured for being illegal immigrants themselves, and a crazy Mexican outside their doors, what in heaven’s could be next?  Could things get worse? Was a question on their minds?
       Guadalupe could hear them swear, at one another, and as night had fallen into early morning, it being 2: 00 a.m., things would change again.
       Prior to this, the Evil Coyote was pounding on the door of the girls, trying to get in. And then the harsh pounding stopped, at which time the girl’s hearts started throbbing for the unknown was bleak at best, then a silence came about. Next, another knock on the girls door sounded, a softer knock this time, it was the Good Coyote, “Come, come quick…!” he said to the two girls, carrying a sack outside to his car. He was exhausted, and as the two girls got into the car, they noticed a body lying by the sidewalk; it looked like the Evil Coyote’s.
       “We are going to Las Vegas,” said the Good Coyote, there you can take a bus to Portland. And so they drove all that night long.

       Once in Las Vegas, the Good Coyote, he deliberately gave his black bag to Guadalupe to carry (as he went to clean up, after buying himself some cloths, and some shoes and clothes for the girls); then she, Guadalupe put her hand into the black bag, as he was changing she discovered it was a gun, and she quickly dropped it back down into the sack, aghast at what she had discovered; alas, she had left her fingerprints on the gun.
       Guadalupe made a phone call to Portland, telling her folks, the Good Coyote had paid their fair on the Greyhound Bus, to Portland, and they’d be there shortly. Prior to this, the Good Coyote had asked them if they had any money, Guadalupe did, she had $200-dollars, but said “No, we are broke…!” Well, that is the Peruvian way is it not. Anyhow, the Good Coyote (Mexican by Birth) perhaps was not as good as we’d like him to be, he took the $60,000 dollars that he and his partner had collected in San Diego, for the twenty or so clients they had taken across the border. So he was of course far from being broke himself and perhaps a little greedier than even the Bad Coyote—it’s all proportional I guess.

(The innumerable variables Guadalupe had to endure were not over yet, a most difficult task still resided in the future over this drama, and unwinding of events.)

       Once in Portland, neither of the girls could find a job for three months, and so that was not a good start, but her family provided, as often Peruvian families do. And in due time, they both did find a job.
       It was shortly after she got her job, the mysteries of the murder that took place in San Diego, made it to the steps of the house, the house Guadalupe and her sister was living in. The police, Federal Agents knocked on their door, and gradually, the door was opened. It was to her surprise, the agents knew her full name, real name, and almost everything she knew about herself, they knew. What they really wanted though (the Agents) was cooperation, and so both Rosario and Guadalupe gave them as much as they could, and wanted, lest they be facing murder charges, in consequence, I repeat myself by saying, the Good Coyote was not as good as he tried to pretend he was, in essence he was perhaps the most shrewd of the lot; lust can  blind the mind of a man, and it evidently did with the so called Good Coyote’s partner, and there was an opportunity that went along with this, and the Good Coyote saw it.
       After a certain amount of time, and movies on the two girl’s testimony on what took place in San Diego, the Good Coyote was picked up, and put into prison. And the Girls got a nice letter from the Federal Government, and a work permit—of all things.

In conclusion, this short saga of Guadalupe is but one story of many who come over the boarders of America to find a better life. I do not support the Mexicans phantom approach getting into America, nor the coyotes, for just people seeking employment that they should be given rights to the American Dream simply because they are our neighbors — a good neighbor goes according to the laws of the land, instead of invading. And expecting or as I refer to them as abnormal privileges; but the concept: because they escaped from their country to ours for better jobs is no excuse to protest for their rights as if they should have them—citizens and guests have rights not invaders, in many cases, these adventures end up in rudeness, if not death along the way, but of course, not without a certain forewarning.


      El Reporte de: Guadalupe y el “Coyotito”

(Una Historia Verdadera Sobre el Cruce de la Frontera de los Estados Unidos)

Avance: Nadie en particular la notó desembarcar del avión en Tijuana, México, en la noche sombría, tampoco nadie vio a su hermana; es decir, ellas simplemente se hundieron en la multitud de la gente, pero en unas pocas horas, días y meses, las cosas serían diferentes. Ella, o debería decir ellas, venían del sur, es decir de Sudamérica, Perú, desde Huancayo, una pequeña ciudad en Los Andes, a Lima Perú, y ahora como lo sabes, ellas están en Tijuana. Esta es una historia verdadera, los nombres de las verdaderas personas involucradas no van a ser mencionados aquí, pero los nombres que ellas eligieron para usar en esta aventura de drama, lo compartiré: Guadalupe, era el nombre que ella eligió, y su hermana, Rosario.

(La Historia:) Aquí—en Tijuana—ambas vivieron durante dos meses (en la casa del “Coyotito”), su objetivo, y la premisa de esta historia son simples, ambas querían los beneficios que Estados Unidos tenía para ofrecerles: dos mujeres de Perú, buscando una nueva vida en Norteamérica, y sus luchas para llegar desde Huancayo, Perú a Portland, Oregon (que nadie piense que fue fácil).

Era el año de 1998. Normalmente los honorarios implicados para fijar una escolta desde Suramérica a Norteamérica pueden ser desde 3000 dólares americanos por persona hasta 30,000 dólares americanos, dependiendo de qué parte de Suramérica vienes y de tus conexiones tratando de entrar en Norteamérica ilegalmente. Los mexicanos desde luego no desean pagar estos honorarios horrendos, pero no les importar recaudarlos para llevar a sus vecinos a través de las fronteras, y en el proceso muchas cosas pueden pasar, violación, robo, aún asesinato, y esta historia que estás a punto de leer implica todas las tres cosas.

Ella, Guadalupe sabía que esta ciudad era el lugar requerido para su intención invencible, el lugar donde ella tendría éxito, pero aún dos meses tuvieron que pasar. Su obligación era asegurar que las personas que le harían pasar la frontera serían pagadas; esta coordinación fue hecha por teléfono, vía, Pórtland (Oregon), a México, y San Diego (California). El dinero fue garantizado, si de verdad estas dos mujeres serían entregadas a sus familiares.

Una vez en Tijuana, le presentaron a “Coyotito”, quien sería su representante mexicano. Le dieron un nuevo pasaporte, y el “Coyotito” sería su esposo, Guadalupe tenía veintiocho años entonces, tenía dos hijos en Perú y un esposo (o futuro esposo, quien trató de cruzar la frontera de Estados Unidos, pero fue capturado y devuelto a México) Así que, éste era su turno para intentarlo.
Y así en un carro, y por la puerta, Guadalupe y el “Coyotito” se transportaron, Guadalupe era treinta centímetros más alta que su supuesto esposo, ella se sintió rara, eso ella me dijo, pero era como era, con mucho respecto era su nuevo protector, y una vez que ellas llegaran a donde se suponía tenían que llegar y entregadas a sus parientes, esto costaría 3000 dólares americanos por persona, en total 6000 dólares.

Ella sintió un escalofrío de miedo, mientras ellos condujeron por las puertas de México al país de las oportunidades; ahora en una ciudad desconocida mientras ella dependía de la buena voluntad y conciencia del “Coyotito”. Ella esperó en San Diego por su hermana, ellas habían sido separadas antes, tal como fue previsto y ahora serían reunidas; así, una vez que cruzaron la frontera, ella descubrió que no era imposible cruzar las fronteras sobrenaturales entre la tierra de menos y la tierra de abundancia.

Y como corresponde, ella sintió que estaba en la mitad de su destino, libre hasta ahora y reunida con su hermana, como acabo de mencionar. Esto la satisfizo mucho, y en el proceso (con veinte otros inmigrantes) el “Coyotito” les ofreció, o les proveyó, debería decir, algunas necesidades frugales, comida en particular. Ella notó que los mexicanos comían con sus manos sin cubiertos, pero ella pidió un tenedor (fue un error), ellos la miraron como si ella estaba pidiendo la luna, y consiguientemente ella pasivamente aceptó su estilo de comer, y comió con sus manos como ellos.

Ella y su hermana con un grupo anterior, fueron traídas a una casa en San Diego, la casa de un nuevo “Coyote”, mientras que el “Coyotito” tuvo que marcharse y volver a México para traer su siguiente grupo. Aquí seis de ellos tuvieron que caber en un compartimiento o plataforma debajo del auto, donde ella tuvo que poner su nariz cerca de un agujero por aire, porque al lado de ella había una mexicana gorda que casi la asfixia con sus axilas malolientes. Sin embargo, ella sobrevivió, como que no sería capaz de escribir este reporte, si ella no sobrevivía, ¿no?

Mientras llegaban a la segunda ubicación en San Diego, una casa con dos “Coyotes” que esperan por los seis individuos, ella se libró de los enormes cuerpos que apretados fueron mantenidos como sardinas en el compartimiento del auto. Ella estaba feliz de salir de allí, aunque fue necesario, porque había funcionarios de inmigración a lo largo del camino que ellos tuvieron que recorrer para llegar a la segunda ubicación en la ciudad. Aquí las cosas cambiarían drásticamente.

En este nuevo local en San Diego, les dijeron a ellas que tendrían que quedarse por un tiempo, quizás cuatro días, porque nadie había venido a recogerlas. En realidad sus miembros familiares estaban en Portland, y según los dos “Coyotes”, ellos no sabían dónde quedaba Portland, pero una vez que lo averiguaron (a 1,502 kilómetros de distancia), ellos pusieron a las dos muchachas en un cuarto aislado, que tenía ventanas con barras de metal, por consiguiente, no habría ninguna fuga. Con todo, una catástrofe se iba construyendo. En el transcurso del día, el “Coyote Malo”, peleó con el supuesto “Coyote Bueno”, sobre las dos muchachas, en el sentido de que el “Coyote Malo” quería violar a una, o talvez a ambas. Todo el día esta lucidez intolerable de insomnio cayó sobre las dos muchachas, que encontraron que no había ninguna posibilidad de escape del cuarto y de saber que sus miembros familiares en Portland estaban poco dispuestos a venir en su rescate, hasta San Diego, por temor a ser capturados ellos mismos por ser inmigrantes ilegales también, y un mexicano loco afuera de sus puertas.

Guadalupe podía oírlos hablar malas palabras, es decir maldiciéndose uno al otro, y mientras había caído las primeras horas de la mañana, serían las 2 de la madrugada, las cosas cambiarían de nuevo.

Antes de esto, el “Coyote Malo” estaba golpeando la puerta del cuarto de las muchachas, tratando de entrar. Y luego los fuertes golpes a la puerta se detuvieron, en aquel momento los corazones de las muchachas comenzaron a palpitar por lo desconocido que era desolador a lo mucho, luego vino un silencio. Después, sonó otro golpe en la puerta del cuarto de las muchachas, un golpe más suave esta vez, era el “Coyote Bueno”, “¡Vengan, vengan… rápido!” les dijo a las dos muchachas, llevando un saco negro afuera a su carro. Él estaba agotado, y mientras que las dos muchachas entraban en el carro, ellas notaron un cuerpo inerte por la acera; este se parecía al “Coyote Malo”.

“Estamos yendo a Las Vegas”, dijo el “Coyote Bueno”, allí ustedes pueden tomar un autobús a Portland. Y entonces ellos condujeron toda esa noche.
Una vez en Las Vegas el “Coyote Bueno” deliberadamente le dio su bolso negro a Guadalupe para que le ayudara a llevar (mientras él iba a asearse, después de comprar ropa para él mismo, y algunos zapatos y ropas para las muchachas); entonces ella, Guadalupe puso su mano en el bolso negro y descubrió que había un arma, ella rápidamente lo soltó de vuelta en la bolsa negra, horrorizada por lo que ella había descubierto; ¡ay!, pero ella había dejado sus huellas digitales en el arma.

Guadalupe hizo una llamada telefónica a Portland, diciéndole a su familia que el “Coyote Bueno” había pagado su pasaje en el autobús “Greyhound” a Portland, y ellas estarían allí dentro de poco. Antes de esto, el Coyote Bueno les había preguntado si ellas tenían algo de dinero; Guadalupe tenía, ella tenía doscientos dólares, pero dijo “¡No, estamos en la quiebra…!” Bueno esa es la forma peruana, ¿no? De todos modos, el “Coyote Bueno” (mexicano de nacimiento) quizás no era tan bueno como nos gustaría que él fuera, él había tomado los 60,000 dólares que él y su compañero habían recolectado en San Diego por los veinte y tanto clientes que ellos habían llevado a través de la frontera. Entonces él estaba desde luego muy lejos de estar en la quiebra el mismo.

(Las innumerables variables que Guadalupe tuvo que aguantar no habían terminado aún, la tarea más difícil todavía residía en el futuro sobre este drama y el desenrollo de acontecimientos)

Una vez en Portland, ninguna de las dos muchachas pudo encontrar un trabajo durante tres meses, de modo que no fue un buen comienzo, pero su familia proveyó, como a menudo lo hacen las familias peruanas. Y a su debido tiempo, ambas encontraron un trabajo.

Fue poco tiempo después de que ella consiguió trabajo, que los misterios del asesinato que ocurrió en San Diego, hizo sus pasos a la casa, a la casa en que Guadalupe y de su hermana vivían. Los Agentes Federales de la policía, tocaron a su puerta, y gradualmente, la puerta fue abriéndose. Fue para su sorpresa, que los agentes sabían su nombre completo, su verdadero nombre, y casi todo que ella sabía de si misma, ellos lo sabían. Lo que ellos realmente querían (los Agentes) era cooperación, y por eso ambas, Rosario y Guadalupe, cooperaron al máximo, por temor a ser acusadas de asesinato; así, el “Coyote Bueno" no era tan bueno como él trató de fingir.

Después de cierto tiempo, y de películas con el testimonio de las dos muchachas sobre lo que ocurrió en San Diego, el “Coyote Bueno” fue capturado y puesto en prisión. Y las muchachas consiguieron una bonita carta del Gobierno Federal, y un permiso de trabajo.

(Escrito 24-Junio-2007)

Garmisch in a Bag (1976)

It seemed in those days I never lost a moment, I slept a scarce five hours a night, and only one with a makeup structure of iron cold dead sleep, and that had to settle me down, like it or not. My last vacation was to Luxembourg, and it had consumed nearly all my earnings, or savings. I stopped Cody’s reading lesson, I had given him ten cents for every page he could read without a mistake the past few months, and jotted down how much I owed him, a sufficient number of dimes had been accumulated; Shawn never seemed to need assistance with his reading skills. I had intentions of selling my car, but I had it fixed instead, and wanted to make one last trip—before  being reassigned to a new military installation in the States—to  Garmisch, Germany. And so I put aside my laundry money and used it for gas of all things, and figured I’d not be any recluse, although I never was. I found myself a leather bag I had kept for traveling under my bed, kind of a bag, a suitcase older than Methuselah, and put one item of clothes in it for each boy and myself.
       Garmisch was only a few hundred miles away, thereabouts, and it was a resort area in the sierras, near Austria, and so the day was set, the car gassed up, and the twin boys ready, with long underwear on and me with a dark sweatshirt, a car full of groceries, the suitcase, and thus, we ended up in the Township of Garmisch, near noon.
       After settling our hotel affairs and having mealtime, we ended up walking the hilly countryside in Garmisch that afternoon, which was a long weekend, I think the Fourth of July.
       There was no snow on the ground, so the skiing was over for the season, and most of the hotels were half rate, and most were half empty. Shawn in one hand, Cody with a thump in his mouth, on the other side of me, we climbed the hillside, when Cody got tired of his thumb, then it fell back into my hand, Shawn’s never left. The hills were green, and the path up the hill was of stone, or cement in areas to my recollection, and alongside the path was a wooden fence.  And Cody and Shawn their mother being of German ancestry, fit right into the countryside, blond hair, colorful eyes, milky white skin, strong bones.
       The meadow glowed; all around the boys they were luscious in the midst of this enchanting beautiful countryside.
       We had stopped along the climb, Cody had spotted a cow, with a big bell on around its neck, and I think he wanted to dingdong it. I had little patience with chance things, and Cody ran under the fence to the cow and Shawn followed him, quicker than a jackrabbit—and it scared me a bit but I let it be, and Cody jumped back, and Shawn froze in place—the cow was now huge, not like it was from the distance, and a young boy, above ten ran up to the boys spoke in German, I could understand some of his words, I made them out to be, “Don’t fear the cow, he’s friendly, he’s my cow…” thus again, I left well enough alone lest I  doom the moment of fun running after the boys, and bring more fear into the situation than need be, and the boy, the German lad, looked at me, and we talked some, with expressible connotations, more so  than pure language of German or English. The boy kind of bowed and marveled knowing that they, or we were beyond the deliberate creation of any language, and understood one another. And I expressed the underlie beauty of the landscape, and the boy smiled and ran off, and Shawn and Cody, had ever penetrated the German culture, once and for all.
       They, the twin boys were only four years old then, but they knew, kind of knew they could never attain ultimate knowledge of life at their age, it was all a mystery of beauty, but no less than life, that beauty and life and their father were all intertwisted, and in the long range of things, the same non-understandable fabric like the sun following Cody, that Cody had to take at face value and put aside for another day, for full understanding.
       In fact, it was that evening in the bar-restaurant, that a fiddler and his son were singing and playing a tune, I had ordered a beer for me, and some sandwiches for the boys, and a coke, and they felt so free and connected to having cleared their mind of the day, serenely joined the fiddle with his son, and danced a tinge to the melody. It was delightful to see them both, untroubled by real or fancied grievances of adult life, this evening they had their say, and the last word was theirs.
No: 1065/5-20-2014

Days (Poems on Grieving…) (In English and Spanish)

“Eighteen poems dedicated to women inspired North American, titled: ‘Women Touched by God’… in English and Spanish, an ultimate production, illustrated by Siluk. The Poet Laureate dedicated the lines in poetic prose and poetry to female saints. For years Dennis Siluk has dedicated a grand part of his literature to Peru.”  Etty Janampa, Editor of Correo-Huancayo (10-23-2013)

  Days (Dias)
  (Poems on Grieving…)


by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.
                              Andean & Theologian Scholar, International Latin Poet Laureate,
and Nine Time Poet Laureate in Peru (Recipient of the Gran Cross of San Jeronimo)

Appointed, U.S. Embassy Warden for Huancayo, Peru, 4-7-2014   Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

“Dr. Dennis L. Siluk…The Order of the Legion of Mariscal Caceres… because of your excellent work in 2013, and high spirit with the people of this region, Junin, decorates you… (Ceremony to be held, 4 February, 2014)”   —Alejandrina Cervantes Zúñiga Presidenta OLMC-FZRJ   (Ltr., 22/01/2014)

En Inglés y Español con Ilustraciones y Fotografías/en Prosa Poética Corta  (Illustrted by the Autor) 

(Poems on Grieving…)
Copyright © June, 2014, by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.

           Front Cover picture taken by Rosa Peñaloza
At a creek near Lake Superior, in Bayfield, Minnesota (2002)
Back cover picture also by Rosa, In Stillwater Minnesota, with the author and his mother.
Any artwork that might be in this book was done by the author himself.



Poems on the Days

1—Lost Days
Días Perdidos

2—Final Days
Días Finales

3—Forty-two Days
Cuarenta y Dos Días

4—Last Day
Último Día

5—A Day of Recovery
Un Día de Recuperación

6—Days Grew Heavy
Los Días Se Volvieron Graves

7—Day  after Day
Día tras Día

8—Days of Protocol
Días de Protocolo


10—A Day Late
Un Día Tarde

11—Day Zero
Día Cero

12—Days of Depression
Días de Depresión

13—A Pretty Good Day
Un Bonito y Buen Día

14—Days of Cleaning Out Things
Días de Limpieza Total de las Cosas

15—Trying Days
Días Duros

16—Day of the Vision
Día de la Visión

17—Day  of Cremation
Día de la Cremación

18—A Day after the Wake
Un Día Después del Velorio

—Beyond Days   †

19—the Sofa Chair
El Sillón



22--“Would you like to live like this?”
“¿Te Gustaría Vivir Así?”

Dedication Poem (end poem)

23—Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]

Prolog:  Most folks, to include poets, prefer poetry on death to entail (to a high degree) courage and strength; I don’t disagree completely with that, only partly, for submissive suffering is also involved, which most folks just do not want to look at.  I prefer them both together for what else can one do to find the true and aggressive, passive emotions one voyages through during a paramount loss: especially during the process of dying; day by day watching death consume.
       Emotions are neither right nor wrong, they just are. Therefore, we weep, behind or in front of the curtains. We weep often to heal and let go, to go forward in life, as it was meant to be. Some folk’s scream, as to be able to endure the pain of a loss (of a loved one).  Some grieve long and hard, some not so long, or hard, perhaps they are more durable. In any case, the periods of grieving are different for everyone, and we grieve like it or not; and one-way or another, it will come out, if not smoothly, conceivably sideways.
       This is a daring book—to say the least, on what I consider poignant poetry; based on a fact, a dreadful fact, a fact everyone must face sooner or later,  one that my mother has already has faced, and I had to endure; —dying or death of a much loved person, can be hazardous to your health. Perhaps this is my poetic testimony, to a beloved mother, perchance it is my letting go, for I’ve not published it until now, and I wrote it complete, seven years ago.

Spanish Version

Prólogo: Mucha gente, incluyendo a los poetas, prefieren poesías sobre muerte para conllevar (a un grado algo) coraje y fuerza; estoy de acuerdo con esto, pero no totalmente, sólo en parte, porque el sufrimiento sumiso también está involucrado, sólo que mucha gente no quiere mirar esto.  Sin embargo, hoy en día las cosas están cambiando, y es más permisible, si no audaz, mezclar éstos, y así, aquí tendremos sólo esto.  Prefiero juntos a ambos, porque qué más uno puede hacer, para encontrar las verdaderas emociones agresivas y pasivas en el que uno viaja a través durante una pérdida extrema: especialmente cuando otro está agonizando, día a día, especialmente, la madre de uno.  Habiendo dicho esto déjame adicionar una nota sobre emociones.
       Las emociones no son correctas ni erróneas, sólo las son.  Por eso, lloramos, detrás o en frente de las cortinas.  Lloramos a veces para sentirnos bien o resignarnos, para continuar con la vida, como esto debe ser.  Algunas personas gritan, como para poder soportar el dolor de una pérdida (de un ser amado).  Algunos sufren duro y prolongadamente, otros no tan duro ni tan prolongado, talvez ellos sean los más duraderos.  En cualquier caso, los periodos de sufrimiento son diferentes para todos, y sufrimos nos guste o no; y este saldrá de una forma u otra, si no tranquilamente, de lados concebibles.  
       Este es un libro atrevido—por decir lo menos, si puedo decirlo así, en lo que he considerado poesía conmovedora; basada en la realidad, una realidad pavorosa que uno debe enfrentar tarde o temprano—la agonía o muerte de una persona muy amada.  Esta en realidad involucra a todos los lectores quienes van a ojear este libro, o leerlo letra por letra—; en una forma, este es mi testimonio poético, a una madre querida.

Poems on the Days

(Part One)

  (…on the Dying of a Beloved Mother)


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 vigor 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


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.

# 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 cominos 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.- 15-Dic-2007 # 2102: En este poema, el autor se está refiriendo al Río Saint Croix, que fluye a través de la ciudad de Stillwater, en Minnesota, Estados Unidos.


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 limpié (rápidamente).
Sentía que algo no iba bien,
algo, volvía a mirarme fijamente…
mi madre había muerto.


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;
now eight-three years old:
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-Dic-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 Graves

Los días se volvieron graves 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)


  Day after Day

     I walked around her bed (day after day)
     wondering what I could do
     she must had thought me a dupe…
     Just pacing, pacing here and there,
     like a hungry bear—
     Anxious to do something, anything
     but there was nothing I could do, nothing at all.
     Perhaps she understood:
     even the good and thoughtful must endure….
     She would not overlook my sorrow.

      No: 2106 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

     Día tras Día
Caminé alrededor de su cama (días tras día)
preguntándome qué podría hacer
ella debió haber pensado de mi como un ingenuo…;
allí estaba paseando, paseando aquí y allá,
como un oso hambriento—
ansioso de hacer algo, cualquier cosa
pero no había nada que podía hacer, nada en absoluto.
Talvez ella entendió:
que incluso el bueno y reflexivo deben sufrir…
Ella no pasaría por alto mi pena.

 # 2106 (16-Diciembre-2007)


  Days of Protocol

     Everyday in the hospital (thirty in all)
       was a day for protocol:
       questions, infusions, shots, sleep,
       heavy sleep (sleeping ten to
       fifteen-hours per day) that was her
       life, her living.  She asked
       when she saw me: “Were you here
       “O yes,” I’d respond, “but you were

       No: 2107   (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Días de Protocolo

Todos los días en el hospital (treinta en total)
       fue un día para el protocolo:
preguntas, infusiones, inyecciones, sueño,
       profundo sueño (durmiendo de diez a
quince horas por día) eso era su
       vida, su existencia.  Ella me preguntó
cuando me vio: “¿Estuviste aquí
“Ah, si” le respondería, “pero tú estabas

# 2107 16-Diciembre-2007



Now, years later, memories, voices, images
words, all turn up in my mind.
She really didn’t want to take that agitated ride
to the hospital, the morning she called
upstairs to my wife Rosa…but the pain in her
stomach was too much; thus,
Rosa drove her to the Emergency Room,
(admissions), and she never left.
Perhaps she knew this—

No: 2108 12-16-2007)

Spanish Version


Ahora, cuatro años más tarde, las memorias, voces, imágenes
       palabras, todos aparecen en mi mente.
Ella realmente no quería tomar ese viaje agitado
       hacia el hospital, la mañana que ella llamó
arriba, a mi esposa Rosa…pero el dolor en su
       estómago era demasiado; así,
Rosa la llevó a Emergencia del hospital,
       (admisión), y ella nunca lo dejó.
Talvez ella sabía esto—
# 2108 16-Diciembre-2007


A Day Late

When the minister asked (brought to my attention)
at the Hospital, after mother’s death,
if I’d give to them her name, they’d pray for her,
       I simply told them (with annoyance):
“It’s too late, way too late— go pray for the living.”

¡No: 2109 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Un Día Tarde

Cuando el pastor preguntó (me hizo saber)
en el hospital, después de la muerte de mi madre,
si yo les daba el nombre de mi madre, ellos rezarían, yo simplemente
les dije (con irritación):
“Es muy, muy tarde—ve y reza por los vivos”.

# 2109 (16-Diciembre-2007)


Day Zero

My mother lay silent on her back—
while the female doctor was talking to me
(in a private room)
showing far-minded love….
It was day—zero, I couldn’t take
       much more.
(Thank God, my brother spoke
before I did!)

No: 2110 (12-16-2007) 


Spanish Version

Día Cero

Mi madre permanecía silenciosa sobre su espalda—
mientras la doctora—estaba hablándome
          (en un cuarto privado)
mostrando indiferencia…
Era el día—cero, no pude soportar
       mucho más.
(¡Gracias a Dios, mi hermano habló
          antes que yo lo hiciera!)

# 2110 (16-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

Hubieron 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, jello, chocolate milk
(mostly, tasteless foods)
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 Bonito y Buen Día

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 bonito y buen día.

# 2112 (16-Diciembre-2007)


     Days of Cleaning out Things

Throughout my mother’s apartment, my brother
and I found a massive storage of things, things,
and more things…like sewing things, and
garments she made, never wore, garments
bought and put away in storage, not sure what for. 

Things, like records and ribbons,
knitting things, almost everything buyable
under the sun.  Tons of toothpaste, and
toilet paper (stacks on top of stacks); all three
bedrooms filled, and she slept on the couch.
Stamps, paper, and can goods, silverware
in three drawers, tools and much, much more.

It took all of two weeks to clean that house,
but I bet she had a hell of a time buying and
giving it away as gifts, as often she did,
plus, my brother and I  never ran out, of things.

No: 2113 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Días de Limpieza
Total de las Cosas

A lo largo del departamento de mi madre, mi hermano
y yo encontramos un enorme depósito de cosas, cosas,
y más cosas…como cosas para costura, y
prendas que ella hizo, nunca las usó, prendas
compradas y guardadas en almacenamiento, no estoy seguro
para qué.

Cosas, como discos y cintas,
cosas para tejido, casi todo comprable
bajo el sol.  Toneladas de pasta dental, y
papel higiénico (montones y montones); todos los tres
cuartos llenos, y ella dormía en el sofá.

Estampillas, papel, y comidas enlatadas, cubertería
en tres cajones, herramientas y mucho, mucho más.
Tomó dos semanas enteras, para limpiar esa casa,
pero apuesto que ella tuvo un tiempo duro comprando y
dando estos como regalos, como a menudo ella lo hacía,
además, a mi hermano y a mi nunca se nos agotaron, las cosas.

# 2113 (16-Diciembre-2007)


Trying Days

I tried, during those trying days
to remain dry-eyed and half-sane
—silent (my pain, 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 Duros

Traté, durante esos días duros
de permanecer sin llorar y medio cuerdo
—silencioso (mi dolor, paralizado).
Estaba tratando de entender, —

Ella 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 trajo
en un horror.

# 2114 (16-Diciembre-2007)


          Day of the Vision

I had told my mother—
(two years prior to her death),
that in a vision I had
seen her laying in a bed
(she looked dead).
Her right arm hanging loose to the side…
(she smiled, and didn’t say much
and went about her chores).
In her hospital room, I saw this vision’s
reality (the day she died).
I stroked her dead but warm
blooded arm, kissed her forehead—
it was the Day of the Vision!

No: 2115 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Día de la Visión

Le había dicho a mi madre—
(dos años antes de su muerte),
que en una visión la había visto
tirada en una cama
(ella parecía muerta).
Su brazo derecho colgado suelto a su costado…
(ella sonrió, y no dijo mucho
y continuó con sus labores).

En su cuarto de hospital, vi la realidad
de esta visión (el día que ella murió).
La acaricié muerta, pero sus brazos
aun tibios, besé su frente—
este era el ¡Día de la Visión!

# 2115 (16-Diciembre-2007)


Day of Cremation

“Cremate me,” she said (with indifference),
adding, “…it’s only $1300.00, I checked it out, not bad!”
And we somewhat laughed—thinking, I suppose—
thinking: no one will profit from her death
(fancy funerals cost piles of dollars, I guess).
And so it was, and is to this day,
she lay as a pile of ashes in a urn.
If she could see it, I’m sure
she’d nod quietly, and say:
“Job well done.”

No: 2116 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

Día de la Cremación

“Incinérame”, ella dijo (con indiferencia),
añadiendo, “¡…es sólo $1300.00, ya lo averigüé, no está mal!”
Y un tanto nos reímos—pensando, supongo—
pensando: nadie se beneficiará de su muerte
(funerales lujosos cuestan montones de dólares, supongo).
Y así esto fue, y lo es hasta este día,
ella permanece como un montón de cenizas en una urna.
Si ella pudiera ver esto, estoy seguro
ella movería su cabeza tranquilamente, y diría:
“Trabajo bien hecho”.

# 2116 (16-Diciembre-2007)


    A Day after the Wake

Back home after the wake
(the one I couldn’t attend)
on the porch I put her sofa chair,
her brown afghan—
over it…
her jacket behind it:
I only allowed a few people
to sit on it,
it was too much to tolerate!

No: 2116 (12-17-2007)

Spanish Version

     Un Día Después
del Velorio

Volviendo a casa después del velorio
(al que no pude asistir)
puse su sillón en el porche
su colcha marrón—
sobre este…
su casaca en el respaldar de este:
solo permití a poca gente
sentarse en este,
¡era demasiado para tolerar!

# 2116 (17-Diciembre-2007)

Beyond Days


The Sofa Chair

She couldn’t stand, nor walk in her hospital room
I feared she’d fall, if she tired—she needed
lifting from the bed to the sofa chair, to watch
television.  She got angry at the nurses—
for their reluctance in lifting her to and from
until I straightened things out.
Then after that, she gloated at the nurses,
as if she had swallowed a goldfish!

No: 2117 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version

El Sillón

Ella no podía pararse, ni caminar en su cuarto del hospital
     yo temía que ella se cayera, si se cansaba—ella necesitaba
ser levantada desde la cama al sillón, para mirar
     televisión.  Ella se enojó con las enfermeras—
por su resistencia, en levantarla del y al
     sillón, hasta que solucioné esto.
Luego después de esto, ella se regodeaba de las enfermeras, como si
     ellas no tenían el control total.

#2117 (16-Diciembre-2007)


Letting Go of the

Dying, is but a breath away—
Letting go of your loved ones
is another thing, much harder,
(I’d say)— Enormous echoes
seep through one’s brain,

No: 2118 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version


Morir, no es más que un respiro detenido—.
Permitir a tus seres queridos irse
es otro cosa, mucho más duro,
(yo diría)—inmensos ecos
se filtran a través del cerebro de uno.

# 2118 (16-Diciembre-2007)



They all came, one by one, to say their goodbyes
(family and friends, to the hospital); some from afar.
Some wiped their eyes, trying not to cry, others
touched and looked wide-eyed. And Mother, she just
smiled, and laughed, until she tired out, and closed
her eyes. And we all left, wondering if she’d open
             them again…. (and on July 1 (5:00 AM), 2003,
she didn’t).

No: 2119 (12-16-2007)

Spanish Version


Todos ellos vinieron, uno por uno, a decir sus despedidas
(familia y amigos, al hospital), algunos desde lejos.
Algunos se secaban los ojos, tratando de no llorar, otros
tocaban y miraban estupefactos.  Y mi madre, ella
sonreía y reía, hasta que se cansaba, y cerraba
sus ojos.  Y todos partíamos, preguntándonos si los abriría
     de nuevo… (y el 1ro. de Julio (a las 5:00 a.m.) del 2003)
ello no los hizo).

# 2119 (16-Diciembre-2007)


“Would you like to
Live like this?”

Her eyes opened wide (she had spoken for a while).
Can’t remember what I said, but mother replied:
       “…would you want to live like this?”
       “No!” my pale lips pushed out….
There was almost a spasm to her face, yet a kind of
sweetness rose from her cheeks...
“No! Neither I,” she replied. 

I watched her body go still as she leaned back
on her pillow
(as if doing some deep thinking…)
Then her round yet squinty blue-eyes closed and opened
all in a moment’s time,
and she started talking again.

No: 2120 (12-17-2007)

Spanish Version

“¿Te Gustaría
Vivir Así?”

Sus ojos se agrandaron
(ella estuvo hablando durante un tiempo),
no recuerdo lo que dije,
y ahora mi madre contestó:
“¿…quisieras vivir así?”
mis labios pálidos se abrieron…
había casi un espasmo
en su cara, uno agudo, sin embargo
una dulzura subió a sus mejillas,
boquiabierto… “No” repetí.
Miré su cuerpo ponerse quieto
mientras ella se apoyaba en
su almohada (pensando…)
Entonces sus redondos aunque entrecerrados
ojos azules se cerraban y abrían
todo en un instante,
y ella empezó a hablar
     de nuevo.

# 2120 (17-Diciembre-2007)

        Dedication Poem

This book is dedicated to
Elsie T. Siluk, born 1920-2003.
(This picture taken 1939.)

           Dedicated to:  Elsie T. Siluk


Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03

Spanish Version

Amor y Mariposas
[Para Elsie T Siluk, mi madre]

Ella luchó una buena batalla
La última de muchas—
Hasta que no hubo nada más
Donde una vez, hubo plenitud.
Y así, serena  y digna
Ella dijo, ‘adiós,’ en su propia forma
Y dejó atrás
Un gran tiempo viejo
Espacio para otro

Amor y Mariposas…
Eso fue mi madre.

—Por  Dennis L. Siluk © Julio/2003

Reconocimientos Recientes (Gallery of Photos)

•  Reconocido como Doctor Honoris Causa y Poeta Laureado de Iberoamérica por el “Consejo Iberoamericano en Honor a los Líderes de Líderes” ((Consejo Internacional que da honor a los líderes de líderes de 22 países: Argentina, Bolivia, Brasil, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Paraguay, Perú, Uruguay, Venezuela, Costa Rica, Méjico, Puerto Rico, República Dominicana, Cuba, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panamá, Andorra, también Guinea Ecuatorial, en África Central)(Colonias antiguas de España y Portugal)) Ceremonia oficial llevada a cabo en el Hotel Swissotel, el  29-Junio-2013, Dra. Gladys M. Miguel Villar Presidenta del CIHLL. Siendo éste su tercer Doctorado y el décimo como Poeta Laureado.

•  Reconocimiento como “Destacado del Año” 2-Mayo-2013, por el Congreso de la República, junto con la Cámara Peruana de Emprendedores y la Corporación de Prensa Especializada SAC ((Gerente: José Arrieta S.)(también reconocido con la misma distinción el 2007, 2011, y 2012)) Ceremonia llevada a cabo en el Congreso de la República, en Lima, Perú.

•  Municipalidad Distrital de San Juan de Miraflores, Resolución de Alcaldía No: 126-2013-MDSJM-25-Febrero-2013: Otorgado al Poeta Laureado Dr. Dennis Siluk por su destacada labor cultural, humanista y por contribuir a la literatura…Dr. Adolfo Ocampo Vargas, Alcalde.

• Radio Broadcaster Award, December, 8, 2008 (for Dr. Siluk’s ‘Poetry Corner’, afternoon broadest, at the UNCP Radio Station, Huancayo, Peru)— Reconocimiento de Honor como Maestro de la Locución por la Asociación de Locutores del Centro del Perú 8 de Diciembre del 2007 (Por varios meses el autor tuvo un espacio, al mediodía, en Radio Universitaria, el Momento de la Poesía, en Huancayo, Perú).

•  En Febero del 2014, condecorado por la Orden de la Legion Marscal Caceres; Filial Zonal Region Junin, por su alto espíritu generoso con la población de la rigion Junin.   

Reconocimientos Anteriores

·         Poeta Laureado de Canchayllo, Provincia de Jauja, reconocido por la Municipalidad Distrital de Canchayllo.  Enero 2012 (1,774-habitantes).
·         Poeta Laureado de Nueve de Julio, Provincia de Concepción, reconocido por la Municipalidad Distrital de Nueve de Julio.  Septiembre 2011 (3,500- habitantes).
·         Poeta Laureado de Satipo (Selva Central de Perú), reconocido por la Municipalidad Provincial de Satipo.  Julio 2011  (21,000- habitantes).
·         Poeta Laureado de Huancayo (Capital de Junín), reconocido por la Municipalidad Provincial de Huancayo. Junio 2011 (430,000- habitantes)
·         Poeta Laureado de Chilca, reconocido por la Municipalidad Distrital de Chilca.  Mayo 2011 (75,000- habitantes)
·         Poeta Laureado de Cerro de Pasco, reconocido por la Municipalidad Provincial de Pasco.  Noviembre 2007  (125,000- habitantes)
·         Poeta Laureado del Valle del Mantaro, reconocido por el Colegio de Periodistas de Junín-Huancavelica. Agosto 2007 (1,000,000- habitantes)
·         Poeta Laureado de San Jerónimo de Tunán, reconocido por la Municipalidad Distrital de San Jerónimo de Tunán. Enero 2006 ((y de la Gran Cruz de Oro)(10,000- habitantes))
·         Municipalidad Provincial de Jauja, Primera Capital del Perú, Resolución de Alcaldía No: 535-2011-A/MPJ 19-Septiembre-2011: Reconocido como Visitante Ilustre por el poema “El Fantasma de la Laguna de Paca”. Sabino M. Mayor Morales, Alcalde.
·         San Daniel Coboni de Cristo Redentor ((Parroquia: Diocesis de Lurin)(Catholic Parish)) 29 March, 2014, “Reconocimiento” Dr. Dennis  L. Siluk

Past Awards

·          Decorated Vietnam War Veteran (1971) U.S. Army (Three times decorated: Vietnam (1971); West Germany (1976),; Fort Rucker, Alabama (1979).

·         1965-Art Award (St. Paul, Minnesota, U.S.A.), 2nd  Place:  “Best 100 Art Show 1965”

               Recent Comments and Awards
(Sólo Versión en Inglés)

 “(Dr. Dennis Siluk) with great regard and admiration I approach to your dignified person, to thank you for sending the book: ‘Poems for the Soul,’ that tell us once more of your endless layer and poetic productions, which exalt the intelligence and human culture.”    Municipality of San Juan de Miraflores, Mayor, Dr. Adolfo Ocampo Vargas, August 5, 2013.

  “El Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, autor de 46-libros, recibió el grado de Doctor Honoris Causa por la Universidad Nacional del Centro del Perú (UNCP) el 30 de Enero del 2012, por su destacada trayectoria humanística, profesional y académica, y por sus obras sobre Perú…

“Al señor Dennis Lee Siluk: …aprovecho la ocasión para extenderle a nombre del Ministerio de Cultura el debido agradecimiento por la labor que realiza y continúa realizando.  Atentamente, Félix Antonio Lossio Chávez, Director General del Ministerio de Cultura-Dirección General de Industrias Culturales y Artes.”    Lima, 20 de Febrero del 2013.

                                                   English & Spanish Version

 “Dr. Dennis L. Siluk…The Order of the Legion of Mariscal Caceres… because of your excellent work in 2013, and high spirit with the people of this region, Junin, decorates you… (Ceremony to be held, 4 February, 2014)”
—Alejandrina Cervantes Zúñiga Presidenta OLMC-FZRJ   (Ltr., 22/01/2014)

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk: Condecoración por la Orden de la Legión Mariscal Cáceres, Filial Zonal Región Junin…por su alto espíritu generoso con la población de esta parte del país.”   
                  —Alejandrina Cervantes Zúñiga Presidenta  ((Ceremonia, 04 de Febrero  2014) (Carta 22/0 1/2014))

Appointed, U.S. Embassy Warden for Huancayo, Peru, 4-7-2014
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

Works by the author

Books Out of Print

The Other Door ((Poems- Volume I, 1981) (750-copies, 450 to 500-signed))

Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale, 1982-83)
(1st printing, 100-copies—1982; second printing, 100-copies—1983; third printing
5000-copies--1983; in 2008, 1st Spanish Version, 1000-copies printed)
The Tale of Freddy the Foolish Frog ((1982)(100 copies printed))
The Tale of Teddy and His Magical Plant ((1983)(100 copies printed))
The Tale of the Little Rose’s Smile ((1983)(100-copies printed))
The Tale of Alex’s Mysterious Pot ((1984)(100 copies printed))
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984] 100-copies printed
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985] (for teachers, of Minnesota Schools) 200-copies printed

Some of the 26-Chapbooks for Peru (of the 30,000-printed)

The Road to Unishcoto ((9/2006) (500-copies signed))
The Poetry of Stone Forest (9/2007) (500-copies signed)
The Magic of the Avelinos ((8/2006) (100-signed copies)) First Printing
The Legend of the Ghoul of the Laguna de Paca (2nd Printing 2011) (1000-copies))
…the First Printing was 50-signed copies, 2006.
El Monstrous Arcaico ((front cover title) (1000-copies, 9/2008)) 
The Legend of Huallallo ((2011) (booklet)) 1000-copies printed
Poetry of the Miners   (2011/booklet) 1000-copies printed
Satipo, Eyebrow of the Jungle (Poems…out of Peru) 1000-copies printed
The Hidden Haven (Poems out of the Andes) 1000-copies printed
Selected Poems out of the Mantaro Valley   (1/20112-1000-copies) chapbook
Peruvian Earth (Poems out of Peru) Chapbook form, (11-Poems) due 2013 (1000-copies) 23rd Peruvian Chapbook
The Galilean I (24th Chapbook) 2013-Feburary (1000-copies)
The Galilean II (25th Chapbook) 2013-July/1000-copies (25 signed and dated)
The Galilean III: Women Touched by God ((26th Chapbook/2013-October/1000-copies) (25 signed and dated))
The Galilean IV: The Gathering (27th Chapbook, 1000 copies) 25-signed and dated
The Galilean V: Focus on Christ (28th Chapbook, 1000-copies) 25 signed and dated
“The Creation Account” (29th Chapbook, 1000-copies, 25-signed and dated)

The Poetic Macabre Chapbook Collection
Each chapbook’s printing was between 50 to 100 copies printed

Dark Dancing Spiders (Jan., 2005) 50-signed copies printed
Legend of the Great Jaguar Beasts of Teotihuacán   (Feb., 2005) 50-signed copies printed
The Lighthouse near Reykjavik (Feb., 2005) 50-signed copies printed
Things that are Dark (Jan, 2005) 50-signed copies printed
Strange Nights (Jan, 2005) 100-signed copies printed
The Age of Light (April, 2005) 50-signed copies printed
The Lotus Demon of Mercury (Feb., 2005) 100-signed copies printed

The Last King of Mars (2003, never made into a chapbook) Draft
Copan   (2004, never made into a chapbook) Draft

Presently In Print
Visions, Theological, Religious and Supernatural

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon (2002) 400-copies printed
Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants (2002)
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib (2002)
The Galilean ((Volumes 1 thru VII) (due out in 2014))

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)


A 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) Novelette
Perhaps it’s Love (Minnesota to Seattle) 2004 Novel
Cold Kindness (Dieburg, Germany) 2005 Novelette

Suspense, short stories, Novels and Novelettes:

Death on Demand [Seven Suspenseful Short Stories] 2003 Vol: I
Dracula’s Ghost [And other Peculiar stories] 2003 Vol: II
The Jumping Serpents of Bosnia (suspenseful short stories) 2008 Vol: III

The Mumbler [psychological] 2003 (Novel)
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure] (2004) Novel
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast ((2002) (Novelette)) supernatural
Every day’s Adventure ((2002)(short stories, etc))
The Poetry of D.L. Siluk

General and Specific Poetry

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]
Specific Poetry 

The Last Trumpet (2002; Poetic Prophecy)
Stone Heap of the Wildcat ((2010) (Israeli Poetry))
Last Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]
The Galilean (Christian Poetry) 2015?
Days (Poetry on Grieving) 2015?
Sandalwood and Ivory (Eldritch Poetry) 2015?
Feast of the Wolfhound ((Alexandrian Epic) ((2015))
The Protagonist ((A Novelette) (in Non-traditional Narration; poetic prose)) 2015

 The Peruvian Collection of Poetry 

Spell of the Andes
[2005] (Poems out of Andes of Peru)
Peruvian Poems [2005] (Poems out of Peru)
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 People Will Not Break ((Peru) (Poems out of the Mantaro Valley) 2012

The Natural Writings of D.L. Siluk

Cornfield Laughter (and the unpublished collected stories…) 2009 (Vol. 1) 300 pp
Men with Torrent Women (Two Short Novelettes and Sixteen Short stories) 2009 (Vol. II) 250 pp
A Leaf and a Rose (a comprehensive library of new writings…) 2009, (Vol. III) 500 pp
The Cotton Belt ((An Episodic Novel of the Old South)(Volume IV))   2011      /616 pp
The Meatpacker’s Boy (Fifty-three Short Stories, and a Novelette) 400 pp.  2015?

Books in Progress: 

The Dogs of Cherry Park & El Oregon ((two one act plays) 2016
Extracts from: Ithuriel, the Hominid (2016)

Visit my web site: ; you can also order my books directly from: ; ;; along with many other notable book dealers.  Also, see: www.swft/writings.html

Back of Book 

Most folks, to include poets, prefer poetry on death to entail mostly courage and strength; I don’t disagree completely with that, only partly, for submissive suffering is also involved; yet, many folks just do not want to look at both sides of the dying.  Nowadays things are changing, and it is more permissible, yet still bold, to mix them together, and thus, here we have just that.  I prefer them both together, for what else can one do, to find the true and aggressive and passive emotions death voyages take you through, during a paramount loss, such as a loved one dying, day by day, especially, one’s mother.”  Dr. Dennis L. Siluk 

“Dr. Siluk is a world traveler, prolific writer (his first poetry written at the age of twelve); he is a License Counselor; has three Doctorate Degree and has a multitude of awards for his writings, in Peru.  In addition, he has been awarded the title of Poet Laureate nine times over in Peru; and in 1993, was ordained a Minister in Good Standing; he is also a decorated Vietnam War Veteran.” Rosa Peñaloza

This is Dennis’ 49th book, 8th on Peruvian culture, 17th in Poetry.  He lives in Peru and Minnesota with his wife Rosa, he is from Minnesota.  He has won Columnist and Journalist awards in both the United States and Peru.  Back ppicture taken 42-days before the death of the poet’s mother.