Sunday, March 29, 2015
He was a hearty old drunk, with dart holes in his nose—
Humorous at times, I had seen him a dozen times before, throughout the city!
A man with a strut cane, to balance his walk—
A watch and chain that hung inside his waistcoat!
A silver tooth, and a dandelion in his buttonhole suit.
His thumb and fingers all had cracked nails.
He smoked Pall Mall cigarettes.
Always shook his coat to find where the matches were.
He had more bad habits, than Briar Rabbet!
Scratching his bald head, as if a thought had come to him—
The old hearty drunk, stopped in the middle of a crosswalk, smiled at me ‘I bet he would’
I was in my Catholic. It was a pale bleak moment.
I stopped on the green, he found his matches, to light his cigarette, and a car went around me, cut off his thumb as he lit…
Then turned his head in a mincing-manner, towards me, as if intended to ask ‘What just happened,’ as his thumb hung on a thread of flesh.
No: 4742 (3-29-2015)
Recognition to be given by the Congress of the Republic of Peru, from “DestAcados” Magazine, to Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, for “Promoter of the Culture of the Mantaro Valley of Peru”, 17th April, 2015“
Twenty-eight March Poems
…by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c.
International Latin Poet Laureate, and Poet Laureate in Peru
(Recipient of the Gran Cross of San Jeronimo)
Poems written from the roof top of poet’s Lima home
Copyright, © March, 2015 D.L. Siluk
All that troubles me is that I have long foreseen, Obama’s original scheme, it has always been to weaken America, as if to place it at a level with its unfriendly so called friends; thus, the advantage which she now holds over them through possessing capital and above all military superiority will come to an end, and be easily outweighed by the fact, its enemies will hold an equal advantage if not superior. They will have ample skill and experience for warfare, and nuclear capability will finally be in the hands of those little imps, from Iran and North Korea; and who knows whom else? Whereupon, they will not accept anything better than their present circumstance, and their original intentions, along with Russia and China (and all those dictators around the world, from Africa to South America), their original dream of regional dominance will be in reach; and America’s wealth will be blackmailed from Tartarus, and America will bleed. Thus, when America goes to fight, it will be bleak and bright, it will be the day of Armageddon.
A Man Forgets
What was your life like before?
(Asked Surr’el) I do not know!
For I remember very little
Of that life so long ago.
What war was I in, in Asia?
What nation did I pledge?
Around my hut whose Army lay,
At the edge of the China Sea?
Was I a drunk, a duff or a tramp?
A soldier, a scholar, was I?
Who saw me on Cape Horn?
Battle the chill-blustery skies!
I saw a pure Power, one morn
He stood watch over my ailing bed
Firm, steadfast he stood supreme
As if tilting over a summit’s edge!
I sense I saw much, in that single life
Until, slowly my great age crept in;
More and more people I loved died—
And more and more I wept!
What anger did I leave behind?
In those forgotten years—
Only its shadow touches me now!
From out of that life, so short, so dear.
What sorrow stirs in the pit
About to break the world’s ribs?
A mist of twilight’s nuclear rain!
Hides now, behind the edge of day!
—in vain, in vain, we play the game
And wait, wait for nuclear rain…
Led to your heart, betrayed
By your betraying rills.
Happy for a while, I was, —
In gibbous-moons, old memories
Catch me! Drain the lonely
Goblet of your death…
When I am all alone
By the enteral beauty of the word,
Or where the mountains shadows glow—
Christ’s face comes back to me
A ghost entering, and I know not why, —
A divine presence, my restless soul
Acknowledges with a sigh!
And ah, so long ago he cried!
So long ago he died!
So young and innocent.
The Drawing by the author is of an old Roman coin
Surprised by Noon
Noon has arrived
I looked up in the heat of the day
And it was there!
It has come over the Andes!
Through the streets of Lima
Walking quietly over the asphalt,
To my home in San Juan Miraflores!
The day shall never end I think.
Sister Marleny and her nuns are coming.
It’s Betty’s birthday.
After them, after lunch, quiet moments
Will rise, and I shall rest…
As does the worn-out wings
Of the trying fiends of Tartarus.
March 12th (2015)
There’s a dome over my head—
And my voice is hollow!
And my face is numb
My eyes feel heavy
Especially under the sun!
I slept long, but woke up to pee
A number of times, last night!
My balance is off today
I have heartburn.
The rills in my brain stand dammed:
The cells, thick as toothpaste!
They can’t move along the channels…
What’s going on?
The KFC man just showed up,
I hope the mash potatoes and gravy’s
Hot, and not like mush!
—last night was too warm to sleep
Someone said I ate too much hen soup!
And here I thought it was ‘worry’ …
The Law of Progress
Some countries, nation-states, cities
Haven’t figured it out yet:
Peru, being one, who is trying it out
For size, — the Law of Progress!
It works something like this:
It is only when every individual has made up
Their minds to move forward! —that progress
Will remain in a state of progress…
It is individual vs. nation
(some call this patriotism, some evolution, and
then some: good old healthy growth…)
It comes with free will and destiny:
Hand in hand, should to shoulder!
Corruption is fought, politicians become
Worthy of their rank in the sight of God—
And they do not work against each other;
And are willing to enforce progress! —
Other than that, the law is just a law!
No: 4718/9-1-2013 (bone up: 3-16-2015)
This Poet’s Motto
If a poet is really a poet he remains a poet at all times.
A Poet, even in prose, uses rhythm and rhyme, cadence and time, stanza and lurking thought; he avoids feeble words, restates a cliché, and s/he’s honest—
There is nothing more striking, than the ordinary, the Conventional, the contrary, the strange!
Think that every premise, even a guess weights an end.
To not achieve a daily madness one must find:
God, then reason, and then examination.
Do every day a poet’s duty! —everything is a subject!
Write today, what you think will wait for tomorrow—
Inclination, predisposition, it heals all unhappiness.
So compose, comprise, and combine: those words:
So challenging: obsessive, possessive, dynamic.
Mike H’s Haiku
(Poetic Tales of Mike H.)
Mike H. I thought him
To be a friend, but all he
Did, was spit in the wind!
He lay in darkens
Rolled stones down the slope, perhaps
Chance stones, perhaps not! …
Badly-aimed, at me!
I make no charge against him—
I’m still here, not he!
For me, life’s clock
Is at half-past elven, God
Is shutting His pad.
My sins, piled up high
Gravity will soon take my soul:
After my lost sigh...
Minnesota’s March Winds!
A Minnesota wind at the end of winter
A wind that keeps whirling round and round,
One cannot for longer than a moment
Open one’s eyes, — for the wind will slash
Snow into your face, time and again! —
And as you walk, one gets no farther forward!
You must duck under the wind, like a midget
And with a little pleasure in the struggle
Along the way, it’s over and done with.
The stars are but the spray on the waves of a sea,
In the cosmos where resides dark matter, dark energy
Where the guts of stars burst into cosmic rays, go at
---the speed of light, every-which-way!
Carl Sagan’s Hypothesis
“If you have no evidence, reserve judgment.”
That’s what Carl Sagan, the scientist says.
But if you do, it’s a difference story.
He says too, “I want to know if it is real, not
Just in my head: I say, that’s well said.
But for him, the universe is too big to fit God in!
I have a big God, and that’s why we have a
Big universe… and for me, He fits quite well!
Now, let me say: I know what is in those dark
Places, he infers are: ‘Godless mysteries!’
If what he says is truth in his hypothesis, it
Makes me aware: a link to the consciousness
Of God, — for I have seen that he exists, in
Undreamt physical wonders, and visions
Throughout my life; thus, having better proof
Than even Steven Hawking’s Black Hole!
Drawing from a vision
Venus not so unlike Earth, a billion years ago, —
but something went wrong! —perhaps too much
Co 2, for its mass to swallow?
Thus, in a nutshell: heaven became hell. Now at the
point of no return, with no way back, with hot clouds
forming, hot enough to melt iron, and with the sun’s
heat, once inside its soup bowl, kept in, in like the
white cliffs of dover, its carbon dioxide, frozen
within great walls, Venus became an inferno…!
Shoveling Minnesota Sidewalks!
(Poetic Tales of Mike H.)
Minnesota snow, when it comes, sometimes it comes in blacks and tons!
You got to shovel it by the hour, lest you let the ice settle under the snow, and God and the Devil only knows, what then?
And be what may, the Devil, if he has his way, he’ll cause you to slip, break an: ankle, leg or rib!
—Mike H., hired to clean those sidewalks for his landlady, kind of drove her crazy, he was quite lazy, said more often than not:
“Why clean those snowy pathways, it’s a waste of time, I’m from Minnesota,” he’d say with a grin, shoulders back, proud as a peacock ready to attack, “you’re from Peru, I know better, better than you?”
Justice (Double Haiku)
It was never meant
for you, nor I, to get justice
but try as we may!
Whom really is the
door-keeper for justice, is
too, god of the air!
No: 4712/3-05-2015 (Haiku version)
We all will have bad luck, and good luck in life:
lest we let shiftless creatures demoralize us!
—with ill-luck; for it would be east enough
to get on with.
No: 4729 (3-20-2015)
St. Paul, Minnesota, 1906
Idle horses imperturbably turn their heads
equally sleep sodden, one to the other,
being ill-treated, not so unlike the slave.
The harsh night lights from the streets
burn their eyes. Relays of bar-men
keep slipping by them, backwards and
forwards they move as remarks are
thrown up to them. Annoyed that man
will not leave them in peace; literally a
prisoner. The horse he has no pleasure in
the spectacle around him, man is but a
great clatter, however inaudible at his
height in God’s creation, he bows! Yet
gazes absently at the people around him,
at the people pouring out of house-doors,
peering down from balconies, and staring
out of windows, flanked by arch lights,
automobile headlights. Strong giants, as
they are, cannot take a step of their own
free will, thus life goes on without plan.
Each horse propelled by his Master.
The Master shouting, orating with a white face,
clinched fists, the horse urging in breathless
bewilderment: the effect, the horse’s mind in
complete darkness: “Haven’t I told you what to do?”
says the Master, “Hurry up!” He stretches his arms.
To the horse, man indeed is evil-smelling.
“Just look at this” the Master says to himself.
He beats the horse on the back with a lash
the horse endures the blows, though they
make him twist with pain: the Master now
feels the resistance of the horse growing
more and more, and its sinewy body bracing
with greeter enmity against his Master. Now
with scintillating eyes, the horse kicks his
Master against his chest, it causes searing
pain in his back and head, then the collision
“You scoundrel” he yells. Ah, and now the
horse has come to thinking ‘What,” he had
forgotten everything, “what is the point of
No: 3-21-2015/ No: 4731
Demon’s for Lunch!
Pope Francis said recently, “Christ never invited demons to lunch…”
What exactly did he mean?
To my understanding: if you are a criminal you are incompatible with Christ!
Because Christ is incompatible with evil.
In other words, incompatible meaning: not like-minded.
No: 4732/ 3-25-2015
Demon’s for Gossip!
The Person who gossips says, Pope Francis
Is liken to a Kamikaze.
Or better yet: a terrorist who drops a bomb
No: 4733/ 3-25-2015
Answering the Judge!
Tell me, is there any sense to defend oneself where there is no good will?
Does it not depend on the spirit in which one is judged, if he is to make an answer?
No: 4730/ 3-20-2015
Insights from the works of Franz Kafka
When God’s love saturates you,
You in turn saturate those around you
With His love.
No: 4735/ 3-25-2015
From the Readings of Pope Benedict XVI
I believe that there continuously will exist the possibility for change, where people have been tested by life, and perhaps by great sufferings, even in the face of despair! Each person I believe can change, even the most cynical. Why do I believe this? Let me answer my own question: man, he is the person in the image of God, we have his breath, and the Holy Spirit, can change one’s sense of right and wrong. That is I suppose optimism at its highest point.
No: 4736/ 24 & 25 March, 2015
Insight from writings of Pope Francis (From news reports by: CNA)
Note: I have seen the most unbelieving people, turn to God, so much so, it is no longer a surprise, as it once was.
Like pelts stretched from side-to-side
On a wooden cross, undressed, alive—
The Messiah hung, like a wild beast,
Uncouth, uncrowned, no dignity.
De-boned—like fish—His body hung;
Lifeless, deformed: — in silent pain.
Dried blood upon his ransomed face,
Eyes decaying, hardly seen.
Pours hemorrhaging with a gloss of sweat; —
Skin like mounds of inflamed tar
(Like boils reflecting off dark shaded ice).
Deep distress around His soot-covered veins,
A mixture of Saliva, Dirt and Shame; —
Ugly as sin, beyond recognition
(Like open incisions of an autopsy).
Acquainted with grief, yes, oh Yes!
As the prophets foretold, long ago.
A new scene, we became REDEEMED!!
No: 68/ seen and documented in 1984, written in poetic form, 1988
History of the poem: The Messiah
The Messiah, between 1959 (at 12-years old), to 1965 (17-years old), Dr. Siluk had written 23-poems, two for his High School News Paper, “Beyond Man,” and Typing.” In 1971, he wrote two poems in Vietnam, and then in the next decade, another 10-poems, making it 33-poems. Then for his first book he wrote, 45-poems “The Other Door,” of which 43, were new poems for a total of 76-poems in total, by 1981. Between that year and 1988, he had written about 20-more new poems, or a few more, perhaps a little under 100-total, thereabouts; thus, making the Messiah, between number 69 and 74, thus I shall give the poem the number No: 68, it seems befitting. The author numbers his poems, as of March 26, 2015, he has written 4736-poems, so this is a very early poem, and now published for the third time in volumes of poetry.
The Messiah was originally published in the international volume of poetry “On the Threshold of a Dream,” First Edition, 1988 (for the National Library of Poetry), and again in 2004, in the book “Sirens” on page 100. The Messiah also won two awards: ‘Editor’s Choice Award for 1988’ and published in other anthologies as well. It was selected as one of the 135-best poems out of over 10,000 entries to be honored. It caused a stir at Calvary Baptist Church in 1988, Roseville, Minnesota. The poem is from a vision the author hand in 1984 (as indicated in the book “The Last Trumpet…” by Dr. Siluk, when its substance was written down in prose. The statements from one of the many baffled church members was: “How could anyone write such a poem!” And the poet answered, “By see it as it happened.”
The Attic Bedroom
We lived in Grandpa’s house, in the bedroom attic, my brother and I back in the late fifties and throughout half the sixties.
The floorboards squeaked like mice, and the walls were cardboard paper thin.
The summers were hot, and the winters cold and reserved.
And the branches from the huge oak tree in front of the house, beat against the bedroom window.
There were times I pulled the sheets over my head, from the roaring and riding wind that swept over the porch roof, above where our bedroom window stood.
And I tried to be as quiet day to night, as quite as I could be, at ten and fourteen, and so on; and rest assure, if I wasn’t grandpa’s tongue was as powerful as horse hooves, so loud I thought it would set the bedroom clothes on fire.
In the middle of the night, I’d wake from a dream—I had whips, and lassos like the Lone Ranger, and Zorro!
I was, more often than not, the hero of runaway coaches on mountain passes, --
On a white horse in a windy gallop
Past cactus fields, I’d yell: “Gee-up!”
Then when I had to stop quickly, “Whoa!”
Then I trotted some.
And then I woke up, usually not getting to finish the dream, unfortunately.
Poem for the Dead
Did you abruptly change your jacket?
Dressed yourself for the hospital
Explained that you must go,
Leaving with a few curt words!
Banging the door on the way out
In hast, according to some degree of
Displeasure you think you left behind
Last time you were there!
When as a result of this decisive action
You focused within yourself all the
Potentialities of this action, —did you not
See the greater strength you needed to
Accomplish this swiftest of changes?
And then to cope with it, in your frame of mind!
Then for that moment, all got away from you,
And all faded into brittleness: the infant
Bodily-drawn to your heart; did you not know
It was such a late hour in your life?
Love has all but made your eyes hollow
((yet love covers all sin) (Pro. 10:12))
You were in the deepest gallery of your mind!
You dropped down to his knees, alongside the infant’s bed—
What was said?
Such a manner lies beyond my comprehension.
Did you not know, or perhaps care:
“Love is as strong as death”? SS. 8:6
No: 4738/ 3-28-2015 Copyright © 2015 by D.L. Siluk, Dr. H.c.
For M.J. H.
The Good Death
Go now, quick, gently into that good death,
Your bones are old, burn with rage at the close of night;
Run, run against the dying of the sun.
If you were wise you have nothing to hide!
God has counted your hours and days, accordingly;
Go now, quick, gently into that good death.
Devils and angels, wait and wave, your ways!
They are weighting your deeds on a balancing gauge!
Run, run against the dying of the sun.
Good men caught frail, lost in the wilds of sin—
Snagged, learn late, too late, soon will grieve of their fate,
Go now, quick, gently into that good grave.
And you, you my friend, who has reached the end,
Cursed or blessed, I do not know, with stark cries I pray:
Run, run against the dying of the sun,
Maybe it is not too late to change your fate!
Course for Course
The Rat Cat Eater
The bird eats the worm,
The cat eats the bird, and the
Huge rat, eats the cat!
And the Vulture eats the rat!
How about all that?
Tactic for tactic…
No: 4737/ 3-28-29015
Note: birds have come back to our house garden, for a while they disappeared because the neighboring cats were eating all the birds, now they have returned, and the cats have disappeared, which has brought about this poem.