Tuesday, April 21, 2015
The Devil’s fends, are in, the roaring ISIS
The 21st Century’s second menace—
Both sects al Qaeda, and ISIS
Belonging to the Muslim’s deadly dynasty!
ISIS more satanic than the last!
Islam’s fiends were sent from hell to compel
The Christian to love Allah, accept
Mohammad, the hammer and the nail!
To kill the Jew, exterminate the Hebrew
At any coast, a Palestine view, overlook by
Europe and North America!
Death talks, wherever they walk, a creed…
Satan’s protocol, for the Islamic sect—
Satan want’s God to see the wickedness
In man, that can be, worse than Him, to win his
Seat back in heaven… so what does he do?
He gives to God more than he thinks God
Can chew: more than enough evidence to prove
Yet God sees, by not putting a wild bird in a
A cage, how his true heart when free, will sing!
And sorry to say, Islam’s song is far from inspiring,
Somewhere in the muddy waters of Hades:
They have crossed the line of no return!...
No: 4647/ 4-21-2015
The Unholy Spirit (or Islamic Devil)
We are in the last days (we all know this, or should!)
ISIS is just part of Satan’s spiritual world maneuvers,
Thought out in his world, and brought to ours—
He is wearing an Islamic mask, why? Because it fits!
Why does not the west react?
What realm are we on? There are but two:
The Demonic Beast’s, or Holy Spirit’s.
We should know our dogma, for these trying days—
In Africa and in the Middle East, Christians flee for
Their lives, bombed and tortured by ISIS… and
Are tossed over the side of boats by Muslims to drown
As they seek like them, the safe shores of Europe!
As Obama—quietly watches from the Oval Office, like
A clown! “Congress, get him an exorcist!”
Can he not smell the blood on the ground?
Now we must also watch Gog and Magog, demons
Of the North and South—Russia and China!
Who would if they could exterminate America!
Europe as well, bit by bit, day by day…
And for decades, have expected to, contemplative—
The demons have taken counsel together,
Iaokanann! Spoke of them, in 27 A.D.
Imprisoned by Antipas!
All they need now is just a stronger argument!
Doubtless it is forthcoming, vulgar as the beast!
Even more miserable than ISIS!
Satan now echoes to the multitude, farthest to the
Ends of Hell’s halls: He folds his cloak about him
The vapor of his breath, comes like smoke:
Like fog to air; a black mass swarms around him
This very minute: “Let us make an end to the Christian
To the Jew!” His expression is as that of a bulldog?
All now in a demoniacal frenzy: to mock God and the
Christian, they hold in honor a wild ass’s head:
“Have Islam do it in our name! Allah with give death
To all those who adore the Galilean: let them know
My wrath knows no bounds!...”
Thus, the second step now comes ISIS’s
In its iconoclastic frenzy!
No: 4746/ 4-16-2015
(An unprompted, nostalgic poignant fragmentary play; one person, one act, with three voices; a
Production for the stage)
By Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.
Lost Time (The Play)
Curtain: Stage is dim to dark. Slowly fades up the listener’s face (the old man) about fifteen feet above the stage level, mid-stage off center. An old man with a white face, cane by his side, overcoat on, dark hat, dark shoes, and green scarf is staring listing to the voices…
The voices we shall call them A, B. and C, are coming from all sides of him, one above, one from his right and one from his left side. They modulate back and forth without much break, they flow, yet there is a silence of seven to ten seconds between each voice. As if for the old man to recapture the composure he wants to display. The listener’s eyes are wide open, you can hear him breathing now and then, it is normal breathing… The switch from one voice to the other, should be clear and slightly traceable: if you need all ten-seconds to do this so be it. What is he doing on stage all this time? He is listening.
- Time Lost, you went back in time to look at the ruin still lingering here, where? Right there where you left it as a child (eyes half closed), now it’s time to look for that lost child, left in the place only the old fences of your mind will find.
- In and out of the houses you and your friend Mike Rossort when you were ten and twelve, took a portrait of a cathedral out of one house,, ran along the railroad tracks, kicking the heels of sleeping bums, sat down to rest on our bikes on the Wabasha Bridge overlooking the Mississippi—and in and out of the downtown city of St. Paul you raced, when was that
- On the old stone statue of Hercules, someone broke his nose, who would do such a thing you thought, to such a marvel looking statue? Every time you passed it you loved view it, wanting to touch it, maybe Mike did it, he said to you, it was the old custom to do so?
- Straight up with a jump onto the train, in the night fog you and Tom one right one left, to the curse of the old spirits jumped up onto the iron ladder rain of the train, to ride to Chicago, from St. Paul, and the dirt flying in forefaces as you went under tunnels, for God’s sake all went well, you didn’t fall, or for you mother’s sake, I should say, you were but fifteen, yet you didn’t hide from any childhood folly.
- You ended up only seven miles away, never making it to Chicago, and had to walk back home, you lot wasn’t yet to travel the world, cold and hungry, it was three in the morning when you arrived home, your mother sleeping, he snuck in the house with your arms folded hugging yourself for warmth, it was late fall, no living soul knew this, your mother asked what are you doing there, and you replied, ‘going to the bathroom’ she took it for you drowsing around trying to find the bathroom door, never any more…
- And Lora, you were thirteen, your brother fifteen, Lore seventeen, you loved her, well, puppy love, at night you dazed in bed, no sound, not a word ever given, every now and then to vow you loved her you gave a murmur, she married that one you called ugly-creep, Steve. How could she marry him, you told yourself, but he was eighteen at the time, remember? It brought tears to your eyes. You saw her ten years later, she didn’t look so good to you then, no more tears over spilt milk. The rose had wilted, now even a fresh weed was in a better position for you to admire. What did you learn?
- He learned waiting for tomorrow, was a waste of time today. Folly is folly, you just have to clean up the rubble, in any case, for three years you sat in the bar drinking like a man in his mid-twenties, and you were only sixteen. Trying to hide the child, the one that begged Jesus, complained to him you didn’t have a father, and he said “Okay, I’ll be that father you never had,” and he was and you still sat in the bar! You were like a man alone, in water, in a leaking ship.
- Until you gained some sense, and gave up the drink, hoisted your head high and went into the Army, to war, only then was Grandpa proud, no longer pulling your ears and saying “Wake up, catch up, you lazy bum!” You tried to make it out of the neighborhood, it was where you were held back where grandpa bought his house, where you lived, and you didn’t put yourself in that Donkeyland! It was where your black blood came from, gradually you made it out, faced the swivel on the masses in the world.
- You left the church, not much time for Christ, not like it used to be, when you went to church per near five days a week, studied to be an altar boy, but in Vietnam you sure asked him for your help, you remembered him then! Nothing to be seen, but clouds, turning this way and that way, and you murmured “Help Lord,” and he did. Think about what it might have been, had you not asked him to, well you know what! The young Vietcong might have had different thought for you.
- No you’re not talking to yourself, I’m talking to you. Who else would have such an imaginary conversation with you, about your childhood, and your youthful manhood years, those spring years, you know you have two self’s, me and you. Don’t we, all these voices kind of have the same ring? Anyhow, onto some more reminisces, out of the dark past we must look, look down the roads you cast no moonlight over for a long spell.
- You leaned a shady business does not make for a sunny life, as you said the Toad, you called him the Toad, who was shady, but you became rich nonetheless, for while anyway, instead of looking out the window, waiting for it to fall onto your lap, you took chances, harder and harder you worked, until your heart per near burst out of your chest! Had you not stopped your wife would have had to put over you the death shroud. You make up for time that’s for sure.
(Silence for ten seconds. Breathe audible. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and then opens them as to start his recollection with the voices again.)
- Life is never the same. For you familiarity breeds disdain. You had a restless bone in you. Now at sixty-seven, the rats have gnawed away at those aging bones, or is God who has slowed you down to a snail’s pace? For your own good? I mean, what haven’t you don’t? Did you ever say: “I’ll slow down willingly?” (eyes closed) I suppose there was a point in your life you had to have a life turning-point! Otherwise we’d not be having this one way discussion. That was a great thing to turn your life about—modesty forbids acknowledge—I know, but you did all the same. It was as if you wiped off all the old mud, didn’t look back and was that the time, as now we look, I call,
- I know this monologue is kind of spontaneous, that is to say, unprompted, but if we don’t do it now, it will never get done so don’t leave and think it will get done another day, it won’t. Muttering, we’ve done a lot of that together, I call myself the second mind, the one with the visions, together we muttered, sometimes making it up just to talk when you were alone, sometimes, together somewhere under the sun, as in Augsburg, bit hat huge tree, facing downward towards the Army barracks, sinking into the bits and floe web of dreams to be this and that, drifting on and on, and you’ve followed your dreams like your brother said, now an old man. No, no, do the editing later, just keep writing this out, or it will not be unprompted.
- You always said, you were nine years behind. Not ten, not twenty, not five, but nine. When you figured out, when God said, “What do you want to be,” when you fail in this and that, which was a time you didn’t really know yourself from Adam, when you got rid of the dead black void, the alcohol, then believing in yourself, when you came out from the rain, knowing you had lost time, and time was closing-in, remember what Ana said at the travel agency, she said “Are you on some ardent mission?” You traveled around the world, throughout the world for ten-years, spending $76,000-dollars, and then another five, spending another $76,000-dollars. You thought your ill-ness would stop you from life, but you lived it fully then, perhaps God was giving you a message: get off your rump and do it, while you can! That’s my best guess: I think He wanted you to destroy your little web, before life killed you, like a lost spider, and you widened your life, and live it in the here and now.
- Your illness gave you a Psychological phobia, when you looked in the mirror, there was no sight of life in your face, which parallel your thoughts, you were a broken axle: but I told you in secret: you’re only an inch away from touching what you want, no blood needed, just will and effort, no shades of thinking the worse, no blurs on the fringes, let nature take its course, until then, move as you dream. But remember, a dong cannot chase three rabbits at the same time.
(Silence for ten seconds. Breathe audible. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and then opens them as to start his recollection with the voices again.)
- Not a sound, it’ll happen that way you know, the old breath you’ve had for all those years, will be gone, and then suddenly your thoughts will turn to dust, fill all the pours of your body, all the chambers of your mind. You will not be able to open your eyes, all will be dust, if you’ve lost time somewhere down the line, will too bad. There will not be any sound. It will come and go. Like your mother said, “Here today, gone tomorrow” just like that, here today and gone tomorrow, it will be a short day, angels or devils will be waiting, your mother say angels, your grandfather said devils were digging a hole into his basement, coming to get him. It’s one or the other. Your mother saw two angels, remember in the hospital, you saw one at the end of your bed, well, it will be two, something like that.
(Silence for ten seconds. Breathe audible. After three-seconds, eyes close. After five-seconds, a smile, hold that stance and smile, as the curtain drops and the light fades on the old man.)
“Lost Time” A One Act Play, with three voices/ Copyright © April 20, 2015,
By Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c. (No: 1079)
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Is the public seeing, or receiving the best poetry out there available? “No!” Why? Because those foundations and organizations judging the poetry, even novels, and short stories are judging the writings on who the publisher is, and who the writer is. For example, The National Book Award, ‘Awards,’ is not based on the best writer, but rather, the biggest publisher, and most renowned author, poet. So no matter what rank your poetry or writings would be in if judged fairly, will never make it to the ‘Finals’. Jack London who claims he got published accidently, when a magazine needed something to fill space; the editor was astounded the public liked his story, because the editor really thought it was second-rate, so he admitted. As Mr. London has inferred, all my old writings that sat for years, now were acceptable by everyone, all the rejects became great stories overnight. What does this say? The judges, as Mr. London infers are second-rate, melancholy editors, who would like to be authors, judging authors and poets, and the foundations are no better. So no, the public is not getting the best, they are getting what the melancholy editors, and establishments are trying to force feed the people. Ford Company even pays well established Universities, to educate lawyers to be anti-Christian, this affects Christian publishing that are slanted on Christian values; and we are talking about millions of dollars. So they are biased, which perhaps they have a right to be. But why? Is a good question.
The Greet Soldier,
St. Julian the Hospitaller
Be kind to churchmen, orphans, widows and above all, old men!
And ye shall live long in battles, says Gustave Flaubert—of,
The Great warrior crusader, Julian.
Then by decree, or accident, who’s to say, but it was prophesied:
He accidently killed his father and mother!
So horrified of his own person, he vanished and lived the life of a vagrant, hermit, and then a Hospitaller.
So the legend goes, and upon his death, gave food and warmth to an angel, disguised as a leper.
Note: Gustave Flaubert, was inspired by the large stained window at Rouen Cathedral, in northern France—in about 1877—once capital of medieval Normandy, and wrote of the 12th Century crusader St. Julian, the short story called: ‘The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller’ in the book called “Three Tales”. So was this story poem inspired. The poet was in Northern France on his way to St. Michael’s Monastery, in 2002, and Rouen being nearby, also inspired this poem; Rouen being the very city St. Joan of Arc was burnt at a stake in, in the 15th Country.
Orange Timid Moon
(Over Copan Ruins)
Over the Copan Sky
an arch of shadows
Weave their webs
As the moon rises
orange and timid—
As one more night
By the shadows
of the Maya gods
De antique Copan!...
Note: Poem No: 628. Written while surrounded by Copan’s carved archaeological stonework, and under the Copan Ruin skies, in Honduras, April 22, 2005; revised at the Holiday Inn, on the 26th of April, 2005, San Pedro Sula (Honduras)
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Who would say: to believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God is an unpardonable sin, other than the Devil?
Why would anyone want to say such a thing, other than the devil?
For what purpose, although the devil could mention a few?
Why would anyone go through the trouble to spell out his name and single him out for 1400-years as a fraud?
Who would say, Mary’s Son, is not the Son of God, or Son of Man, and emphatically affirm it is blasphemous to think so, and then revere her?
Why take the time to deny something that doesn’t get in your way or harm you, and to specifically pinpoint Jesus Christ is simple a man, not the Messiah?
The Koran, the Muslim, Islam.
We need to go back to the first two questions! And add, the Devil hates Jesus Christ (and that in itself is a long story, with a lot of twists)
Does this not make you ponder on, who the heck is Allah then?
Was Jesus Christ a servant of Allah? The Koran says Jesus so claimed to be? I can’t find that in the Bible, only the Karan.
In other words: Jesus never used the word Allah, although he did use the word “Devil” that he comes in sheep’s clothing.
I’ve come to the conclusion: when we are talking about God, the Christian and the Muslim, we are not talking about the same person—
The Christion God, and the Islamic God are incompatible.
They are not the same!
Jesus referred to God Almighty as the Father (Jn. 12:27)
And the Jew: Elohim.
Say what you will, and think what you may, but the proof is in the pudding, as they say!
References from the Koran: Sura 43:59/5:73, 78; Sura 19:20, 34. And from the New Testament Bible: John 3:16; 10:36-38/Rm. 1:13/Luke 18:31-33.
Written 4-11-23015/ No: 4751
In my dream the mercy of the Lord, our Savior was loosed upon the ill-moral world, as a blind lamb, —
The sun burned from the heavens, like a growing infernal from hell—
The dead arose, with spastic hands, as if long dead corpses were repossessed by demon! Treated like hogs, on a conveyor belt.
Gathered in the streets:
The world already ravaged by war and heat, intolerable waters to drink!
The marble vaults of Tartarus and its tombs threw themselves upon the cold hearts of the world… decimations!
This all started in the year 2016! And ended 37-years later (in 2053 A.D.)
After a twenty-four year war.
But it’s just a dream, and dreams are just dreams!
Roses from Mary (A poem for Our Lady of Guadalupe)
Roses imprinted upon rough cactus fiber cloth, thus bears the image of our Holy Mother of Heaven—
And has for nearly five-hundred years—
Roses given to Juan Diego, in 1531, turned into the image of Mary, the mother to the Son of God, and Son of Man!
No cracks, no candle smoke fading upon this image.
It lives, the image lives and the colors remain as is; as they always were—century after century; nothing more miraculous than that—
(Within the forehead of the image, is the persona of a bearded man with eyes closed, that could very well be the image within the shroud…
At different distances as in nature, the appearance changes!)
Nothing has hindered it: acid, heat, bombs— weather or alike—
The stars on her tunic, are that of the image of the winter sky, December 12, 1531, when Mary gave those Roses to Juan Diego!
Those Stars on her tunic, are viewed from outside of heaven’s gates looking down (reversed); no less than a snapshot of heaven and earth!
And should you look deep, even deeper into her eyes, you will discover the image of Juan Diego, and many more of those folks who were of Diego’s time!
The face of Mary, is ageless, centuries have filled her eyelids.
Her skin changes colors from Indian Olive, to a European natural complexion, you need only step back a bit, and refocus—
And the image remains day and night at 98.6 Degrees Fahrenheit… the human body temperature—
The image is a message for those far-off days (perhaps for today too), to the pagan world who worshiped the stars and the sun and earth and the moon, as gods: that she, and her Son, were above them, all were under their heels, — and hence, all those false gods in Mexico were no more than a false fabrication, of untruth.
No: 4749/4-7-2015 / Note: The author and his wife visited Mexico City, in 2002, and went to the church to see the image of “The Lady of Guadalupe” so this poem is long overdue. Information extracted, and inspired by Brother Peter Diamond, of “The Most Holy Family Monastery” and put into poetic prose. What has not been mentioned to my surprise, is why no one has, or at least Brother Diamond, not mentioned, the reflection, or replication of the image I see in the forehead of Mary, of what I believe to be a bearded man, whose eyes are closed, much like the Shroud. Of Turin, it is as plain as the shadows under her eyes (inside the image of is on her forehead are hieroglyphics)
(A poem for our Lord, Jesus Christ)
The Poet Laureate getting ready at his home to attend a Luncheon with
The (nuns) Sisters of the College of Santa Maria, 4-11-2015 (Lima, Peru);
Congregation of the: Sisters of the Most Holy Trinity.
How old was I when I first talked to the Lord, and he told me what he told me, I had asked him, “Why does everyone else have a father but me?”
Well I can’t just remember exactly when, but it must have been that I was about ten—?
Nor do I remember his exact words, but I do remember a few phrases he used: “I’ll be your father, since you haven’t any, don’t worry...”
I think I bugged him on this issue for some time.
At twelve I wrote my first poem about Him, called it: “Who,” couldn’t think of a better name, but it described my way of thinking, and it has never changed.
And now at sixty-seven, the “New World” is different, the old world has changed quite a bit, since last I thought about it.
Back then, back so far I can’t remember exactly when, but when I got lost for a while, I can rightly say, he never left me for a day, not even when I was at odds with him!
He was always part of my shadow, deep in my soul, circulating within my blood flow.
He told me once, “You’re like King David after my Heart!”
And so right he was.
Another time he asked me what I wanted to be, since I had been a soldier, a counselor, and to a certain degree, a clergy, many other things to boot, and I replied, “A Poet!” with a little emphasis.
Then once he reminded me, as I was trying to figure out several world locations I was planning on visiting, “Didn’t you forget, the Antarctic?” it was statement-question, I do believe, since I had told him previously, I wanted to go there.
“Oh yes,” I said, I nearly forgot it; that would complete visiting all the world continents.”
I’ve seen him a half a dozen times or more, talked to him daily per near, but seldom does he talk back, direct that is—
I could name them on my ten fingers, if need be, for his personal appearances in visions, and one slight appearance, in his spiritual Materia Prima persona ((of pure potency) (or in essence called: spiritual matter)) —and never once did he reprimand me.
But besides all this, he left me a message I do believe: those who seek him, he will never leave them, I know this for a fact by firsthand data!