Piety Hollow (a poem)

Piety Hollow

((The Old Bent Drunkard) (a poem))

Among the streets, in small framed houses

Stumbled an old bent man, far gone in drink,

In Piety Hollow

And here he lived, slept and wept. His mind

Leaped, back to those far-off days, as he’d

Wandered the streets, of Piety Hollow

Staggering, and begging with no regrets, he

Had left dreams behind him, unmet; lips that

Touched liquor, with no sentiment

Now leering into creepy faces, weary and wet

Restlessly he was dying, in his submerged world

In Piety Hollow

For all that it is worth—he was a fragile soul

Cursed; stumbling along in dingy halls, in rooms

With discolored curtains and windows

…snarling screams, from unknown voices

Passed lighted saloons, not to be remembered,

In Piety Hollow

His legs now weak, and wobbly—with gratitude,

He sought long sleep, in a sea of diluted faces

Hoping to find peace …

“There is much to life,” he thought “in this world.

Too bad, I just couldn’t find it, here

In Piety Hollow”

No: 2929 (4-18/2011)

I Had My Chance (Poetic Prose)

I Had My Chance (Poetic Prose)

The love of the rich burned smell of grass and weeds and leaves on breezy days, a wind rustled through a cornfield, serried clouds in the sky. I have cut and slashed for a pound of glory, equal to that. Forgetting pert near everyone and everything: it is hard to be at war with the world, only to be condemned—condemned for madness, for want of living, tasting all of life.

The secret—if indeed there is a secret—is not to let passing humors become your end…or diabolical lovers retard your growth; plug your ears during youth to vague delicious thoughts, before you spend years in vain in pursuit, only to be undone (do not let the mind be paralyzed by small success, that prowls in a praetors eyes)

I had my chance,” my second-self, my minds eye, that hidden little creature somewhere inside, told me. “Now,” it said, “you’re just waiting to die!”

No: 2926 (4-4-2011)

Triumph of a Quail (a short story)

Triumph of a Quail Inasmuch as I have put to myself the task of trying to tell you an inquisitive story in which I am myself apprehensive—I shall begin by leaving you with some notion of me (3-28-2011). Very well then, I am a man of sixty-three, rather a robust in size and with auburn hair, what’s left of it. I wear glasses. Until five years ago, I lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I had a few different positions, a psychologist for the Federal Government Prison system, and an entrepreneur—of a small sort, and a poet and writer of a small stature. I am married to a Peruvian woman, and have moved to Lima—although I am still a resident of Minnesota for the most part. And have adopted an abandoned Quail. We named her after the preacher that brought her to us, homeless, and have since put her in our house garden, her name being, Marcelina. She has in a way of speaking, a quiet form of smiling at one, as though to say…we may go into that later. It was a hard jolt for me, to take on a quail, feed her, and try to not look foolish in the process of adopting her, and talking to her, and perhaps even now, after a month of having her, there might be a kind of satisfaction in making myself look silly by telling of it—this story, which is really only an account of how a quail, triumphed. To tell the truth, I felt in the beginning a little foolish that I should be feeding her along with the other birds that come into our open garden daily—a special diet, chasing pigeons away from her—they appeared as if they were interested in her, and were following her as if to attack her; as if I am a grand guard standing at the gate to the Garden of Eden like Gabriel, pacing back and forth. “I’ve an idea,” my wife told me. “What?” I asked. “I’ll take your idea of a night light that could heat up a box, and make a box for Marcelina, and she’ll sleep in it at night.” Well she did just that, found a big cardboard box, for the plump little quail, that didn’t care to go into the box but sat outside along the glass door on a mat, until I finished reading at night, let’s say, 2:00 a.m. and learning she was afraid of the dark—I had to learn Quail-logy, the tone of my voice she knows now, and I’ve told her it is safe to go into that box house at night, so after I leave my office at 2:00 a.m., she does just that. She’s just a big baby, and shits as must as one big human baby, or as often I should say, as one. She had my sympathies for a while, but to be truthful, it is waning. “Hurry up over here, see Marcelina,” my wife cries to me, a few days ago. She’s learned something new, I think from the sparrows, or maybe me. “What?” I ask my wife. “Look, just look at her all sprawling body and soft feathers, and kind eyes, laying there.” She actually looked as if she was sunbathing on the Lima beach. So I looked, and she was correct, Marcelina had learned fast how to be lazy. ‘Gee whiz,’ I said to myself, ‘what’s next?’ Well, what was next is this: every time a pigeon comes, she now calls me to come into the garden—breaks my concentration of writing, and sure enough, there is a pigeon. But now she calls me at night because she’s still a little afraid of the dark—can you imagine a quail afraid of the dark, by gosh, had I not experienced this with my own eyes, I’d had told anybody who told me: a quail was afraid of the dark, to go see colleague of mine. If anything, I’m getting more exercise these days. I keep thinking of when we go to the mountains where we have another home, and stay there for three months out of each year, what will become of her. Let’s be honest, how long can this go on? My wife is hoping she has a longevity living in our garden. I’m praying she sprouts those little wings (more like fins) and gets married soon, or finds a mate. The good thing is, they don’t get extraordinarily large, the bad thing is, they don’t get immaculately clean. Now for Marcelina Rose’s story. Yes, my wife Rosa has given her a second name of all things. Anyhow, her story is interesting. Some person in a car dropped her off at the church, of all things. It was late in the afternoon, and a dog had chased her, and evidently he was hungry, and had deadly intentions. And Father Marcelo came to the rescue, he and several young church members, they came waving their arms and calling to the quail—as if the quail was going to march over to them. So the quail of course had three traumatic experiences in a roll: the car thing, the hungry dog, and now the kids waving their hands trying to rescue the creature, and did, and put her in a cloths basket—a wobbly prison for her. Dang it all! Now for the neighbour, that is me and Rosa, so we ended up with her; for the first week, she hid behind the totem pole in the garden, and then worked her way all the way to my glass door—I was hoping she’d silently work her way back to the totem pole, but that also scares her at night. And when she yelps, all the neighbours can hear her, she somehow extends that neck of hers four inches or so—and that’s a lot for her, because she’s not much longer than that, and whatever she’s saying comes out like a rustic bell—echoing like a loudspeaker. All channelled through that extended neck. But I have learned something of all this: big brain little brain, I don’t know what she has, but she feels pain, and she feels love and she can feel hunger, and safety, and she knows cold from hot. She can learn certain behaviours, I don’t think Carl Sagan would like to hear this but, she’s not as dumb as you might think she should be—she knows who wants to hurt her, and who doesn’t—she can get tightly gripped with the latter. As for her story—she couldn’t tell it, and so I’ve tried to do my best for her, that is to say, I’ve perhaps used the imaginative side of myself to explain her, but it’s the best I can do—and she has, if anything, thus far, triumphed. No: 785 (3-28-2011) For Rosa, Marcelina and Father Marcelo

From the: International Poetry Journal (D.L. Siluk's comments)

From: THE ENCHANTING VERSES INTERNATIONAL POETRY JOURNAL

ISSUE -VIII December 2009 ALL SELECTED POETS AND POEMS

ISSN-0974-3057

Questions on Poetry
(From the Smart Guys!)

by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.


On a radio program last year I was asked several questions, and at a presentation I was asked several, a few the same. It seems to me lots of people are asking questions about poetry nowadays, and one of the questions was:
"Why do I write more poetry than anything else?"
Well that question seemed to be kind of repugnant to me, so I asked "Why not?" And he said, "It doesn't sell, and there isn't that big of an audience out there!" There I sat with my wife, and the radio commentator, and thought, and I'm sure he thought he had me stumped, I saw that smirk on his face. And then I said, "Why do you have me on your program then, and why did you tell me, several universities are listening, and did you realize in the past several years more and more books of poetry are being sold every day, poetry has had its comeback, and it is not over."
Well as I said that was one question. Then at a presentation, I was asked another question, and it seems people are not asking questions to learn, rather to see if they can burn you - in this case me. To show how smart they are. Anyhow, the question was asked again,
"Why poetry? I mean, what is so special about it, it's not a big seller, and folks don't read it, and most people write it as it pertains to them."
Such questions, can't anyone come up with something more provoking, original, so I thought at the time: I said,
"First, if you can write poetry well, you can write anything well. It is the highest form of writing, or is supposed to be. Secondly, I repeated what I had said the first time, "Go check the bookstores; they've got large sections of poetry." There is art and skill in poetry. And third or forth, poetry is a little story the author is telling you, and yes, they have to condense it, and most often go according to a style, and it can be often times only read by someone who has experience that you have, but then so is prose in a way. It is just that prose is smoother to read. And if you use a lot of adjectives, you might be getting into poetic prose and you don't even know it."
Rhyming poetry didn't come into existence until the 10th Century, where many folks think there has to be a rime or a reason you don't use a rhyme schema in your stanzas.
Anyhow, I just wanted to share a few 'questions' I received from the smart guys. You all know them. There are a few reading this right now saying, "Whose he think he is!" (This is not a question, rather a statement). But you good folks, go buy your poetry books, read your best poets, write some, and put the smart guys where they belong, left alone in the back row where they will be asking dumb questions for the rest of their lives-to get attention and so the world will know how smart they are.

The book of Nosalgia (Pomes on Grieving)

From the Journalist College of Professionals of Peru, on its 30th Anniversary, the “Merit of Honor,” is given to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, for his international literature, and encouraging the public with his creation of “A Leaf and a Rose,” and “Stone Heap of the Wildcat”.
Regional Director, Adelmo Huamani Meza,
30 November, 2010



The Book of
Nostalgia


(Poems on Grieving…)



Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Time Poet Laureate







The Book of Nostalgia
(Pomes on Grieving…)
Copyright © 2012, by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk






Index

Prologue
(Poems on Grieving)



Poems on the Days (Part One)

1—Lost Days
2—Final Days
3—Forty-two Days
4—Last Day
5—Day of Recovery
6—Days Grew Heavy
7—Day alter Day
8—Days of Protocol
9—Today
10—A Day Late
11—Day Zero
12—Days of Depression
13—A Pretty Good Day
14—Days of Clearing out Things
15—Trying Days
16— Day of the Vision
17—Day of Cremation



Poems without Days (Part Two)


18—Letting Go of he Dying
19—Goodbyes
20—World you like to live Like This?
21— End Poem: “Death Passed Me Once”



Poems of Nostalgia (Part Three)
Mixed Poems (from the unpublished work “Naked Poetry”)

22—The Long Glimpse
23—Spring Cleaning (A 1960s, Minnesota Poem)
24—Mother’s Taxi
25—A Song for Elsie
26—Those Old Russian Stews
27—Clothespins
28—Love Unravelled


End Poem

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



▼





Dr. Siluk’s books are available: United Arab Emirates, Australia, Belgium, Bahrain, Switzerland, China, Germany, Spain, Finland, France, Hong Kong, Indonesia, India, Japan, Kenya, Kuwait, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, Netherlands, New Zealand, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Thailand, South Africa (to include: throughout the United States and Canada, and England)


Notes: For those who have read Mr. Siluk’s poetry, his natural private imagery, perhaps more on the nonacademic side, you will discover what he is trying to do is, tell how it is to be alive today, about the present, saying: ”This is a state of mind one should visit every so often.” He uses powerful descriptions and intense imagery to have an effect on the reader, he implies “…that’s the job of the poet, to effect!” Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


This is the author’s 45th book, and most versatile, resourceful. He lives in Minnesota and Peru with his wife Rosa. the author with Garrison Keillor National Radiobroadcaster, author, poet, and storyteller; they met at the World Theater during a poetry reading, February, 2005, in St. Paul, Minnesota. And
Present Alan Garcia n Lima, Peru, May, 2010.





“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.” Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009

I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your short story, “Uni’s Street Corner” in Lake Area Business this month. Thanks for sharing this wonderful piece!! Gloria Stafford, Minnetrista, MN

“I received your book “Last Autumn and Winter”…. It's beautiful you have really captured Minnesota. And I love that it is in Spanish and English. … Thanks so much for sending this treasure to me Dennis.”

Gail Weber, Editor and Owner of “Exploring Tosca” A Minnesota
cultural magazine (5-25-2010)


The Synergy Group Recommended Reading (April 2010) pertaining to topics on Behavioral and
Emotional Health, the book: The Path to Sobriety…” by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk



Prologue: Most poets perhaps even writers of other genres, prefer their narrations on death to entail courage and strength, putting little emphases on grieving and its torments, depressions, longevity, and so forth; 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—to include the gambit of all writers—save the poet, and even he dances around this. 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 a loved one dying in front of your eyes; day by day watching death consume, like fire until all that is left is ashes.
Emotions are neither right nor wrong, they just are. Therefore, we weep, behind or in front of the curtains, the windows, and if we don’t weep, it comes out all the same, just sideways. We weep often to heal and let go, to go forward in life, as it was meant to be; some folks scream, as to be able to endure the pain of the loss, while others pull their hair out from the roots. Some folks grieve long and hard, some folks not so long, or hard, perhaps they are tougher in the grieving area. In any case, the periods of grieving are different for everyone, and we grieve like it or not. Grieving is a way to thin the blood so the heart and the mind can function as well as possible.
This is a daring book—to say the least, on what I consider poignant poetry on a dreadful fact each one of us will face sooner or later—dying or the death of a much loved person. This is my poetic testimony, to a beloved mother.





Poems on the Days

(Part One)


(…concerning 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 vigour away…!
And then, then came, those
Long, long lost days.

12-15-2007 No: 2104




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 slowly
dwindled away.

No: 2101 (12-15-2007)



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; Minnesota is on one side, Wisconsin, on the other.



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…
from behind a mirror,
a gut-feeling,
(my mother had died).


No: 2103 12-15-2007







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,
of what went before, now near eight-three years
old: now brief, calm and bold.


No: 2105 12-16-2007





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—
her failing, of old age.


No: 2104 (12-17-2007)



Day after Day


I walked around her bed
(day after day)
wondering what I could do
she must had thought me a dupe…;
there I was 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)






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
yesterday?”
“O yes,” I’d respond, “but you were
sleeping.”


No: 2107 (12-16-2007)





Today


Now, four year’s 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)





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 and pray for the living.”

(No: 2109 (12-16-2007)






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)
Dedicated to my brother Mike E. Siluk






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)





A Pretty Good Day


She ate (or all she had to eat was):
soup, jello, and chocolate milk
(mostly, tasteless crap at the hospital)
those last days of her life.
She was bored, but comfortable
in Ramsey hospital;
as she dehydrated—

She’d say, “Bring me some good chocolate!”
And I did, once—
before the operation
(she hid it from the nurses).

That was a pretty good day.


No: 2112 (12-16-2007)




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: she would have said ‘For a rainy day’.

Things, like records and ribbons,
knitting things, almost everything buyable
under the sun. Tons of toothpaste, and
toilet paper (stacks and stacks of things); 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 her house,
out, but I bet she had a great time buying and
giving those things away as gifts (as often she did).

We didn’t complain though, my brother and I,
we never had to buy things for two years or so.


No: 2113 (12-16-2007)



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)





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)





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)





Poems without Days




(Part Two)


Letting Go of the
Dying

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)




Goodbyes



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 A.M., 2003,
she didn’t).


No: 2119 (12-16-2007)



“Would you like to live like this?”


Her eyes opened wide (she hadn’t spoken for a moment).
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!” I repeated.
I watched her body go still as she leaned back towards
her pillow (as if doing some deep thinking…). Then her
rounded squinty blue-eyes closed, just for a jiffy,

for a thought, then reopened, and she started talking—again.


No: 2120 (12-17-2007)



Death Passed Me Once
(In the Valley of Days)



Death returns: it found no resting place,
I saw it in flight last night—(it passed me once,
overhead) beneath the last sparks of twilight—!

Death has wings, you know, I saw it descend,
it glides through the valley of days, in peacefulness…
yet—its tail leaves shadows of grief, and pain,
to return at dawn, blue-bellied full—,
as if it had swallowed a whale whole.

Death, is always hungry it seems, and has an
invisible web nearby, always waiting, waiting,
likened to a spider waiting for a fly!


Δ


Poems of Nostalgia

((Part Three) (Mixed Poems))


These poems for the most part were taken from an unpublished book written in 2004 and 2005 called “Naked Poetry”


The Long Glimpse


From the arch of the doorway
She’d look my way, into the garage, at me—
as I readied my automobile to go someplace;
She’d be looking-steadfast
I’d open my car door a bit, ask:
“Why you staring? (at me)”
“No reason,” she’d reply, smiling.
Then with a tinge of hesitation
she summon up, and said (at 82):
softly, in an almost whisper “You….”
((as if she had remembered the day I
was born) (almost in a trance.))
And I’d for the life of me—
not know why; I know now though,
she was simply getting a long glimpse
before she died (for she died shortly after).
I guess, she was really saying goodbye,
saying goodbye with a long glimpse
to last between now and then, when we’d
meet again.

No: 1947 8-24-2007






Spring Cleaning
(A 1960s, Minnesota Poem)

During spring cleaning my
mother worked the house
as if—she was having a GI-Party:
one of those Army clean-up parties
where everything had to be ‘Spick and Span.’
Every nook and crack in every inch
of the place, clean and shiny. She
moved the furniture around—awkward
as it was—sofa chair, table and television
lifting up rugs—and still having
strength and stamina to wash walls
clean. And in the midst of it all
I often wondered, she never rearranged
the rooms. Perhaps because she didn’t
want grandpa to become disoriented.
Thus, no one had to deal with change.
And no one knew the inexhaustible
efforts she put out (or if they did
no one said a word, nor she).


No: 2695 (5-18-2010)




Mother’s Taxi


In a hospital bed restless she laid
Not afraid, or disposed
An operation had taken place:
To regenerate her failing system—
But time, cripples the bones and flesh
Slowly until its mush—I’m starting to learn
That much myself lately…

She went home, in a taxicab today—
She said, “A black man drove her
By the house, wouldn’t stop or
Let me out…

“Stop here, here! It’s my place,” she
Moaned with grief, but the driver wouldn’t
Stop, didn’t stop— (she really
Thought she was in that taxi)

“Why wouldn’t he stop?” she
Asked me today, when she woke up;
She still didn’t understand

I was a bit vanquish and sad
To have to say: “Mother, I’m sorry,
it was simply a dream…
(and then she knew she was dying)”


Note: A January poem [1/24/2004], when you lose a mother, a mother you love, you lose part of your soul—I do believe—that is, part of your character that can never be replaced. It is a love by itself, not clinging to any other dimensions or comparisons; it simply has it own life and death and healing process. No: 425



A Song for Elsie


When I was young
Before my teens
She’d be humming a Song,
a tune, called:
“Roses are red my love…”
For some odd reason…

Just an old song, tune
That kind of kept
The fire burning, so I’d learn
In yeas yet to come, a song that
Reminded her of an old boyfriend
Who went off to war, in ‘44?
And received her devotion
Forevermore…!

No: 506/2-2005

Those Old Russian Stews


Grandpa’s been dead now
For some twenty years or so;
Mother, only two…! So
There’s no one left I fear, but
Me, who knows how to make—
Those Old Russian stews…!

No: 507/2-2005



Clothespins


Clothespins and white sheets,
Socks and blue jeans,
Hanging on rope lines
In the backyard
Flopping in the wind…

I’d help my mother hang them
In the cold freezing breeze of
Minnesota’s nearing winter;
Solid rippled like a pig’s snout
They’d become…

#510 [2/27/05]

Love Unraveled

When I was dying
In the hospital in 1993—!
Sadness was so deep
Within my mother’s face
Had I died, I fear—
She’d had died with me.


No: 5011/2-2005




End Poem





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

The Boob Poem (with commentry)

The Boob Poem

Bridget Marquardt, was stretching out her arms today, trying to touch the sky or moon, something up there that looked white or blue, so it seemed to me; to show off her new pinkish-laced bra—thin arms and other things: A big smile on her face as if she swallowed a banana split, her hair hanging about her face, like seaweed—standing by a lake—, and those medium size boobs, trying to reach us passersby’s as if they were ours to arrest—on the internet… and of course, I gave her the eye! Marisa Miller, on the other hand, her boobs were hanging like a lion’s be-hind, inside her bra, something less than a bra, with little ornaments dangling on it ends; her hair covering them up a tinge; Bridget’s bra would never have fit, it would have split. And Jeisa Chiminazzo, didn’t have a thing, to swing, and I think in her picture, she was hiding most of nothing—; if it was something, if it really was something, her elbow was covering most everything, and that’s next to nothing. In Bar Rafaeli’s picture, she squeezes them boobs together like two Condor eggs, ready to burst open—she’s all shape and no face, such a shame. With Malin Akerman, you can’t see a thing, not a thing, but a bare shoulder—and that’s nothing, what’s up dock; we don’t have modest stars—do we; although she has eyes that slant like a cats, or is like rats—not sure which one yet? And how about Oliva Munn, a clean nice face, best of the lot, nice shoulders too—but no boobs or buns, a few fat ripples on her upper legs—she needs to exercise, no more of those chocolate figs—it’s not too late: It would appear, her boobs are hiding somewhere, but where—not in the picture? Perhaps she and Malin, got a thing …by and by, it gives the male’s mind, more for his imagination. (And why did I write this silly poem anyhow… if they can show their boobs, I can write about them!—just so my wife don’t read it! She’ll have a fit…on the other hand, King Solomon wrote about them, so it mustn’t be a sin, perhaps more on the order of gems! )

No: 2907 (3-15-2011)


Commentary and History on Boobs: Can we say boobs have had their day in history? They have in a way formed history. Especially in movies, modeling, in newspapers to get a male’s attention and of course to sell cloths. Presidents have lusted after them, such as Clinton; we can add Samson into that category also. Let’s admit, women have power with boobs, and if they don’t know it, they’ve lived too long in the Andes. Wet boobs are even hotter, the wetter, the hotter. When they get older—they have a life cycle also you know, but when they get older, and when men stop looking at them, I’m sure woman get thinking—I think they might be thinking, I’m not going to ask my wife, but it would seem so, they might feel a little homesick for the lost glory they provided all those decades. For a women or a man, boobs can make the sun come out when it is raining. Some boobs become famous. Some boobs are so big you can’t find the woman’s neck. Boobs are like two-owls looking straight at a man, if indeed they are showing. And so, that is enough of the History of boobs.

Black Blood in Jeremiah's Vines

Black Blood in Jeremiah’s Vines
(A Dream Poem)



And I heard the crackling of wood,
and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood,
and fire came from his mouth.
Then the winds poured grief upon mankind
—over his sins; and I heard the words
for the seventh time: "Go to the mountains
and the dens, foolish people of this land,
pray and understand—for I cometh!
Thereof, toss thyself upon thy knees,
for the roar of rebellious man will bleed:
black blood, through the grapevines of Jeremiah.”

Note: 5/10/05, 11:28 AM #639
Reedited 3-2011

The Crow (a poem: Song of the Crow)

Heavy he leans his feathered head
Gazing at the blood red mist
Tired, — his face shows time has past
And on his tarnished-gray wings-
The world rests…
Has God forsaken you-?
To grief and pain:
To love the sparrow instead?
Are you not the largest of the perching birds?
Crowned with a grayish hood-;
Or are you just a crow…the farmers hate(or should)…?
Your breath has left you
My feathered friend…
Too weak to lift your head again?
What separates you from man?
Is it the sky and land?
Or the road each must go?
Each unto his own…!
It seems to me,
Life’s a test for you as well?
But man must ponder on,
And reason.
What is the question you ask?
I see, within the stare
Of your silent dark eyes:
“Who are these masters who rule the land?
Give back to me the sky!”
However,–will you fly again?
Touch the heavens?
Light your wings on fire
From the scorching sun?
Glide with the wind until dawn?
You are the mystery that cries within
…but then, you are not made in
His Image, my Friend…!


Notes: Originally called "The Song of the Crow," although many have picked it up on the internet and called it "The Crow" written 9-5-1999, produced and recorded as a song, at Chapel Recording, MA: The poem was inspired by the international artist Yang Yang, of which he did four paintings of crows for the author. It was then published in the book: "Sirens" (Poems--Volume II), 2004.


You can also see the poem displayed at: http://corvidcorner.com/wordpress/2009/08/the-crow-a-poem-by-dennis-siluk/

Death & Departure (a poem-song in English and Japanese)

Death & Departure
(A Poem and a Song)



The Poem and song, “Death & Departure was written in 1996, and recorded by Chapel Recording Studios, in MA, as a poetic song, written by the author, and then translated into Japanese. It has since its inception, been circulating quite handsomely around the globe, and is usually played by a piano and guitar. This is the first time displayed on the internet for the public at large…for those wishing to review the music you may find it on his website, other than that, it is a poem (music and composition by the author):



Look softly back at me my friend

Mitegoran watashino Vshirokara tomodachi Ga Yasashikv Miteirv

When death disturbs your eyes

Shi Wa Anatano Meo fuan Ni Saserv

I died with love and majesty

Watash Wa Ai To Tomoni Lgen O Motivte Shinda

I never thought to cry

Watashi Wa Keshiite Nakanai

Many times I’ve looked at death surrounded by life and storms

Nan do Mo jinsei Wa Arashi Ya Shi Ni Kakomarete Irv No O

Awaken from my sleep

Watashi Wa Satottuta

I’ve bet that

Watashi Wa Miidashita

Death was not much more.

Shi Wa Takvsan Wa Nai

God calls us home to whom He please

Kami Wa Watashitachi o IE Ni Yonde Yorokobaseta
He is no respecter of man

Darenimo Byo Doo Ni Otozvreru

Death has its price

Shi NiWa Kachi GA Arv

And its rewards, the chase for god

Soshite sorewa kamini Mukuilu kotode hovbi ga ataerare rv

I’ve won

Watashiwa kakutoku shita watasguwa kachitottuta

This is departure I cry dear friend, wife dear lover children and kin…

Snin yuu Tsuma koibito kodomo soshite shinzoku GA
Tabitatsu toki Watashi Wa Naita

The Heart aches (farewell) the pain is gone

Fukai kanashimi wakare. Itomago:

Speak kindly please. I’ve loved you all.

Fucai Kanashi Mi itamiwa ittute Shi Mattuta Anata no subeteo
I shite ita to yasashiku hanashite ne

Song of hte Green Knight (poetic)

Song of the Green Knight

And there he sat alone again
Under an olive tree, the desert behind him
A high arch to his back, noble fashioned
Like a statue of purest silver…
There he sat the Green Knight.
And In this un-Lordly place
Where mules will load and unload
(And camels will do the same)
Moreover, to travel an endless road
For what, for plenty of fair gold and fine,
For God to save, the glorious whom we all must adore
As if divine—hostages to the glory of war?

No: 2887 (1-5-2011)

The Dead Nation (Oh, Israel)

The Dead Nation
(Oh, Israel)

(Interlude to the poem “The Bulls of Bashan)




Since earliest childhood I have been strangely fascinated by the mystery that surrounds me (the voice of God that is, and this voice started one day walking up a lonely path, at the age of twelve), the history of Israel, and the so called Holy Land and in particular the last days (as in the Book of Revelation). My interest is keenest, perhaps, in that relationship I have with the Trinity (the Father, Son and Holy Spirit), talking to God, and listening to what he has to say. As in much of my poetry, in particular, “The Last Trumpet,” (1984), and most recently in “The Bulls of Bashan,” a poem that has annoyed Israel itself, to condemn it as Anti Israel (but how wrong they are; if there was no Israel, their might not have been a Christian faith, of which I am), and now the compliment to “The Bulls of Bashan,” called “The Dead Nation.” I may also include the most recent book I wrote called “Stone Heap of the Wildcat” a book on Israel itself, and the Rephaim Giants of old; I am not a prophet, or anything of that nature—nor claim to be, just a voice that follows the course given to him, by the other voice (and to be quite frank, I’m too old to care if you think I’m nuts); anyhow, I hope you enjoy this part of the poem:



Until you see
Life follows me—
You shall walk with the dead
Behind
You shall walk on thorns
Leaving drops of blood (reminders)

Are you not the mindless, and the blind?
Like Nebuchadnezzar—who
Lived with the wild
Donkeys and ate grass
Like cattle—until
He acknowledge that I the Most High God
Is sovereign over
The kingdoms of men…!

Come vagabond
(Grasshoppers of the world)
Come drink until your breast
Turns red
Party and dance
In a soldier’s fancy;
Your closed eyes
Will soon be opened
From the black light
That has filled it—

I shall cut your roots
From around your ankles
With a lightening-bolt
Again we will gradually
Return to lifeAs if we have come into sight
From under the earth
As if from the bottom
Of a volcano
To look down from the clouds!
You’ll return wounded;
And those will be memories
Fire that produced flowers
((Lest I have to
Destroy you again
Like a dead woman) (and
Raise you up like Lazarus))
As you have to be
In order to be
To become the smell
That I love.
A fire burns
Between us—
(Oh, Israel—love the world
As I love you)

If suddenly I no
Longer exist for you
I shall go on living.
So, even if I am
Mute on this matter
The greatest of victories
Will come through
Your willingness
To lift your blindness;
If you are not
Living
If you have died
Man has no voice—
I cannot be dead
I shall go with
Another!

(I am a jealous God,
I’ve told you this before
Come like a flowing river
Awaiting the raging sea
Bring all your people
I will bless them
And we shall always be:
I and you, and those
Upon the earth
Who wish to begin life?)


Notes: No: 2888/ 1-2-2011

A Dog Knows (a very short poem)

A Dog Knows


Thoughts are deeper than spoken words—
Emotions, deeper than all one’s thoughts,
Soul to soul, a dog knows
What unto them (—selves) was love!


For the Doggy (and perhaps a little for Gail,
during her grieving)
12-29-2010 (No: 2886) Dlsiluk

Conversaton at El Parquetito (a short story)

Conversation at El Parquetito
(—concerning presidential election for 2011)



From the table at the outside restaurant (and bar), of El Parquetito, in Miraflores, Lima, looks at Kennedy Park. Cars, busses and trucks circle this main avenue—like a rotunda, loop around the park day and night, with its floating exhaust, and colorless buildings, with colorful awnings; across this somewhat city plateau area, the Andes surround the city like a horseshoe, the Pacific Ocean is a short distance to the west. This side of the mountains at El Parquetito, the park with its shade and many trees and rays of sun hitting the large umbrellas holding tall and stationary over the wooden tables, the cobblestone street that the tables are on, are uneven dark gray, brown and black, there, sit three people having a conversation, concerning the forth coming Presidential elections here in Peru, for 2011, and why Peru at this point and time (being: December, of 2010) is still all screwed up with no understructure, and everlasting corruption.
Sergeant Ricardo Heredia—forty and not a day older—getting that potbelly so popular with his age, of the police force in Miraflores, is present, as is the owner of a pizza restaurant, across the park, from El Parquetito. Moises Zarate in is twenty-eighth year of life, balled headed, strong like a bull, taller than the average Peruvian. And the landlady of several properties, Maria Canales, fifty if not more, short black hair, cute, holding her weight down—all are present at the squared table.
“What should we drink,” Ricardo asks. He had taken off his hat and put it on the next table alongside of him; he still had his police uniform on.
“It’s pretty hot,” said Moises, “I’ll have a beer.”
“Let’s all have a beer,” commented Maria, to Hernan, a plump and smiley waiter in his forties, who had been at the restaurant going on some twenty-years, if not more.
“Okay,” agreed Moises.
“Dos cervezas!” Said Maria, holding up one of the three filled chilled, glasses of Cristal Beer
as you look about, you can see several people getting their shoes shinned, by the Miraflores shoeshine men with blue uniforms on, taxies stopping here and there, letting people out, and some stopping being waved down by folks wanting a ride. There are a few people at a table several feet from Ricardo’s, they are talking about work in Peru, in particular, Lima, and one shrugs his shoulders, as if the other one doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he orders a Cristal beer also, another one, he has two by his elbow—empty. He doesn’t look drunk, but he’s acting that way.
Hernan now brings three felt pads over to the table, the cloth is getting wet. A prostitute is walking up and down the sidewalk across from their table, across the street that is, the girl is looking off towards the mountains, the white clouds, the sun, the gray to dark street, then back to them, to see if Ricardo and Moises are checking her out. Ricardo thinks she looks like a wild pelican, with all her colors and thin-boned body.
“You ever see a pelican?” asks Ricardo to Moises.
“I’ve never seen one,” said Moises, not sure why he asked that. But Maria knows why, says nothing, just smiles.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” comments Maria, to start the conversation up again. They are old friends (from different backgrounds), and they kind of met by accident in the park, and all decided to have a beer at El Parquetito’s.

Maria looks at a sign on a building, “Someone painted something on it,” she says, pointing up at the tall building. “What does it say?”
“Keiko for President!” says Moises. “Should we try her, we’ve tried every other combination, why not a woman now?”
“Well if we don’t want corruption, we should try Mercedes!” says Maria.
“She’s cute, I’ll vote for her,” says Ricardo. “Or perhaps the old mayor of Lima, Castañeda, He’s already got twenty percent of the vote! Although every mayor, or almost every mayor I know, owns discos or bars, all acquiring them after they become mayors, it’s one way to become rich in five years, or dead. Some mayors go too far.”
“How about Toledo, he was pretty good when he was president before,” says Maria.
“I don’t know,” comments Moises, “He might be good, but he drank all our money up, and traveled the world over the last six months of his presidency—how short our Peruvian memories are, and his wife took all those mummies, you know what I mean!”
“It’s all right,” said Ricardo, “they are all thieves anyhow, that justifies us for being thieves, and don’t we like a little corruption?”
“Yes,” said Maria, “with a little corruption, not like Fujimori, who stole our country blind, put his daughter into the best schools in America, flew off to Japan—lived like a king for five or seven years, and was dumb enough to come back to Peru. He should have waited like Garcia did—for ten years, who stole our country blind, flew off to Paris, waited for the law to declare him untouchable, and came back and became president again.”
“So you like the taste of corruption, as long as it’s Democratic, for the people by the people?” says Ricardo. “I make 900 soles a month, where does my corruption come in handy?”
“That’s the way with everything in Peru, you police make 900 soles a month and another 900 for bribes daily, and you can’t live on that, then what can you live on,” said Moises. “If we didn’t want corruption, just unbuckle your chains, and that’s it. You see we all chain ourselves to the process. Peru is too far removed from innocence, we like some corruption, we like to know it’s there when we need it. If you cut it out, you cut your own throat, that’s why mayors, who are honest, never get reelected.”
“Who started this conversation?” asked Maria.
“You started it,” said Moises, “when you asked what the sign read!”
“By gosh, you’re right, I did. I was being amused by it. I was having a fine time, now it’s becoming work.”
“Well let’s try and have a fine time about it,” said Ricardo; “how about Ollanta for president?”
“I don’t want a dictator, only a perfectly simple form of corruption,” said Maria.
“You mean enough corruption at the municipality to buy rights you don’t deserve, to be able to build without permits, to build five and six stories high in areas only allowing three and four stories. You want enough corruption to make your life easier,” said Ricardo, “as I do. And how do you think Moises got his license to serve liquor at his pizza café, and has whores working for him, he pays us. And I pay you to live in one of those apartments of yours in San Juan de Miraflores, that you probable invaded the land some twenty or thirty years ago—or your parents did fifty years ago, and you inherited it from them, like they do in Huancayo, and the Satipo Jungle still to this very day, and stole it from some old man, ready to die, and now it belongs to you officially.”
“I guess so,” said Maria. She looked across into the park. “It’s a lovely park,” she said.
“Should we have another drink,” said Moises.
“All right,” said Ricardo, “but who’s paying the bill?”
The warm wind blew an awfully stink from a chicken restaurant nearby, “Wish the government would check these chicken places out, they sell chicken half diseased,” said Maria. “Let’s all pay our own bills,” she added, in a whisper.
The girl that was referred to as the Pelican looked at the table legs of the table the three were sitting at.
“I know you two will not mind if I check her out,” said Moises, “she seems to be looking for work,” he stood up and approached her, she did not say anything at first: then, “I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all time you want… (and that was all Maria could hear)” and they walked away from the restaurant as if it was perfectly natural.
“Well,” said Maria, to Ricardo “what will you do afterward? It’s been a most interesting afternoon. Perhaps give some more tickets out so you can earn more money from corruption?” and she laughed.
“We’ll both do just like we did before, what makes you think otherwise, it’s the only thing that’s made us happy.”
“Then you think, we’ll be okay, and happy?” she asked.
“I know we will. You don’t have to worry. I’ve known lots of people that have lived one corrupt day, all their lives, and died happy.”
“Well,” the woman said, “I think that’s the best thing to do, even if you really don’t want to. We have to keep things like they are. So we don’t have to worry.”
“You won’t worry about how you do it, it’s perfectly simple for you now,” said Ricardo. And then they departed, each going the opposite way across the park.

Note: written December 26, 2010; No: 644

Changing Places (a poem)

It is a land where death
Is Cheap
And happiness scarce
Betrayed and lied to
Normal,
Yet love burns higher
Than a bonfire
This land is deluded...
But there is a spark
worth sheltering!


No: 2885
12-26-2010
(12:24 a.m.)

Out of Place (Jaipur, India, 1998/a short story by D.L. Siluk)

Out of Place
((Jaipur, India, 1998) (the dogs of India))
(How to fight a dog)



He was the only American at the hotel he knew of, a few miles outside of Jaipur, India (otherwise known as the Pink City). He didn’t know any of hotel guests either, said hello to the grounds-men; they always seemed to be cutting something in the mornings, such as: trimming bushes, cutting the grass, around the hotel, under his window to his room. He also said hello to the hotel security guard, always outside in the front of the hotel, and the female housemaid, the one that cleaned his room, wore a long light green silky dress down past her ankles, per near to her knees, with a dull purple strip to it, and a darker green light shawl that seemed to belong to the dress over her shoulder, which reached down to her knees. She was very thin, a long sharp nose, thick eyebrows, and had skin like rawhide, had she not had such skin, she would have been a nice looking lady for her age, perhaps, thirty or a few years older, hard to tell. He noticed there were a few small groups of Europeans at the five-star hotel, along with a few other groups, and singles and couples. They paid him little attention though, he likewise to them. It would be fair to say, most of the people at the hotel, he’d simply pass them on the stairway give a smile, like him, they were all strangers to one another.
His room was on the third floor, the top of the hotel. His room faced a shanty tent like village, which was beyond the hotel gardens, and ran parallel to a dirt road in front alongside of the hotel.
As one walked outside, through the front doors of the hotel, across the street, and to the right of the doors, was a boxed shrine, there was a statue inside the small red painted box, which a Hindu would approach, open up the two small doors, fold his hands in prayer, and bow his head to the statue inside in solitude, and meditation, then he’d close the box and go his way. He had noticed that the several days he was at the hotel.
Sidney Muller, was his name, from Minnesota; he came a long ways to see the few monuments, within a seven-hundred and fifty mile radius of Deli, to include the Taj Mahal, and in Jaipur, the Palace of the Winds (or, otherwise known as, the Pink Palace). In the sunlight, the Pink Place glistened. The sun seemed to drip like rain over it.
The motor carts and cars, zoomed around the large cows—which are pampered animals to say the least in India, and mostly for religious reasons, whom walked aimlessly from the city square, to side streets, eating whatever they saw, even to the doorways, and doorsteps of cafes and stores, never once got hit by a car, or motor cart. A little miracle in itself, thought Sidney, they appeared to be everywhere and in everyone’s way.
He had remembered looking out his window towards the shantytown, how dark and empty the square was the night before, down in the center of town, a few miles away, with the stray dogs, and a hundred bodies lying about on the lawns and near the Pink Palace. A few police walking to and fro, but not bothering anyone in particular.
“I’ll do it,” he confirmed from the window. “Yes, I’ll go over there!” he reiterated.
Then he sat back in his chair and went back to reading the book, “The Jazz Age,” short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald, falling to sleep and waking up near 2:00 a.m., in the morning; whereupon, he washed his face, and headed down the stairway of the hotel to the lobby.
The night manager stood up from behind the lobby desk, bowed slightly to Mr. Muller, greeting him from a distance. He was an old man, very short, broad shoulders, dark skinned.
“Can I help you Mr. Muller?” He knew Mr. Muller by name, perhaps him being the only American there at the hotel, and being there the longest of most tourists, several days thus far, which most visitors came for two or three days and left.
“Sir,” said Sidney Muller, “it’s very hot weather tonight; I’m going to go for a night walk.”
By the expression on the old manager’s face, he liked the American’s dignity, he never complained like the Japanese; and gave tips, unlike the few South Americans that were there; and spoke to him, unlike the Europeans, who only spoke if they were spoken to, or wanted something.
On the other hand, Sidney seemed to like the way the old timer, the hotel manager, felt about being a hotel manager, pride showed on his face. A face that was raw and heavy, with deep carved in wrinkles. His hands were big, and his ears cauliflower, like a boxers.
Liking Sidney, the manager hurried around the desk and opened the front door for him, after looking out it, “Be careful,” he garbled in a serious tone, “there are many stray dogs, and don’t go near the shantytown, let the guard know you are walking about the grounds, please do that sir, okay?”
Sidney shook his head up and own, confirming a yes, but he did not have intentions of course to not explore the village, the tent city of sorts, it was the reason he was leaving the hotel at 2:00 a.m., in the first place.
The manager stood in the doorway of the hotel, observing Sidney talking to the guard. Sidney on the other hand, saw this from the side of his right eye, he could see the old timer watching him from behind the glass doors; a different maid, one he had seen before but wasn’t the one who cleaned his room, she was behind the manager, folding towels, ready to clean, and re-supply empty rooms. She had a vacuum cleaner underneath her cart, some rags tied to its handle, and spray cans most likely to scent the rooms, as she clean them.

“You must stay away from the road, who knows the danger out there?” said the guard, middle aged, tall and thin, had a blue shirt on that said, ‘Hotel Security Guard.’ He looked to Sidney a dutiful, if not pious like man. Then he walked over to the red box where the shrine was secured—as Sidney walked the opposite way, towards the tents of the shanty village. He had a light jacket, more like a windbreaker (incase of rain), wrapped around his left arm, he walked up to the roadside, more of a gravel path, at this point neither the guard nor manager could see him, and across the road was the village.
The tent village was open to the sky in many places, there was a horde of people sleeping on cots, and under cots, and dogs sleeping under cots, and stray dogs walking about in the near and far, sniffing, and smelling for food.
He looked about, a dog opened its eyes, under a cot, near him, he murmured, “Boy there’s a lot of dogs here…” and he could smell the sweat of humanity all about him, it filled the air.
Another dog must had gotten his scent, it was different, perhaps sweet from the soap of the hotel, and he whispered, just under his breath, “not another one…” then he looked back at the dog under the cot, its eyes wide open, his eyes caught the dog’s, and that wasn’t good. Then to distract the moment, a cat ran past one of the other dogs approaching from a distance, which allowed the dog under the cot, to appear in front of Sidney unnoticed.
“Yes,” he said in a low tone, adding, “I should be getting out of here,” he was afraid to glance toward the hotel, which he apparently wanted to do, but forced himself not to do, not allowing the dog to attack him unnoticed again.
He could feel the inside of his inners; go topsy-turvy, with an odd feeling of tightening. The dog studied him, pacing in front of him, as not to allow him to run towards the hotel, without confrontation. And now two other dogs were approaching.
The brave dog, the one from under the cot, was but several feet in front of him now, the other dogs nearing twenty-feet or so.
Sidney saw the other two dogs, “Yeah!” he said, as if he had expected them; in any case, he stayed in this position.
There were a few arc lights, up and down the road, a few over by the hotel, the moon was near full, so visibility for both the dogs and Sidney for a night was kosher, for a battle.
The mass of humanity, sleeping remained so, notwithstanding, and the few loud shouts Sidney made to the dogs didn’t seem to disturb them, if indeed they were disturbed, perhaps more like waiting for the dogs to do their thing, so they could take off of him whatever was left: money, a ring, a gold chain.
Sidney got to thinking: for some reason, having traveled in the third world countries as much as he had, the poor often felt, being poor gave them the right, to take at will, if it be to their advantage, what does not belong to them, in the name of justice, since mankind, the world, God, and nation, had had abandoned them, and made them poor to start with. And this was his momentary comment to himself, why the sleeping folks would not wake up and come to his rescue. Injustice would get its revenge.
The young man shouted something once more, instead of lowering his voice, to sooth the dog, or sit down low, to not over tower the dog, he enraged the dog. Now the two other dogs were right behind the brave one, as if they were his sentries.
Nobody in the shantytown saw Sidney, and if eyes were on him, he didn’t notice, and at this point, he told himself: what difference does it make, I’m on my own. Then the two dogs started barking, and the brave one growled, snarled, showing his teeth, his upper gums. He was hungry, and he knew now, he had the advantage, the edge. And not one soul of the many, perhaps a hundred sleepers, woke up.

The Attack

The first dog, the brave one, the one that came out from under the nearby cot, walked in a half circle around him, across his path, as not to allow him to escape. The other two remained behind him, abreast of each other, with much knowingness, so it appeared.
Part of the time, at this time (intermittently), Sidney was talking to the dog—now, in a lowered voice, but the dog of course didn’t understand a thing and it appeared it was not really comforting; his focus was completely on the kill, the attack to be.
“You damn young fool,” he called himself, “of course I got to fight you dog now!” he added to his shout, “Go back!”
They turned sharp towards him, to a stand still position, and the brave one growled, while the other two behind him, yelped, half hazard.
There was no wind blowing, he threw a hand gesture to the dog, as if it was a sign for attack, Sidney was a defensive fighter, therefore, he needed the dog to do his attack first, so he could counter it, and attack on the rebound, leaving the dog open, and vulnerable for a second, and that is all he figured he’d need.

Attack…

The dog leaped towards Sidney, it was about two and a half feet from toe to the top of its head, about the same size as it comrades, but thin, he hit him a square blow, hard blow a smashing thrust onto the nose of the beast, a powerful smash, with a tight fist, like a rock, his knuckles extending outward tight against his skin. Then came a kick, a millisecond after the punch, it was as if it was next to being simultaneous, automatic on Sidney’s behalf. And his sharp shoes wedged into the ribs of the dog, snapping one, and the dog fell backwards, lost its wind.
The dogs were frigid behind the brave one, they looked as if they were near starvation also, and Sidney knew they were desperate for a pound of flesh, his flesh, but also he knew they were weak, their fur was of a rustic dirty color, you couldn’t really tell what natural color it was.
Also, Sidney knew his neck was safe, the dogs were too short to jump that high unless they dragged him down to the ground, therefore, he didn’t protect it. On the other hand, it was too late to play dead, plus that wouldn’t work with these dogs they were too hungry. It was all up to his courage, and skills in karate.
He wrapped his coat tightly around his forearm, and dangled it in front of the dog somewhat, and the dog took his second leap, his jaws clamped onto and into the jacket, and forearm, and Sid now lifted the dog up a few inches, allowed his body to stretch, to where he had no leverage, power or force, he now took a hold of the dog’s loose ear, and with a solid grip, twisted and pulled on it, jerked it as if it was a thread, and he was trying to rip it apart to make ends, and he did rip the ear three quarters off the dog’s skull, and looking into the dog’s eerie like eyes, he took his two fingers and poked them straight and hard into those glossy marbles, the dog dropped to the ground whimpering, blindly. He moved about in the dirt trying to get his equilibrium back, as the other two dogs prepared to attack.
And just at that moment, the guard showed up, picked up some stones, and threw them at the two dogs, and they ran off (and still everyone around on those cots slept as if they were dead).
“Young gentlemen,” he called to Sidney, “we best get back to the hotel, in case the dogs find more courage and return.”
Meeting both head on, they turned sharply and quickly headed on across the pathway to the hotel, within a minute Sidney could see the lights of the hotel, the front door, where he had left the Manager, it brought to him some consolation.
Once by the hotel doors, the Guard started walking over to that little Hindu shrine, opened the box, as Sidney was behind him, and the Hindu put his hands in a prayer position, as did Sidney, and they both gave thanks to their God.

“The sun will be up in a few hours, Mr. Muller,” said the Night Manager in the hotel lobby, as Sidney walked through it, worn-out, pale as a ghost, sweating like a hog, “should I wake you up at your regular time, say, 7:00 a.m., sir?” he asked.
“You kidding,” said Mr. Muller, and they both laughed as Sidney slowly and with much effort, climbed those steps to his third floor room, and crashed on the bed.

3-2-2009

The Tale of: The Basilisk-de Notre Dame (by D.L. Siluk/a short story)

The Tale of:
The Basilisk-de Notre Dame




It would give the impression that there is no more to be written about this great cathedral, called: Notre Dame de Paris—but put aside such talk, I have brought to the table a strange, and tale of tales, and more truth to it than fable, even perhaps a bit overwhelming, hard to digest, but I was up on top of Notre Dame, in its Bell Tower, and here is my story, perhaps a tragedy you may want to call it, nonetheless I will tell it as I lived it, and let you be the deciding factor of if it could have been, might have been, or let it lay as simple a tale of tales.

It would look as if, to me, if not an imamate revelation I speak of, surely the first time one has taken notice to it in a courtly manner, although it has been there, right in front of our eyes all the time, for a thousand years if not more. This creature [or being] I am about to tell you about—mythical to many (in its unearthly shadows of the night)—is but a linking element in the demonic world: this ox-eyed demon who gazes at one with vindictive glares, one might say, and yet some have claimed, by and by, he is from the lower part of the lower world. It has also been said, and I shall say it here: he is working on behalf of heaven's door; in a manner of speaking that is, proclaiming to be a soldier in the upper world; the one you and I live in.
It is characteristic of this jaunty creature, that he pursues no man beyond his will, lest he brings God Himself down upon him for immediate judgment. And so, in this peculiar story of stories I will relate to the pursuit and escape as we await the rising tide. And so we stand on dangerous ground, do we not?
Where we are standing now, a bit more frightened I would say, or we should be, as the shades of this long lost mystery come to light! You see, it is said if he were to leave his post [place of duty] his fatal breath and glance could kill at will.
Furthermore, this creature I am referring to seems to have knowledge of men and their motives, strictly by instinct; far beyond the common, endowed human capabilities, they also have a rashness to danger, and a desire for longevity (like mankind), and of course the pleasures of life, I am not completely sure of but they seem to be present within their beings.
This creature, resides high up, guards as a spirit within a solid structure, stone, with life and a bitterness rising from its bosom-and yet it also has a gentle sadness upon its moored face. Moreover, he is from a long line of friends, being of a serpent form of sorts. He is said to have been given birth by a cock's egg.
I have seen him many times, high up in the corner of the church; the great Notre Dame is what I am speaking of, of course. But one time I saw him eye to eye, yes oh yes, eye to eye-should to shoulder, as if he was part of the gallery of the gods. I stood but a few feet away from him, almost enchanted with disbelief. He is the: Basilisk-de Notre Dame; some call him the Cockatrice. Without a shadow of a doubt, we connected-I began to fear even with my Irish blood, mythology seemed to come alive for that very moment.
The Basilisk stands tall on a corner of the great cathedral, Notre Dame in Paris. He is made of stone: --as big as a small woman, but his body is only shown to his belly. He has no horns, nor tail. And I would guess he cannot fly, for lack of not having wings, which would be my best guess. But his head has the makings of a dog. His forehead is indented; eyes set back far to paralyze his prey-yet I call them ox-eyes, for they are deep rooted. His mouth curves in with a beak like form at its end. And its tongue is all of four or five inches long perturbing from its long mouth, which is as wide and long as its head: as if it were a dying bull, a purple tongue of rage. Its neck is that of a serpent, with muscles linking to its arms and chest; and a spine that protrudes outward like the ocean waves all the way up to its ears which almost start from the corner of its eyes and exceeds its spine in length. This was my demon, and Notre Dame's gargoyle's guard.
One cannot help but learn as he looks at him in the twilight; it, casting a gentle sadness with its deadly stone composition, he learns not to be impetuous, rather to look calmly and yield its rational and resolute heart. But no more than that, for fear that he is rebutted and tragedy be brought to cover his pride.
If I were to talk flippantly about him, people would hold me to account. Even though I have the highest respect for him, [him being: the stone creature: Basilisk], not quite a reverence, but respect,--better put: regard for; matter-of-fact, whosoever mocks such a creature it is well to know, you may very well seal your own fate, as I have already tired to imply; for in the past many have.
But what is he guarding? You may be asking. As I have asked, and asked I have over twenty-five times, --yes O yes, over twenty-five times I have walked to and fro, and through the doors of Notre Dame de Paris, over twenty-five times I should say-looking, simply looking up at the heights of the cathedral, the doors below my eyes, the statues that ascend upwards to the creature: Basilisk: '...what are you guarding?'. He has been there for a long, very long time, centuries. Some say he guards the courtyard. But then I think, "Does Satan cast out Satan?” What for? Have I not heard one does not work against himself this way? Has this creature been created in the name of God? to protect man against the demons that may enter this glorious church? No more than a creature of stone, he is, is he? Or what spirit lies within its carved stone. Oh yes, yes, yes, leave him alone cries the gibbous spirits, and the hunch-backed shadows of the night. And so on and on and on he remains; as I do, looking up, as he looks down.
I have heard it said, 'Do not destroy the foundation of a great church by name or deed, for lack of knowledge,' and so I have left well enough alone. Let Satan and his hordes see this great church, it will do them well, if not please God-Himself. Yet it does not appease me, for I still want to know why he guards this holy ground, for I doubt it provokes him.
Yet it tells me a great story, on how hard man worked to build it, in praise of the Lord (our Savoir Jesus Christ). There is power in this monument, this shrine to the Christ I know. Is it not a great reminder to all worlds, to include heaven, hell and earth, the ones we know of, of God's glory? But I do not tell myself he is not there for that reason, nor will I fool myself into believing so. There is more to this mystery of mysteries than meets the eye. Yes indeed, and perhaps, just maybe he found a prosperous tide in the form of an investment. He is there watching, counting: reporting, and in my mind's eye, as in humanities mentality, there is always self-interest involved: this should be no different.
Oh yes, maybe this creature is reporting, reporting what, to whom is the question, to whom? Yes, yes, yes, what could this creature, demon form, what could its coverage be? -many, just many things, I suppose such as: what could have been, should have been, the likelihood of something-or someone, and other such things; all this is conjecture of course-just thinking out loud. Like a spy in the middle of the White House, the Kremlin, the Roman Forum. Like a crook about to still the Monte Lisa at the Louver. That is who he may be, a spy. He is part of a worldwide conspiracy maybe, possible, without a doubt!
Oh yes, the great conspiracy, to many, so many conspiracies that when a real one comes, we all say: 'wolf, its phoney'; but the conspiracy you and I are in, we just don't know about it, otherwise it would not be a conspiracy, now would it. I can mention a few conspiracies you do not know about: The one the Mantic-ore, demon commander of a legend from the underworld has taken to the upper world; the one the Tiamat knew was coming, Mother, of Demon 10,000-years ago, yet, this one is being drawn out; the one God foretold, forewarned us about in his book called, Revelation, through the eyes and hands of Saint John. You see, we are in several of them and we do not even know it. And this one, possibly one, has to do with reporting I think.
You may be asking the question by now my curious friend: why have I brought you to this corner of Notre Dame, to this part of Europe. And where am I going with all this, where am I taking you: to a plain slab of stone, inscription, spirit filled. Hang on I have more, you are about to find out. You see, this creature can not fly, I know I kind of told you this, that was implied before, but he can control the air around him; meaning, he glides through the air with only a touch on sold things at speeds beyond any mans run; like a snake in high gear you might say. No, don't get this mixed up with the comics, the Superman thing, or the Hawk man, no, no it is not a supernatural made up creature by me, it is made up by time, legend and folklore, and supernatural, yes it is by all means. I just happened to be around at a time when it manifested itself. No more than that, no less.
And so I was told, his look can paralyze a person, and I believe this now, for he has insured me he could (as others have whispered to me), he did not put me in harms way though, at first anyway. His will is stronger than the Mantic ore’s [the demonic creature, with a beastly body and a man's head, as mythology would have it]. And his breath is from the depths of the abyss, that is: the pit [with odours and smells likened to a decomposed body, old and musty, and suffocating, at best]; in such a place I doubt mankind could not live, nor would a demon want to, and if he had to it would be a grave punishment indeed.
Again, I was not put to the test on this subject, but I feared in him not keeping his distance, in the black mist that surrounded him, that canopied the twilight of the night overhead of him, all-in-all, somewhat, somehow protected me from his harm. But other than the Cathedral, where did I meet him [if this is your question]? And it possibly could be mine, if I was you, in consequence, it would be circling in my mind until I received an answer, or created one, or imagined one I suppose. And so I must have one for you to read.
After he had seen me in March of 2002, he followed me, only one night though. It was 3:00 AM. He knew where I was. Many a demon has tried to embrace him I do believe, for his powers, to do their dirty deeds, but have failed; he likes his position, that is why I do not know if he is demon, evil spirit, a lesser spirit, imp, angelic in nature, or what. But, as I was about to say, he followed me. And that is where I want to take you, or where I am leading you, to our connecting. Oh his short little journey where he escapes from and to is but around this area of the Great Notre Dame, and its island along the Seine [otherwise known as, Old Paris] its beautiful river waterway, which is more of a cannel than a river I'd say, or so it seems to me. And so having said that, let's look at this chase a little closer.
The Glance and the Chase
I never stared into his eyes; I seemed to have avoided them automatically; nor got that close to him when he was chasing me to catch his breath, and with good sense. But it was late at night when he showed up, appeared for the first time. My wife was sleeping with the window open, the breeze flowing through her covers. She was like a little angel asleep. I was outside pacing, for some odd reason; it was a sleepless night undeniably. Sometimes, possibly most times, it is hard for me sleep when spirits of any kind are nearby. Instinctive I seem to know when they area. It is that my body signals me. That is to say, I am quite ripe, or sensitive to the invisible world's brilliant but unstable transparency; in consequence, walking to and fro, like a confused farmer, waiting for the black-crow to show up and take the farmers corn, this is how I felt outside pacing. In this case, what would be his fancy?
As it is now, 5:12 AM, as I write this-making my notes as they come to me-four days later, I want to say I love Paris, almost as much as I love my hometown of, St. Paul, Minnesota, where I live, and almost as much as my wife's hometown, Lima, Peru, where I have a home also. In Paris I have only a small studio apartment, along the riverbank, only but three blocks from Notre Dame, in point of fact, so this tells you I love Paris also. I reside here once or twice a year, for a few weeks of down time, as they call it now-a-days.
As I was saying, or about to say, I was pacing the outside grounds of my dwelling, whereupon this creature of sorts showed up. He tried to make a deal with me, oh yes, oh yes-a agreement, or transaction. I thought for a moment, my wife's life was at stake, knowing she was alone, but she was not his fancy, for the window was open, and this creature in a black-stone like configuration standing but a short distance away, in a shadowy mist not far from her did no harm, and I presume he could have. But again, thank goodness, it was not his prize or price. But I'm sure he didn't mind me believing it. Somehow fear, be it man or beast, seems to arouse a hidden pride in us, a pride in that we have the power to instil this fear, in spite of, if we want to or not. But I noticed in his voice, his posture, his distance, I think he feared he could lose his position, had he threatened my wife; that is, had he threatened my wife and I cast him into the pit in the name of Christ. If anything he did yield a key to his mind set. But it was me he wanted none-the-less, me and me alone, not her. Motives yet were not known to me.
I took off to avoid him using his fear, of endangering my wife, thus having me under his whim, so I ran off, through alleys and side-streets, in a few old buildings, and hallways: not sure why I ran through them, I could have ran around them, he was casting from a distance odd looks at me as if to say: '...what are you running for,' as if I wanted to, I could have you, but as I said before, I wanted to create a distance from my apartment, for our meeting, so he could not completely overpower me. And surely he could have overpowered me.
The hotels would not open their doors as I pulled at them, and so I jumped over and around a few car-bumpers in my way. I ran to the river, and the grass along the park outside the church of Notre Dame I stopped. Then I thought, '...every time I had stopped he was but five or six feet in front of me, or in back of me.' What did he want I asked myself each time, as I tried to catch my breath? Standing still, like a stone in front of the Cathedral, I started to laugh, profusely, as if I was a bit off balance.
I tried one more time to escape his shadow of sorts-a shadow that really was not a shadow, it was him, the shadow, for he had no replacement other than him; hence, he again cornered me, seeing but a black mist again, a heavy configuration within the mist, I lowered my head in coughing, being quite short winded at the time, to catch my breath. I made no solid glance through the mist, as my breath came back to me. He was not yet talking (but I knew what-if not who-he was: The Basilisk-de Notre Dame).
I asked, "Where now?" kind of huffing and puffing from the run. A joke, but it was all I had in me to say [I figured if he wanted to do me harm he could, or put another way, if he could do me harm, he possibly would have by now]. He stepped back a ways, almost covering his shadow like figure, possibly to protect me from them legendary eyes, and breathe. Sometimes I find spirits are as curious about us, as we are about them; especially those who were never human beings at any given time.
"Take this," he said, with a whisper, slow calm voice-almost soft; he wanted me to destroy something, somebody, I thought, possibly him. I stood there; palm-hand on a car, catching my breath, up and across the street was Notre Dame, and the walls that guarded the river, you could see the river-walk. On my side of the street not all that far away was "Shakespeare And Company," an English bookstore, a place I stop at every time I'm in Paris.
It was a weapon of sorts, so it looked, as I looked down at the gift, or whatever it was, something to harm someone with I would guess, is what he was trying to hand me. Did he expect me to pull the trigger on him, if so would I destroy him, and commit a cardinal sin or would it be a more promising sin. Was he bored [came to my mind]? Was I the only one that looked into his eyes when I was on top of Notre Dame that gave him attention in a thousand years or so? Was I his salvation, his way out, and if I killed him with this funny looking gun, of black volcanic stone, or so it looked, would I be stone. Was he the tempter, or the tumult? I had learned a long time ago, sometimes you can simply go with the flow, or die trying to explain a dimension of something that is beyond you. A world you cannot look into, yet they can look out of.
I took the weapon, and, and then all of a sudden there was a whisper telling me to use it on him, or myself, it said either way. Then there was a long pause, a very long pause-he, then, simply wanted it back. Not sure why. His fingers I remember where long, pointed, almost disjointing, strong and fearsome: as he extended his hands to me, and through the mist, to get to the weapon I was now holding. I asked myself again: was temptation his high?
Then he spoke: he said he had fought in a great battle, and upon his death, he refused to go to Hell, or the pit, or even leave the earth, that being in solid stone was better as a spirit than to face the everlasting realities of either of the two places I mentioned, or so he thought. That this time he was speaking of, was a time before the time of Adam and Eve, he was a mason in a far off distant land, of another era-a time when jaguars were almost ruling the world, whereupon God stepped in and again, saved mankind from extinction. And when he rejected God, the true God, for idols of Jaguars of that time-as gods, in the haze of battle with these beasts, and upon his dying breath, he asked for mercy, to be left in stone that he'd guard over God's throne on earth. And so he has, but not without a price, that being boredom. But should he seek death, he'd go to Hell. Should he remain on earth, at a holy site, guarding it, and harm no one, he would go to paradise, between the great gulfs-which separates Hades and Paradise. But like all of us, he was lost in his own self pity, and at the last minute, stopped a suicide attempt (or I should say I stopped it).
I tossed the weapon back to him, and ran to my wife (for he could not kill himself for some reason), to see how she was. He was there again, outside, looking in our apartment window-looking in from at distance, as if he were in a tent in an open field-with black mist around him. I comforted her. And lay close to her. I suppose he was missing someone to talk to, the comfort of a loved one you could say-is it not true, happiness is shared, and he shared a moment with me, in how many centuries I do not know.
And so I left him be, and he me. I personally had no control of the other world I knew of, or him. I knew one way or another he wanted death by desire, but again as before some 10,000-years ago, he chose life, as we all would most likely d-I think. But I couldn't give it to him, nor take it from him. If anything he and I were simply a distraction for one another.
My wife awoke, asking what was wrong. I told her nothing of any importance, but I lied I suppose, it was of importance, for him, and such a memory as I write now, she will see, see that it was quite a night, more so than what I had her believe it was; in any case, during this time, I looked out the window, he was nowhere to be seen, he had vanished out of my life as fast as he had come in. My wife turned about a few times, asked in a drowsy way, if all was well again. I said I was feeling a little affectionate, not able to find any other words, or for the lack of a better term, along with a little insomnia.
Now if your asking: 'Why me,' another blank, but it is not the first nor I am sure, nor will it be the last blank to come my way in my little life time; yes, I know, another question to a dead answer. I guess he wanted a piece of both worlds? He wanted to test me under fire in my world (and God allowed it) also I do believe, to see if I was as strong as him, possibly to bring the case up to God, get His attention, but I think he got the message, that he was already under God's grace, not to play with it. If I meet him again, maybe I'll ask him a few more questions, but I'm in no hurry to do so.


Notes: written while in the Cathedral and on top of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and in the bell tower and the story written out thereafter in length, March, 2002; It was my forth trip to Paris, and my last trip, it was a rainy few days; reedited in 2007 and 2008.

Shooting Painted Horses (a short story by D.L. Siluk)

Shooting Painted Horses
(A Short Story on Betrayal—1820, along the Mississippi)




Chapter One
Along the Mississippi

The cliffs were all painted with horses, so they looked for Nelly de la Cruz; there was no trace of neither her, nor no sign of her husband, those who had been with them two were dead, shot dead, by smugglers.
By and by, she’d be found, but for now she had escaped the pirates who scanned the upper (northern part, to the central region) of the Mississippi waiting in hollows and crevasses, and caves, and then like sharks, by way of canoes, or rowboats, even barges, they’d, if not by land and horse (gallop to their prey), they’d quickly overpower the innocent, shanghaiing anyone and everyone, for rape, sale, blackmailing, or what’re profit they’d bring, it was treasure they were after; they called themselves the Drake Clan or Gang, after their leader Adam Terrance Drake and there were twenty of them (pirates of the Mississippi, operating in the years of 1810 to 1824).
But today was different, upon their approach two escaped their grips, seldom done, and the chances of getting off in secret, as they did were seldom accomplished, but the patches of the morning fog had allowed just this— the shores were difficult to see, becoming misty, as was the houseboat, a source of inconvenience for the pirates, thick patches of white fog, drifting from one side of the river to the other. But soon abandonment would prevail.
They, the family group with Nelly de la Cruz and her husband Mauricio, who came down on a houseboat all eight of them, were told by Sam Nelson, of the upper Minnesota:
“Don’t dare go anywhere beyond Pig’s Eye Point, along the shores you could be cut off by pirates, make sure you hire some guns, good shooters somewhere along the way, lest you want to be taken captive for ransom by the pirates.”
But hired guns cost money, and they didn’t listen of course to Sam, preferred to beat out the river, and kept their cargo aboard, and slowly went down her, “Sam, was right,” Nelly’s husband would say, just before they jumped into the river to escape; find a place just such as they would wish, and hide until the danger was over.
Seven canoes, with painted faces to cover their identity, white men portraying Indians (the pirates), in canoes had surrounded them, shooting, not taking prisoners, hence, all would die but the two.
They, the pirates had set a watch in the cliffs by what was called, the ‘Cliffs by Painted Horses’. The ancient Indians had painted the horses onto the cliffs hundreds of years before, and you could see them with the naked eye while approaching them going down the Mississippi, if indeed one knew the spot and were looking for it. There are dozens of places between the Cliffs of Painted Horses, and others, meaning rock art, on cliffs and rocks, along the Mississippi, but most were hidden from where folks on a boat could see them safely enough.

Chapter Two
The Cave by, Painted Horses

There was a narrow opening between two cliffs, near Painted Horses, and Mauricio crept between them, hiding from the pirates, coming in from off the shore with the booty they had taken from the houseboat, looking for him and his wife, especially his wife, for their personal pleasures, for they had gotten a glimpse of her beauty, and adoring shape, and that immediately sat down deep into their lustful brains, like flags waving in the wind (especially for, Keystone, a young lustful, and bloodthirsty pirate who kept her every inch embedded into his ceremonial mental vaults of what he’d do to her once captured), as I was about to say, they, the pirates had seen her, before she jumped into the river behind her husband, who had jumped off the boat, without even telling her to follow, she simple followed his footsteps nonetheless.
Behind the angle of the well he could see the entrance of the cave called “Painted Horses,” the pirates were shooting at his wife, who had entered the cave, and Keystone who had follower her.
By and large, as we can see at this point, he let her fend for herself, abandoned her. She had looked for him, had lowered her eyes, her brow, her head just a moment, as she ran from the pirates, and when she brought it up to the level where she saw the cave she would enter, he disappeared, she thinking he went inside the cave, where else could he have gone—she instantly pondered, he said not one word, not one single solitary word to distract her from going into that legendary cave, the cave known as the maze, the labyrinth of all caves along the Mississippi, that is why the Clan shot at Nelly, and let be bygones thereafter, and let Keystone chase her into a habitat where screaming wildfowl would not dare enter, eminently suited the pirates with less lustful intentions; for the most part, the smuggling had accomplished what they set out to, as for the husband they felt he had drowned.

Chapter Three
Inside the cave of Painted Horses

She had run inside the cave, the mist kept coming, in frequent belts, seeping along the floor of the cave to where Keystone the Pirate could not follow her, he took one forked entrance, Nelly another, as she called in echoes for her husband, whom never answered, and then came sunset, one she did not see, but felt it must be for she had run, then walked and then held her hand against the damp walls of the cave to assist her in her next to crawling erect.
Everything was near to indistinguishable inside the cave, her eyes somewhat adjusted, but she was beyond light, and one entrance let into another, and she could hear the echoes of the pirates voice, not her husband’s, and then she knew he had abandoned her, she wanted to believe, had second thoughts even, that out of the confusion, he did what he did, but she knew now, wherever he was, at one point they were both earshot—within a audible range of hearing one another and he did not call out to her, but here the lustful, young pirate, did what a substitute she felt. The trumpeting of his eager voice had dangerously went to a pleading for them to get-together to find a way out, she figured sooner or later they’d bump into one another, then what? Was the question: lest they die beforehand, and that would be settled.
The paths were endless, and the young man’s voice was always either behind her, in front of her or on the sides of her, but not far from her. Her instincts becoming keener, she knew they’d meet at some crosswalk.

Chapter Four
Mauricio’s Escape

Mauricio looked into the cave, the following morning, dark it was, the mist lifted, the pirates gone. He saw Nelly enter it, and he saw the pirate enter it as well, his long knife tucked into his belt, a woodened looking pistol in his hands, a bandana around his forehead, paint on his cheeks, chin and around his eyes. He was frightened of the image he had just formed, and said not a word into the mother cave; elaborate care he took in stepping back from the entrance, satisfied he would not go into it, he felt there was no sense in sticking around—she was not insight, he had done his duty as best he could, his attitude during the dominance of this previous crisis was found to be unconsciously more desirable in saving himself, not getting shot, than saving his wife, and himself, and perhaps getting shot in the process: in which, that would not do anyone any good, so he convinced himself, and thus, she would have to do the same, and so not an evil tough overhung his conscious for wrong doing, nor did he build a rude wall of shame for abandoning his wife—at lest not at this juncture, it was a parallel he felt, saying, “…she ran one way, I ran another…” but of course it wasn’t that way, was it?

He found himself climbing up the cliff then once over the edge of the cliff, cautiously throwing himself forward he peered over it once and for all, then ran into the woods, all in fair weather, he ran until his head got dizzy, an old woman found him on the ground, took him into her home, as though he was her child, or better, a stray cat, in a small town-let deep in the woods.
In time, he would hear after every sunset, wake up, if sleeping, startled by a voice behind him, it was always Nelly’s voice calling out: he never said a word on this matter, he lived with the old lady, for eight-years, and thought the matter would be over with his wife, never mentioning her name. But if ever there was a need to talk, he was the one, but never did. So after the old lady’s death, he tried to master his purpose, one he never found, and died two years later of alcoholism, at the age of thirty-nine: a bloated body, with a liver that was likened be being frostbitten.

Chapter Five
Nelly and Keystone

There was no end to the cave, its paths, its corners, its entrances, no light, it was now the third day, she heard footsteps, it was his, the pirate’s, from silence came a towering body over her’s, she was at wits end, laying down against the damp walls of the cave, coughing, dying slowly.
She had thought the matter over for her, death was eminent, and he would not find her, but he did fine her, tired and no longer hiding, just laying where she was, dirty, turned into a prisoner of the mother cave.
She felt his dark human hand on her leg, it was the least likely thing she expected, she said with a bellow—at this stage of the hunt anyway, “What is the matter with you, we are dying, we will be dead soon, and you are thinking of sex?”
He had a sack of rum that was attached to his side belt, oh, just enough to make a person more thirsty, it held perhaps a pint, no more, he had drank most of it, but gave her the last drops of it, saying, “This is my contribution,” then received her unwillingly, as if he was entitled to his booty, and she was it. There they lay for two more days, him taking her several times, right up to her death. Then he, died twenty feet down that cold damp passageway from her, and wouldn’t be found, until 1902, when a child would be playing above them, falling through a weak spot in the upper crust of the earth, a hole formed by perhaps animals, and thereafter, discovering their bodies.


Parts written 10-15-2008, and 10-17-2008, Huancayo, Peru: the theme was inspired by a similar event that took place in about 1990, a female friend of the author’s was betrayed and stranded in the middle of the Northern Minnesota Woods to fend for herself…