Four Poems: Two for the Devil, Two for Peru
Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the proper word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public's eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events--which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster events that are said to take place; and two poems dealing with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.
Aztec Baby
On December 25, 2012 AD
The Devil had an idea-
He'd clone himself
In the form of a baby;
Called the Antichrist.
#716 6/7/05
Scorpion Fetus
And from the fetus
Came beast from man
And from the Abyss
Came the raving demon
Man locked into
Animals-that could
Think, think like man-
With tails like scorpions
That would paralyze, sting;
All from, replicating?
Experimentations
Horrid, ramifications?.
And thus, they came
They came to feast,
These Scorpion beasts
And brought humanity
Down, down, to its knees!...
These cloned hybrids,
Raving demonic beasts
Half human half dead.
#716 6/7/05
Atahualpa's Game
Sometimes, it's not wise
To share your wisdom
---as did, Atahualpa
(The Inca King) in the
Game of chess; thereafter,
He was condemned to death.
6/6/05 #713
Ica, Witches
Do not go to Ica, dear friend
There you may find witches-
In toast and bread?
Perhaps lose your head,
Perhaps find them in bed
Perhaps, find yourself dead.
6/6/05 #714 [Ica, is in Northern Peru]
Poet/Author Dennis Siluk see http://www.amazon.com for his most recent books
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It Was Not Me
It was not me as I am now.It was not me as I was then.
Two Poems on the Traditions of Peru [in English and Spanish]
Atahualpa's Game[Peruvian]Sometimes, it's not wiseTo share your wisdom---as did, Atahualpa (The Inca King) in the Game of chess; thereafter,He was condemned to death.6/6/05 #713Note: Atahualpa, was the most famous of the Inca Kings, in the 16th century of Peru, I do relieve, and was held for ransom by the Spaniards.
Ceasar Vallejo: Black Roses [In English and Spanish]
Cesar Vallejo: Black RosesBow down your head ol' poet-To face God's grace aheadThere are no more trenchesTo dig today?In the forest of your head,So-:Bow down, bow down,Ol' barbaric poet!Death rides the horse aheadI hear the crackling of a whipSee the crazed eyes of death.He summons you to his den-The devil and his wind,So-:Bow down, bow downYour blood stained browsHe will take you to the edge.
Three Sweet Poems, and Two Not So Sweet [now in: SPANISH and English]
1) End PoemWherever you are today-Is where you were meant to be;It's where God, dotted the'i' and the 't'?!2) God's AngelsGod asked his angels:"Why do you look so sad?"Responded one angel:"Sir, we can't find the shade."3) An Empty SpaceOut of wisdom one will wait,travel far for love; the thirstwill not kill them.
Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More
What Hides behind the Minute?What hides behind the minute?It seems, no one really knows;How many times will we wakeup,To count the minutes gone?The rose was dead when I arrived;The sword, was rusty and dull;The window curtain was open,And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou?One, is not like the other-:Whirling in an earthly orbit,As the boundless world discovers.
Two Poems and a Short Story
1)dying in the bar[sluggishly]yet,I would crawl tooupto the bar,it was everything, the dampnessthe carved woodthe zoned-out-ness in my headdreaming; it was better than death?then I took another drink?so manyI never moved much, like dead fish.my head split like an assit was numb and, nothing else numbness was my homeacross the street, dancingon the patiothe moon was out.
Bleed
now is not the time to openopen that great door againnot the time to be more tolerantnot the time to play to winnow is not the time for justiceevolution mercy choicesnot the time to pet the puppiesyipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindnessnot the time for compromisenot the time for loving blindnessnot the time to close my eyesnow for one too many peoplenot that i have gained no goodheart has sown but flesh is reapingtears to mind and wasted bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equalsonly those whose chords can howldeadly whether lone or socialdefending young or on the prowltell me not that you would dieupon the spines of my displeasurelive for me and for you will icherish each cell as if a treasureput me not inside a cagebut roam with me through snow and sunbe by my side or breathe my dustfor i shall bleed again for noneNiki LasherArtist, Writer, and Webmatronhttp://www.kthulah.
Three Poems: Phantom of the Rocks; Lady from Lima & Bell Ringer of de Copan
Phantom of the Rocks[Huancayo, Peru]Night falls deepUpon the traveler!Low, over the AndesBy Huancayo-;They know a legend,Not of this earth,Where evil lurks(Over Palla-Huarcuan!..
Mechanical Poetry
Do you ever stare at the paper, waiting for poetic inspiration? Well, you can stop waiting and start using systematic techniques for creating poetry. If it seems too mechanical or artificial at first, don't worry.
The Ballad of: Brawling Mad-dog Sergeant Rook [Now in: SPANISH and English]
English VersionA bunch of us guys in the hutIn ?NamWere playing cards, singing songs;In a solo-room, back of the hutLay mad-dog, Sergeant Rook;And watching from a distanceWas his sidekick, Corporal Cook.When out of the night, he wantedTo fightThis bully of six-foot-twoDog-drunk, smelling like a skunkI wanted to fight him too.
Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Dog
Emlyn Williams Theatre, Mold, North Wales: 20th February 2003Clwyd Theatr Cymru commemorated the 50th anniversary of the death of the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) with a superb run of performances by a small but accomplished cast of actors.Described in the programme as "A theatrical journey through the prose writing of Dylan Thomas", the production was created by Tim Baker, an Associate of the Royal National Theatre, who won the Manchester Evening News Best Visiting Production award in 1992 for the highly acclaimed To Kill a Mockingbird.
Lord Byrons She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron's opening couplet to "She Walks In Beauty" is among the most memorable and most quoted lines in romantic poetry. The opening lines are effortless, graceful, and beautiful, a fitting match for his poem about a woman who possesses effortless grace and beauty.
Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim-Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frameAdjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lampsHanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frameHer footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto itAlone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around herA drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her faceHer figure etched against the wooden frame,She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a birdNow sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopesShe yielded before the sluggish advance of sunsetBlood dripped, with her dying darknessAnd a crimson moon hurled a flame acrossThe shadowy clouds, burning throughout the skyThe tormented sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye gripped itRocky images, highest pointsThrusting herself up boldly from to the ledgeThe painted morning blushed over the rimHer brows and nose, face against the granite stoneMassive injuries was taking form,Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sunIt was too great a task-to die alone?she wished nowShe had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go.Too much for any woman in a lost worldOut of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alasMute and protesting against life's uselessnessA narrow path lay below her slender bodyBetween death and attainment, a careless footThe rocks beneath her weakening, she plungedPlunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valleyThinking of it, as she fell, thinking with a smiled,Saying, looking up-dead before her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!'When they found her, her face was unafraid of falling.
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and vision bleary, all night sat there writing COBOL, coding spread across the bed sheets, changing syntax for the mainframe,having checked my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand,I then invoked the SAVE command,but there below my effectuation,appeared the cryptic communication,"Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nothing more.
Three Poems (While in Transition/English and Spanish)
Here are three more poems by the author, Dennis Siluk, while traveling througout Central and South America.Three Poems While in Transition (In Spanish and English)Poem OneEnglish VersionOrange Timid MoonO´er the Copan skyan arch of shadows weave their webswith low-lights, as the moon rises.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek[Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake SuperiorRising out of the woods like:A swamp mistI'm waiting for breakfast(at the B&B)I pace the groundsThe scent of green shrubbery:Trees, flora, flowers-rain Intoxicates me-Branches like big brown armsDescend?The embankment, to the rightBlue eyed, like mine-reflect From the creek beneath me(my wife says 'be careful'she went to get the camera)The greens and blues touchMy face and blue jeans-Reflections mirrored like Musical notes of a symphony(I'll see them later in pictures)For now, it's daybreakIn Minnesota.#813 8/26/2005Note: the author, Dennis Siluk, took his wife Rosa [me: on my birthday] to Lake Superior, this summer, and I adored the biggest lake in the world.
Arizona Blue--Gunfighter: The Wolves Nest [Chapter One of Seven: The North]
[Episode Five]Arizona Blue-GunfighterThe Wolves Nest-in the North[Episode Five]Northern Minnesota Area-Winter of 1877Chapter One of Seven: The NorthThe area was known as Pigs Eye [St. Paul, Minnesota]; Northfield was a little more notorious since Jessie James robbed the 1st National Bank, in September of last year, and more to the West.
Two Poems, with Figurative Language
Says Mr. Dennis Siluk, when asked to review his poetry somewhat, for he hesitates all the time when I ask him to so; I can tell you.
Ocean Heal Me
Ocean Heal MeOcean heal my woundsLet your waves curl and foam on my bodyWash away blood, heal scarsOcean renew me with your powerAs unceasingly you rollGiving strength that's been drainedOcean keep me warmWrap me in your brineCaress me with your tidesOcean disperse my tearsAs they flow in youI cleanse my soulOcean let me grow in your depthsColor me vibrant blue, coral, greenClear = revitalizedOcean your spray anoints meCool and refreshedMy spiritual renewalOcean be my friendHold me flowing in your currentsEver moving, ever changingOcean, heal me.© 1983 Susan BaconSusan Bacon is a researcher, author and teacher.
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley(English version)In what retreat art hid?-Where falling mountains groanIn shadow and amongThe rapids of the Rio?Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, divinely low.I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
