Letter to the Haitians

Letter to the Haitians
(In Poetic Prose, for the Haitians)

And I heard what the angel said, when he left heaven:

“I am the punisher God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”

And I heard in heaven, a voice says: “Can the blind lead the blind?” and I think he meant that the Haitians have not sought out Godly leaders. “And shall they not all fall into the ditch?” and I think he meant, Haiti has been in that very ditch a very long time “…The disciple is not above his master…cast out first the grin (the smile, the defiance, the arrogance towards the Lord) from the eye and then you see clearly, and then you will see clearly the dirt, that bothers it. Can a bad tree grow good fruit? And a corrupt people expect Godly things?” And I think he meant: are you listening Haiti? For are you not known the world over for your sins, your corruption, and your Voodoo gods? Did not God turn his face from New York City, on September 11, 2001 for America’s disloyalty to God? “I have sent you good men to bring you good treasures, out of the abundance of my heart, but you continue to do evil, blasphemy.” I think he meant, he has sent Christians to preach the Gospel, and food organizations to feed you, and others, yet even they will in time get weary, for there is many things in his warehouse He can send Haiti like He told Job; if indeed, Haiti is stubborn, and needs more pain: perhaps an earthquake, and a great storm and cholera, are just among a few plagues He has in his storeroom, who’s to say, I do know, those he loves the most, he punishes the most to get them back in line “And why call on me to save you when you go to your false gods. Those gods can show you nothing; you are like people who build their homes in quicksand, what do you expect? From evil you want to be well to do more evil, and when your house falls to ruin you wonder why. Go your way and tell your family these things you’ve heard, and you will see the people cleansed, the poor raised. Tell the deaf to listen, the blind to see,” I think he is implying, He has not found so great a faith among the many as he’d like, for they have offended their Creator; and he will leave you as you are, shaken with the wind in the wilderness, and naked…

Dlsiluk (11-13-2010)

Fargo-Moorhead (Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

Fargo-Moorhead

(Author: Dennis L. Siluk publishes new book)

Author Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., who used to visit the Fargo-Moorhead area quite often in the 1980s, remembers when he published his first book, and the Fargo-Moored Sunday Forum, did a little announcement on the book, 1982:

From his Biography: "The Other Doork" by, Dennis Siluk, his first book:

“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”—The Sunday ForumFargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]

The author now has published his 45th book, "Stone Heap of the Wildcat" at bn. com; Amazon.com; abe.com and most all internet book dealers.

By Rosa Penaloza

The Bulls of Bashan ((reedited, revised edition; 11-2010)

The Bulls of Bashan


(A prophetic Poem)

“I am the punishment God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”





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




The Bulls of Bashan
(A prophetic Poem)
Copyright © 2010, by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.



I


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”



Tartarus,
home to the
Angelic Renegades,
the dark abode
of torment,
torture and agony!

Given to those who
left their first abode,
who shed their house
from heaven—,
That heaven gave,
for flesh and skin,
to cohabitate
with earthly women,
who gave birth to those Giants of Old,
called the Nephilm
and Rephaim—
in those far-off days,
in the time of Noah,
whose sons
worshiped
at the Circle of Rephaim:
Stone Heap
of the Wildcat!

The very ones
to be released
from Tartarus,
cast into the end-days

((that everlasting place
of woe and darkness;
now restraint in chains
only to return
to get revenge—
the angelic renegades)
(here they wait,
in that pit of darkness
with their sons of old—
the Bulls of Bashan,
and the demonic foe))



II


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”


These giants
of old
were bold:

Greek Titans,
partly celestial,
partly
terrestrial;
these were the Nephilim,
the Star People—
the ghosts,
the spirits,
the dead ones,
the Bulls of Bashan…
and
the Lord cried:
“The Bulls of Bashan…
have weighed down
my earth…”

(says He
who speaks
in Psalms).



III



“And then I saw the Legs
of mud” said Daniel.

And they were of miry clay—
made of dust,

And there the world was,
without boundaries
Global terrorism—
nuclear proliferation,
a cosmic threat,
a new world order
a new horizon.

Don’t be surprised,
the Nephilim are alive.

They, they are
the men of miry clay
(the dead
that once
were of heaven’s abode,
the old,
the cold ones,
returning
mixing with iron…
to no resolve).



IV



Like in the days
of Noah!
(From the roots
of Gaza, and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
were left to fight…)
and now,
comes again,
this beast!
And the Trinity
cries in Psalms,

“The kings of the earth
are against us…
how silly can they be!”

O somehow
they
aim to throw
off the shackles
of God—
an unpalatable
disappointment—

“It is because the Rephaim
will not be resurrected,”

says Isaiah
in those far-off days—

“…and so it shall be
soon, as it was
in the days of Noah!”

(From the roots
of Gaza,
and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
will come to fight.)

“So shall the end-days be…”

reiterates Jesus.

What on earth
did He mean?

The return
of the
Angelic Renegades:
look
into the window
for their illumination,
the enormous window
of everyday life
(look for Zeus—the
False Gods are coming),
the hologram:
that was,
and will be,
the three
dimensional map
for us earthly beings,
the “B’nai Elohim’
this hard cold breed
of angelic beings,
the Nephilim—
are on the rim
of earth
ready to integrate—
the world at large.

And the Lord cries out:

“Your gods are here…!”

They illuminate:

And the Lord cries out:

“Man appointed mortal sorrow;
but the blessed God shall come
down, teaching and shall the
despair rest and be comforted.”

So do not fear,
but pray,
and pray hard.

And to all those
who profit
by death,
stare into forever
for God has sent
this:


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”




V


And
there shall be
no order
out of chaos.
And God does not need
America
to protect Israel,
(or anyone.)


Cascading
all the shadows cascading,
the New World Order
becomes restless,
and that means
no more Jesus,
and that means,
now more America,
and Moscow,
and Iran,
and Jerusalem,
and the yoke
the White House shredded,
powerless,
the White House
become thin:
in an angry world,
the President,
an instrument
of God—
to be used for man’s
wickedness,
to initiate his plight.

Says Nostradamus:

“(Your American President)
he is in prophecy—you see,
the Last King of the South
to be: the Great Power,
who came from the dark
side of slavery.”

As people
were drawn to Hitler,
so they will be
drawn to Him,

“…but be aware of the power
given the Dark One:”

says Nostradamus—
the Antichrist
is near…!

He is
possessed
by those hierarchical
spirits

which can descend
into
any ordinary mortal—

a common
fleshy
unsanctified man.

Says Timothy:

“In the last days these will be
very different times:
for people will love
only themselves…
money.
They will be boastful
and proud, scoffing at God…
ungrateful. They will
consider nothing
sacred…
unloving and unforgiving…
they will betray their own
friends…puffed with pride…
stay away from people
like them! They are
the kind…they have depraved
minds and a counterfeit
faith…”

Thus,
the leopard
comes up out
of the sea
((Obama) (USA))

last king
of the south.

He will provoke Russia,
WWIII;

look in the
Book of Revelation,
Chapter Thirteen.

“And
I stood upon the sand
of the sea,

and I saw
a beast
rise up out
of the waters…

the name was
blasphemy”

(the rise of the
Antichrist)

And all
I could remember,
and I smiled
remembering:

“Thou shalt break them
with a rod of iron;
thou shalt dash them
in pieces like a potter’s
vessel.” (Says the Lord)




Notes: references: Jude 6; 2 Cor. 5:2; Josephus Flavius; 2 Peter 2. 4, 5, Testaments of the 12 Patriarchs; Traditional Rabbinical Literature; Psalms 22; Revelation 11; Psalms 2:1-3 (The Trinity); Reference to angelic beings “B’nai Elohim”; the Septuagint (written by 70-scholers, in Alexander, Egypt, 15-years to write, Old Testament into Greek Language (see: Genesis 6:1-2 Bene HaElohim “Sons of God” referring to angels, the fallen ones the Nephilim, born of the earth, and the hybrids, their offspring); 1 John 11 and 12; Job 1:6; Luke 20; Obama reference to Revelation 12:1; Tartarus, in Greek means hell, a dark abode of woe. Poem No: 2772 (Written 8-8-2010) Revised in style, 11-2010.

The Penguin Poem

The Penguin Poem


I said to the person inside of me:
What is this connection you want to make?
There are no equals in the entire world, on any road I’ve yet travelled, and I’ve travelled many.
Do you see anyone moving, acting, likened to the father or
mother penguins, as on Magdalena Island (Chile), or Antarctica?
There are no written rules, or code of conduct, or ten-commandments, no oath to take, and no one to impress, no policeman at their door (and they live during child bearing, in the cold hard dirt holes of Patagonia; or in the cold winds hitting their backs, and no holes for shelter, only ice barcodes they might find, in the Antarctic). There is no warm skies, or ground, just cold waters nearby, all around (some far, some near), no time to bake bricks or trees to cut down for wooden homes, no money in the bank, no cars, just little feet, and little flippers, to get from here to there.

And there is nobody to help them, and no human mind to devise something that will make their lives
less burdensome.
In that great absence you will find them, doing what they’ve been doing a long time, ten-thousand years or more: the males and the females gather around a big meeting area, in the Antarctic cold and ferocious winds, look about for females as they look about for them, as they come and select their boa, hatch an egg, and then the husband, takes care of the egg, as the mother finds her way to find for them food! Then returns, and takes her newly born child, and after awhile, they go off, back to the—now—thawing sea, the opened ocean, leave them standing there to be on there own—which in time they’ll leap into the ice cold waters, and thus, start the 10,000-year cycle all over again. Thereafter, in all likelihood, they may never see one another again, but I’m sure if they do, they’ll be most grateful, and more than friends.

“Be strong,” they silently say to their offspring, “and enter into your own life, and leave something behind!” (Knowing they’ll do all they can, and in this new world of theirs they’ve got to be on their own, and strong.)
Think about this carefully!
Don’t go off and say big deal!

The Penguins say this: just throw away all the gifts in one’s life, all the
things your mind can imagine,
and stand firm in that which you were created for.

No: 2811 (11-6-2010)

The Rock Cormorants (of Patagonia)

The Rock Cormorants (of Patagonia)


There are no insults, moans or protests
Among the Rock Cormorants of Patagonia—
Only we humans want heaven on earth,
There is no end to our complaining:
we want it all, now!
But the Rock Cormorants, stand nearly erect
On narrow high cliffs, eating and sleeping
and making their nests…
And remain content!


Note: White visiting the area between the Pluschow Glacier and the Piloto and Nena Glaciers, there are many cliffs (for the most part quite rocky, glacier-eroded landscapes), and one can see these Rock and Imperial Cormorants, birds perched on the edges of these narrow cliffs. Their eggs are flat (Patagonia, Chile) No: 2857 (10-24-2010). This poem was carved somewhat in the Ramage style created by Robert Bly, inflaming the sounds of: in , air (er), ar.

The Black Baced God

The Black Faced God
(Poetic Prose)


Poets have called him, “the Black Faced God”, yet daily we receive his pleasures, his blessings, in his creation called earth. Our forefathers have chosen goats, and rams, sea creatures, and astronomical descriptions, all kinds of images, to replace him. In remote and far-off places, some choose devils, some in America stroll about the woods with black robs and hoods, dance with demons with flutes, because God will not show his face—but I heard him in the winds of the Drake (where I went to seek his face—once again), in the echoes of the deep, his footprints I saw in the waves, that reached thirty-feet: in this way he comes mysteriously to meet you, in his own way, there are no limits you see—you must keep faith; how is it I know?

The love of God knows of sorrow—of seeking him; like gulls flying over a ship, across the enormous sea, only when they seek safety, and abandon it, only when they shed their old scandalous lives to live among the language of God, will they see his face.

The winds of Cape Horn hear and whisk the heartbeats the tempo of man’s mindful whispers, like winds turning into a hurricane—off they are taken, from this forsaken mountain, whispers longing to connect with God, sends those whispers to the Lord of Hosts, then to the palm of the Father’s hand, now the bones of God are eager and content, you need only look deep into the face of Jesus, and you will see The Black Face of God.


No: 2856 (10-24-2010)

Morning on the Aguirre (sea)

Morning on the Aguirre (sea)
(The Haikus style poem, with Ramage Style Inners)



Wilder, colder waves crashing
with mad, angry winds
on the Aguirre…!

Dangerous dark-headed skis
have passed
now the Aguirre is passive!

Now that there is calm—
everyone’s in the lounge
having coffee, pastry

White tipped mountains
raise above our ship
aboard the Via Australis…

The Captain came by greeted me
diverging to the bridge
a feel…

of the ocean—
to tighten the ankles of the ship
where few dare sail…



Note 1: This is kind of a new style poem (a Haiku, style form, with Rob Bly’s Ramage style inners, meaning using the: er, in air, ar, to provoke the poem to a higher edge):

Note 2: The Aguirre Sea (or Mad Sea) is a term used by sailors, for the most part, that is between Cape Horn, and the Murray Narrow, there is a stretch of sea (waterway) and early in the morning of the 18 of October, 2010 (7:00 a.m.), the ship was rocking pretty bad, the sea was angry, mad, and the following day, we had left Cape Horn, and the Drake Passage on our way to Wulaia, thus, in-between we were, on the Aguirre… (Considered part of the sea, or passage, in Patagonia) No: 2855 (written in part on the 18th of October, and 23 of October, 2010)

Daddy's Mud (Poetic Prose)

Daddy’s Mud
((or, To Lose a Father) (Poetic Prose))


When you were a boy, you were good all the time. No wonder you grew up with such hate in you for me. Who could forgive a father who had faults—you tried, really tried to love me as an adult, but it was ((was it not)(live or die?)) when I died inside of you, you rose—as if no one was looking: maybe that bad boy was only hiding. Maybe now you could fly? You were all alone—running your way out of the rain. And I think you were afraid for a minute here and there—but so was I, I suppose, but being an adult, it doesn’t count. You were smart to pretend to go to sleep even though your mother got so depressed (locked yourself in the bathroom; ran out of the house), lest you hid inside a cave. I sat in a bar, as if I went drowning in a big river, as if I was never going to come up, and I believe that grew old for you. Neither you nor I could wash all that river mud off. Daddy’s mud …. I didn’t want for you to get a little mud on your cloths, I never figured you’d not blow out the match—and it burnt your heart for me.

You were special when you were both born—nineteen minutes apart—you both were like one (with separate hearts and souls: precious as pearls and gold). My head went upside down, or the ceiling did, when we lived, side by side. I suppose now—now when I look back, we were all upside down. I can see your little feet and faces, heads balled like eggs. That’s when I was young, and you were grownup, now you are like me, or like I was, and right now that’s how it is. Who do we think we are anyhow? We never say we just keep pounding nails into our hearts and souls, digging trenches, as if for a battle, —thinking it’s the easy way (take the pain and you don’t have to explain; but life is short, and the grave is not far away for all of us). We say: until then, until this, no, after that, and so on—you just don’t know—you want to love, but have too much hate to love—it’s not easy is it? The important thing for me is (and I imagine for you): stop looking at the ceiling, life isn’t there—; you were so long the children that sang when you were not quite sure—now you don’t anymore.

For Cody and Shawn
No: 5852 (10-22-2010)

Sting-poetry

Sting-Poetry

I have been working on my poetry in many directions. Much of my poetry cries out to me in nature, culture, and in living life as it is today, if not macabre in some. In the story form of: theme, plot and insight, and capitalizing with adjectives, and sometimes with what I call sting-particles, new and abrupt sounds to effect the reader, to draw his/or her attention. It is perhaps like a high pitched, or base instrument hitting the nerves, and can be an echo; for example—personifying the union of a consonant and vowel often times, as in the poem “A Crushed Follower.” We see in the Haiku form, here seventeen syllables to the first three lines, some pert near mute sounds, but a few with connecting sting-particles, that echo, and ring, and sting the nerves, effect the reader, sounds that will bring him or her back to the poem. I use many “e” s to get the echo effect, and connect them, i.e.: die, like, flower, crushed, head, toe, sweet, smell. And then the second two lines: like, perfume, broken and reeds. But we can use spicy and crushed and broken as sting-words, as well as die and sweet also. What words hit you the most? “…die like a crushed flower” (for me it is: die and crushed). Here in this new book I will try my best to push this concept along. And here below is the full poem “A Crushed Follower”


A Crushed Flower

I want to die like a flower—
crushed from head to toe…
How sweet I’ll smell,

like spicy perfume
amongst the broken reeds!

No: 2829 (1-11-2010)

A Crushed Flower (a poem)

A Crushed Flower

I want to die like a flower—
crushed from head to toe…
How sweet I’ll smell,

like spicy perfume
amongst the broken reeds!

No: 2829 (1-11-2010)

Analogous of the Sparrow

Analogous of the Sparrow


A sparrow transmits a set of sounds (tones)
with technique
A form of communication: to warn of impending danger,
A lighter tone—to denote help is needed,
or retreat
And still another, to signal happiness, in singing,
The frequency seems to be the key,
The effectuating part of the communicating
Cleaver they are, who is to say,
We are smarter than they?

In a like manner, this so called sparrow behaviour
Is Very human—called: cooperation, planning
Cruelty and avoidance learning
(Especially from the Giant race called Humans!)

I can point my finger at a certain race of sparrow,
A dominate race, whom fly around and eat and bath
in my garden
And will fly out, once the finger is raised, knowing
they have disobeyed the charter
While the other several smaller races of sparrows
remain
And go about their business as if nothing took place.
Thus, we need no ability for verbal language
Just an understanding between species:
It’s as simple as that.

Perhaps we are just sparrows to some visiting
aliens!
Who’s to say, but I bet, we’ll find out some day.


No: 2826 (10-10-2010)

The Essence of Earth (Poetic Prose)

The Essence of Earth
(Poetic Prose)



Inside of me, inside of each chromosome, I have the essence of Mother Earth All of her, from day one—four billion years ago, as Mother Earth has the essence of her solar system that surrounds her, which in essence involves our Galaxy and the Universe—and all those connecting Universes, all born somewhere in-between, the Big Bang and those passing fifteen billion years, and now. In each chromosome, in each cell I have 200,000-books of information, we all do. It connects in every direction to Mother Earth. My kind is called, by the name Homo sapiens, a species. Between my brain—cerebral hemispheres, two hundred million neural fibres are processing this poem—at this very minute, for you to read, and from what I’ve heard, scientists have created some neuroelectrical storm, that says all genetic material inside humans and his world, are molecules from a vulture who plucked us off some piece of corn only to wake up in the Garden of Eden; so goes our family histories.

No: 2824 (10-9-2010)

My Asia (Poetic Prose, by Dlsiluk)

My Asia

Asia is a land of Gods, legends and lore, of mystery, where pre-history and culture are brothers and sisters, found through, customs and traditions, as well as—a land with beautiful dark-eyed maiden’s, shy and bold, with pearled laughter, and rings of gold; a land where anthropologists, and archeologists—still hear new voices from below; where souls are gnawed by rust, and upon its birth, Apollo’s cry was yet to be heard. Where music of the heart was invented and bustling cities still stir the roots of mankind—and once visited, is never forgotten. Asia is the ancient with the new; and now the modernization of the crest and crowning of the world. Today, Asia has come to clear the way for tomorrow, with branches for a new path, a heroic time to build the world again. This is Asia, an event.

No: 2821 (October 6, 2010)

Midterm Elections: Time for Halting Obama-ism

Midterm Elections: Time for Halting Obama-ism
(October 1, 2010)


Thank God we are at this juncture, now we Americans can stop this lunatic from bringing this country to its knees, if we don’t, we deserve what he gives us (Obama-ism), and that will be less than a master throwing his dog a bone.
There has not been a worse president for this country in sixty-years. He keeps blaming Bush for the Iraqi war, after two years that gets a little stale. Actually, the first day he was president he could have stopped the Iraqi war, but he didn’t, matter of fact, we got 50,000-troops over there, that doesn’t sound like stopping anything. Thus, we still have two wars going on, his wars now, not Bush’s (as his pet puppy, Hillary has claimed has been won and is over). He had his chance to do what he’d say he was going to do. He’s done nothing for the elder, nothing at all—given more money to the rich, than Bush ever dreamed of, or forgiven them of their responsibility (either way it’s a giveaway)—free. This is the time to say enough is enough, and create a stalemate in congress so he cannot deliver the White House to the Islamic Jihad; like he has in New York City, or is trying to. He’s created the biggest unemployment state this country has ever been in since 1929, and world-wide, devalued the dollar, by allowing the dollar to crash, internationally.
Here is a man who had a plan and didn’t follow it. A man who had a hundred billion dollars printed up on paper, that the ink is worth more than the dollar, and gave half of it to construction workers, for short term jobs, the other half to townships to fill potholes up in their parks and road signs thanking congress for the free gift—laughing all the way to the bank to cash the check. No wonder our money is becoming worthless. Here is a man who hires people because he likes them, rather then they qualify, and glorifies them when they leave for helping him bring this country to its knees. A man who spends more time gulfing, and taking Honorary Degrees and Peace Prizes, and has not made the world one inch safer. Here is a man who professes to be a Christian and proclaims everyman should have a right to marry his buddy, his comrade, his neighbor’s son; A man who is for abortion, to kill another 1.3 million children next year in this country: with the blessings of the tax payers money. Here is a man who is taking ever freedom America has away from him, burning bibles in Afganisgtan, and allowing the Mexican invasion to stop on the American flag, and more concerned for the Islamic Quran (he is the least pro American President this nations has ever had; who has never spent on hour in any military service to defend for his country and rules the biggest military force in the world—unbelievable). He is working on now the First and Second Amendments slowly he will disarm the American Public with the right to have arms, he has already disarmed the American public about speaking out, like Terry Jones, put fear into anyone who does, orders the FBI and CIA into a person’s house (or church) because he doesn’t like them speaking up against Islam. You see, it doesn’t matter if Mr. Jones was right or wrong, he had the right in America to do what he said he was going to do—and not under pressure from the Government, and we stopped him because Islam said so. So now they know how to shut the American’s mouth, through Obama; and I’m sure soon there will be laws about speaking up against Islam. And yet, nobody has opposed this president, are we all in spell out there.
Like it or not, America is no longer the so called land of the Free, those days are almost over, if not over now, he’s making sure of that. And he’s not any friend of the Jew, could he, would he, put up the Hamas flag tomorrow over the Wailing Wall; give Jerusalem back to the Arabs. We need to vote him out of power, for the sake of America. Or shut our mouths. (I don’t know how he did it, be he even has the media, the press fooled; and movie stars bowing to him, by gosh, if he isn’t something inhuman.

Science and thier Heap (Poetic Prose)

Science and their Heap



The arrogance of science would have us separated from God, from his love for the empty dark, cold space out there.

With their reasoning and logic and black holes, and all, theory and concept, on top of theory and concept, words galore, until there is such a heap, King Kong, wouldn’t be able to carry it to the library—they search on and on for what is so obvious.

They try to persuade you—no, manipulate you; they send a boat, with an oarsman to your pier—how lucky I am to have connected with God, in faith, in vision and in person in the past—by this joy, science leaves in an empty skiff, when it leaves my dock, unable to submerge me into their overwhelming doctrine (which is per near all gobbledygook anyhow).

Dedicated to Carl Sagan, and Mr. Hawking
No: 2808/9-27-2010

The Owl Poems (or, Four Poems for the Owls)

The Owl Poems
(or, Four Poems for the Owls)


1

Leaf in the Water

I am a leaf in the water
I think I’ll float on down to the Ocean
I laugh when I hear the fish under me complain
I’ll tell you the truth,
I'd rather be eaten up as a fish
(trying to escape, as someone’s prey)
Than scattered here and there.
As a leaf—as I am,
Having done nothing but lay around
On a tree, then on the ground all day—
And now on top of the water,
Mostly hidden—:
For me, the world will never be real.

No: 2806 (9-25-2010)


2

Tomorrow, this!

How do I awaken the elite sleepers?
There are no metaphors for that
No poetry, per se (they do as they please
in a world they’ve created)
I need loose electric wires
tied to their toes, that’ll
Make them move!
“The world is falling apart,”
I tell them, “and they have to save it!”
Or…“Prepare us to live in the one
essential to survive in,
that they are destroying for us
while here on this earth.”
But all they do is pick blossoms:
“Tomorrow,” they say “we’ll have
a meeting, form a committee!

No: 2805 (9-25-2010)



3

The Eaters

The fish in the sea are thirsty
The pigs in the pen are hungry
The foul in the leaves is looking
for a worm;
Grasp the fact, everyone is
looking to eat—
All going from one place
to another
Some walking, some flying
some swimming—
This is the real world (Mr. Hawking)


No: 2804 (9-25-2010)


4

Stages of our Lives

We are all in different stages of our lives
Some in summer: running to and fro like
wild geese and puppy dogs;
Some in spring: looking at him and her,
and marvelous things;
Some in fall: trying hard to make ends
meet;
Some in winter: like me, writing poems
and traveling, celebrating life
taking what is left in, as if it just began.


No: 2503 (9-25-2010)

Dreamy Waters (a sucide poem)

Dreamy Waters
(or: Suicide)

We desire peace when we feel dead or bad.
In a happy hour, we never think of suicide.
In a bad one, it’s sleep or death.
Like a fire, the only peace it gives
are ashes…!
Death-day, is a short day, one that
You’ll never wake up to say:
“Boy, those were dreamy waters!”

No: 2801 (9-24-2010)

My Baby (or: Mother of the Sky)

My Baby
(or: Mother of the Sky)


Baby there are those roads, believe it or not that feel
around in the darkness…that no matter where you are,
nor how old you’ll become, should something happen…

to you, my heart would be shredded, abandoned, collapse,
numb, it would burst—; you are the fulfillment of the soul,
crafted inside of me, by the hands of Jehovah—

I slept restlessly, in the sloping dark, before and after,
I gave you life—; confessions, I have none, but I know
when I saw you, I had swallowed the earth, the deep

hungers inside of me, collapsed, everything I need now
is buried, under the sun. How much I love to fly alone
in the rain, knowing you are part of the universe ,

part of me. So much ecstasy…Alone on the unused seas!
I am a mother that can feel her child through all time
and distance…I am the seagull that follows the ship,

in uttering small cries, to let you know, my long prayers
will follow you…my Baby! “Gail, you’ve become a mother
of the night sky—full of life, it all has come to this.”


No: 2800/1-23-2010


Dedicated to: Gail Weber (I hope I have captured, through Gail, the essence of the indefinable love the mother has for her child, that untouchable near magical moment that stare or glance, consciously or unconsciously into the wonderment of giving life to another and watching it mature, that only a mother has and can give, for her baby) by Dlsiluk (2.5)

Note: The Ghazal Form, developed in Persia around the 10th Century, (Arabic Verse), was brought to India in the 12the Century. Often used for music, movies, etc. In my case, I do not adhere to the strict pattern of the traditional form, which is in part five to fifteen couplets (perhaps seven will do, in my case six), repeated word or phrases have stipulations, and each couplet is about the same length and meter; each couplet is its own poem. The end couplet usually has a signature line. In all cases, I really abuse it for content and effect, but I like the style; an apology is given to those I may have offended with my loose usage of the style.

A Dying Rose after the Rain (a poem)

A Dying Rose
after the Rain


The wind blows low, its sand
Lonely it seems, my youth now
Houses gone, the grass grows wild
In empty lots—
I walked the back dirt path
(a while ago, the very one I walked
as a child),
I’m remembering the autumns
And winters, the seasons changing!
It all looked so desolate,
“There’s no neighborhood left,”
I said to myself aloud.
Just high heaps of this and that
Grass and trees and asphalt
street…!
Who brought this to pass?
Who tore down the everything
that was, and for what?
For an empty street, and
parking lot (of no cars).
Who has brought the army of
engineers down here
With tractors and trailers and
giant plows!
That’s what I pondered then
and now: contemporary
Barbarians…I suppose.
It’s like sorrowful rain, burning
returning!
Now in memory I walk that same
old lane, the only thing that
Hasn’t changed, though old I
Am, and young I was back then,
And soon to be forgotten
As if feed to the lions and tigers
Of the new generation:
I fell like a dying rose, after
the rain!...

No: 2797 (9-19-2010)

The Bird Poems (by: D.L. Siluk)

The Bird Poems
(These poems will be in the book: “The Sailor’s Graveyard”)

Little Bird Voices

The little voices of little birds,
that pass the day away
With light steps within my garden,
From branch to branch they leap and sway,
Appear to be cheerful, happy and unraveled
(most of the time) filled with spunk,
And with living life, to its fullest;
I hear them in the light warm sun
(laying about as if on vacation)
Murmuring, chips, and chirps, and buzzes
Croaking’s and songs
I think they’re talking, singing
Begging and a little frightful now and then
as each day goes on—
(kind of like: children)…

A new sparrow, with no back wing
was frozen in fear between
The steps and the
Garden, today; when I was tending
to it, and I just kind of drifted away—
From here to there, allowing it time
To think and escape to a branch near
The nearby Peach Tree! And quick it did.

As the other birds gave peeps, and Israel
The dove, bill snaps, and his mother
And father, bird mating and naps, as
Others did some drumming with their wings
I call it, wing beating, or clapping…

Birds are busy and messy, little creatures
all day long
And they like everything clean,
As I work, and they sing their songs.
But I love to hear their rustles in
the leaves,
Their chips, and chirpings,
and that deep croaking sound,
all those beautiful little bird
Voices, all day long…

No: 2796 (1-19-2010

The Birds in the Garden


The Turtledoves in my garden are one—
The white breasted, black headed,
Yellow bellied, brown bodied,
Sparrows, fight a-lot, but all are one
(Under God’s sun, in my garden)
The long legged, Red-headed Mohawks
(as my wife refers to them)
Are one among the many too
They all remind me of Islam,
Christendom, and Judaism,
If only they could be tolerant of each other:
In Mind, body and soul, what a goal:
But that will never happen, in Satan’s
World!

No: 2786 (9-11-2010)


Carefree Sparrows

Big breasted, toe touching,
round bellied, no neck sparrows,
live in my garden
They eat from sunup to sundown
They fly and play-fight, like
little helicopters in mid-flight
(with one another)
I wish I was one of them, sometimes:
without a care in the world.


No: 2787 (9-11-2010)
Dedicated to Rosa, for the love of her Pajarritos

The Rustic-brown
Sparrow’s Smile

Believe it or not,
There’s a rustic-brown finch
More like a sparrow
In my garden (not sure what to officially call him, or her
Other than a Rustic-brown little bird),
That smiles at me, when I take its picture.
It looks a little like a smirk—;
But after close examination,
Of the: curvature of his cheeks, and beak,
And squinting eyes—it surely could be,
A smile: I think it’s really the best he can do:
Being so small of a bird,
And perhaps a sparrow…!

No: 2789 (9-14-2010)



The Morning Sierra Finch’s Stare
(Or the Black Sparrow)




I don’t know which one it is:
The finch or the sparrow, but a sparrow is a finch
So it doesn’t really matter:
Whatever the case, oh it’s very true,
He can out stare me or you—given a chance;
He lives in my garden, like a prince.
He’s got deep pitted, dark entrenched eyes
Likened to empty barrows of rum
Staring at me like a chum …!

No: 2790 (9-14-2010)





Israel, the Croaking Ground Dove





I know this bird by name, he’s called
Israel, he was born while my wife and I were
In Jerusalem: a Croaking ground dove
By pedigree, and quite handsome, if you ask me;
On the other hand, I’m glad he’s not human,
My wife might divorce me.
Anyhow, he mopes about all day,
Kissing his mat, in play
As long as the day is long!
And he even has this croaking sound
I guess he’s singing his songs, while:
Draying his wings in the sun;
The only thing that gets to me
Is that he looks like a spy
With those dreamy slick eyes!

No: 2791 (9-14-2010)




The Birds of the Garden:

Special Note: For those interested, concerning the names of the birds in our garden, they are as follows: Croaking ground dove (Turtledove) Saffron-crested Tyrant-Manakin, Plumbeous Pigeon, House Wren, The Ash-breasted Sierra-Finch, Hummingbird, Morning Sierra-Finch, Rufous-collared Sparrow (the Mohawk), and the White-throated Sierra Finch.

The Bird Section and its poems are dedicated to my wife Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk