Till Thou Cometh Again

Short Friendship Poem

Till Thou Cometh again

But it is for you, I will sing of the fool.

I will sing of the black birds

In the deep pits of hell,

The stars that are lit, that never tells.

I will sing of the moon.

…eh? …they mostly have burnt eyes.

Pests! I will sing their songs too?

As their charcoal fingers clutch through

The crevices;

Satan, Satan,

Stately praises meet unto thy passion?

Hear a word—death!

Pass it on

Unto the dead, “I makyth my heart for the living!”

Note: A song-poem, I do believe it can be sung, or simply read, with a small compact insight; here, in short, is the indispensable minimum, and introduction into the realms of the undetermined world of a poet’s edge, my rim between earth and hell, and heaven, and who knows where else. The lyric has a technique, fresh insight, I do trust. We live in a vacuum that ripples into other unknown dimensions, circles of other existences, so I do believe, between multilayered existences: we are not the only ones here, in essence, on earth. Even Satan, and the hordes of hell, surely acknowledges this as they time their feasts accordingly, and do their tasks likewise, whatever they may be, what they must do for whatever reasons, avoiding clashes I would think with other unacquainted realms, as we earthlings, go on with life.

Commentary on: Rewriting Jesus

Most everything written today about Jesus Christ comes under “Speculative History,” tales told by those writers who have no discipline, no facts, so quickly written, simply to get their name in the spotlight. We have produced a generation of poor academic – sensationalism.

They get a big paycheck, go on a TV show, win a popularity contest, only to see their book of Science Fiction, produce a high for them, and thrown into the nearest basket of rubbish. These are the writers of a generation that got stock somehow in-between Adam and the Australopithecine Man (of the so called Pleistocene epoch, a million years ago)) from the 1970s)), now in their 40s, the new unintelligible banana beat.

Hot Day in Lima

(Thursday, January 24, 2008)

The city's streets here in Lima

(on this hot summer's day),

is full of junky cars, so it seems

weaving in and out like blind bees.

Carbon smoke, it chokes

all us, eight-million people (a million taxis)

Ugh! -it's a hot day in Miraflores,

Rosa and I walk by the bookstore

go in and check it out,

she gets a Sherlock Holms book:

Q. "Do you want to buy some DVD's?"

A. "Sure, I'll get us a taxi." Rosa says.

And the taxi takes us a few miles

into another inner circle of the city,

to what is called the "Circle"

Haw! A few cars come close to hitting us (not uncommon,

I think I'm waiting for the big accident, it hasn't come

yet, but every day here, odds are against me).

I tell myself 'Why not buy a car in this over crowed city?'

Haw! 'It's so much cheaper to take the taxi (I'm either

too lazy to look for a car, or too cheap to buy one).

Great! We made it to the shopping center safely.

Knock on Wood!

I buy the DVD called, "The Assassination of Jesse James," and

think: 'What more can they write about this guy...' :

in the evening I find out it is more about Robert Ford, the

assassin. Casey Affleck, the supporting actor, is a better

actor, than the main actor, Brad Pitt. 'Oh well,' I tell myself:

just eat the beef jerky, and the hell with it.

Great! Its 12:56 a.m., my wife is sleeping in my sofa chair,

I got to take her to bed.

Waiting for the Tide

Waiting for the Tide

Part I

A day the full-sun was like a spinning-top,

Yes, like a young boy’s first full-dollar

Hidden in his pocket deep from the eyes of many,

Young Ferdinand drove his Ford along the sea-beach;

When he stopped, prompt; then he trembled, drove

The face of the little Ford’s wheels deep

They felt the mud; the car with four slim tires

On a pavement of sand pivoted like an elephant,

Jerked him from the sinking soil, wet down, wedged, skid;

Then, the sharp agitation finished, thickening him

Slid with his young lady rider over the car’s hood,

Shot from utter torment and a ruined automobile

His body and hers out now waiting for the tide.

The day you know time-honored with no show of passion for the little mishap; grave

Joana

Moved toward the undressed mountains, the day moved to twilight, the fast pulse of

the sea behind

Echo, the slow wind came in across the icy stones of the mountain; the dead Ford

wedged in tightly wearily on shore

He felt for the girl; Ferdinand’s restful eyes came back from the wakening, and

curiously knew

The mountain’s cold touch, now sucked into the walls of bodies, its timeless ruin.

Inside him, pain and dizziness, overwhelming

Bloated, and a hopeless wish to heave, and likewise his girlfriend, again

The cold hands of the mountain passed, likened to icy fingers, passed and crept over them,
lay on each side of them, he slept sideways

She felt the weight of the mountain and waited an hour he lay still.

Then came a surge of whistling noises

The tide came in from the sea, to the edge of the mountain,

their bodies limp and cold

They crawled in further, like worms, between the groves of the two mountains, as

if they had rubber for bones, she lifted up his face

Their they lay, as if in a freezing chamber, with the tide in

She woke him from his callous sleep; he rose and made a face, the moon lit

like a lamp, cold like the sea, night equal to the days sun, in reverse,

Night and day were touching each other, ‘twilight’s in-between,´ (she thought): she

remained quiet, for it seemed a nightmare

For half the night long, she became a child’s mind and frequently sleepless, with the

other moaning

Within the gorge, the tide remained out, yet at its knees.

To Ferdinand it seemed that she was making love to him along the shore

With her, who said “Here we are, pushed into this mountain gorge, blood on your forehead, and you, you daydreaming of me on shore, dearest vainly…for here I am bad girl and all…come out of your dream and with your hooves of passion, dreadful passion, dreaming .” And he awoke completely, again.

Intense his eyes were, now upon hers

When the waves stopped, it got quieter, she slept lightly, and he all night through,

not a slump, or wink of an eye opened

Joana from her mountain view, likened to a window view, saw the cloudy light of the

sun rising deep in the East, mist overhanging

The lower part of the gorge had overflowed last night, but the waters were receding.

The Go-Cart

Here in front of Old Rice School
(underneath arc lights)
the boys (the Cayuga Street Gang)
wait like candles on an alter- half lit.
We are bending over looking down
while Mike and his go-cart ready
the world for light.

None of us noticed it then, the
boy, girls...boozed, that twilight had sit:
how funny, it was like a festival-
a square rigged cart of steel, with
a motor on its back, made us hold our
breath, hoping our turn would come
next, to ride and drive this mad-mouse.

And then your turn came-counting
stopped, breathing regained-
I mean, you were different now, you
had the reins. I didn't care all that
much to drive and ride, that mad-mouse
around and around, the school-but more
so to be present, and feel the world in light.

No: 2387 (5-23-2008) Note: back in 1959, in St. Paul, Minnesota, Mike E. Siluk (my brother), had a go-cart, he was the talk of the neighborhood for that season, and perhaps well deserved. He had everyone in envy, but he worked hard to acquire the only co-cart (with his paper route money), this side of the Mississippi I bet. And Old Rice School, which was just up an old dirt alley from our home, was a great place to have a go-around runway for the go-cart. It seems nowadays, go-carts are almost everywhere not anything special, perhaps times have changed, but 'the world in light' or setting the world for us in a spark of light, hasn't change at least in memory and in this poem I tried to recapture that moment-or perhaps better put, to recapture back that extraordinary feeling. Yes indeed, those were special days. Dedicated to Mike Siluk.

Should You Write Your Own Poem to Read at a Funeral

Should you write your own poem to read at a funeral or should you rely on professionally-authored verse? There are strong arguments in favor of "homegrown" poems and equally valid reasons to utilize expert poetry. The best answer to the question may not involve choosing one over the other at all.

If you feel as though you can add something of meaning to a memorial ceremony by delivering your own Funeral Poem, you may want to do just that. Admittedly, unless you're highly trained as a writer, your poem will probably not be "perfect". It may actually be clunky, maudlin, cliche-riddled and altogether inferior. It will, however, have heart. It will be yours and it will convey your feelings. That has value--both to you and to those assembled for the funeral. It will be an emotional truth in a setting too often dominated by false sentiment.

If you do decide to use your own poem at a funeral you may want to supplement it with the use of a classic funeral poem or some other well-regarded verse. A good memorial poem by a trained artists will convey ideas and concepts with a certain elegance and grace that most (and I say "most" because there are undoubtedly many fine poets "waiting to happen" out there) written-for-the occasion poems won't rival.

So, the best solution for those who feel the urge to write their own poem to read at a funeral is not to abandon the idea of self-expression. Instead, he or she can use the poem while also using a classic uplifting funeral poem.

There's no reason to ever make a funeral impersonal. The inclusion of your own words may uniquely contribute to a meaningful memorial. So will the use of some of the truly great poetry that has been written by the very best--material that comes directly from the soul and that communicates strongly to it.

Box of old Photographs

There is a season—(a time) before you die,

you know you are dying… a decisive eclipse

sort of….

You open up the box of old photographs,

ask, “Which ones do you want?”

Knowing time is short at best.

You don’t fuss if they take them all,

not anymore, and they wonder why—!

(Because some one may have to erase them.)

Each word you say is fainter, more certain,

less laminated than before you knew—;

you can now see the end, the disappearing sunset.

Note: So often we hide our heads in the sand when the word death comes up, the most common thing in all life, its end. Something we all have to face. Dennis' poem is to the point, and very real, perhaps hard to read, yet short as it is, it gives out strong emotions. As he has said, "There is a season under the sun for everything," and this poem ('Box of Old Photographs') says even a little more than that.

Dennis has often said, and I suppose I don’t really like talking about it, “Death, we all have to face it, come to terms with it, I believe we don’t want to leave simply because we are so used to it here. Even if there was nothing to wake up to, after death, it has been a great experience, a wonderful gift God gave us. Unfortunately it is not a commodity, so we must take advantage of it while we can. I think we all want a little more, even Abraham, wanted a few more days, and he lived pretty long.” Rosa

Typing

Advance: Originally written, 1963, at the age of 16-years old. This poem was put into the Washington High School newspaper (St. Paul, Minnesota), my typing teacher spotted me writing this poem, and not doing my required work, and gave it to the journalism teacher, and it was published. My first published work/poem #19. It is funny, as you read it, near the last lines it reads "You may know it from the Twentieth to the twenty-first century." Written 44-years ago, I was predicting my future, and I still do know how to type. This poem was also put into my first book, "The Other Door," written in 1980, and published in 1981, no a classic and hard to find. During my High School days, I didn't write all that much, perhaps 17-poems total, from the age of 11 to 16, and then several more thereafter.

Typing

Typing is fun

With a little play

I could type

Almost all day.

Look at your book

Sit up straight,

It's just as easy

As baking a cake.

Of course it takes time

But what does not?

Everything takes time,

Even a clock.

Just think of the fun

Watching your fingers go 'round,

Or looking at the book

Go down, down, down.

And when you're at the bottom,

You might feel like me-

Tired, worn out,

Like ancient history.

But still you've learned

What you've done that day,

And you may know it

'Til Tuesday.

Of course, if you're good,

I mean, like me,

You may know it from the

Twentieth to the twenty-first century.

Well, do some typing

It won't do any harm

Give you a grade

With a little charm,

And even a little muscle

In your arms.

Four Poems

Ode to Cancer

I sensed the cancer
in her bones
in her bone marrow.
I know
it
will never cease; believe me,
the pain
reeks,
the cancer throbs, and stalks
in her bones
it pulsates
through her body, smothered
by pain.
She cries in those deep
moments
when she feels
the legs
of
the cancer creeping,
in its desolate tract,
seeping deeper
into her bones.
Here in her home
the entire
cancer phantom
speaks:
it has a
gasping
voice
a song of doom
and grief.

The tiniest
wave of the cancer
brings waves of pain to her
not only to her bone's whiteness
but the inner floor of her
never-ending
once vigorous light.
Now the cancer phantom
has found routes
like rivers to the sea
her whole body:
thus, the smallest,
morsel, by each wave
has infected her
infinitely ...!

Ode to Mother

Mother brought me
this sole single life
which she knitted herself
with the help of Christ.
She knitted
with threads a
butterfly's
cocoon,
out of
cotton and wool
and synthetic
materials;
with alpaca
she knitted
two arms so soft
like rabbits feet-
with them
she sawed
into two
wings-
that when I
arrived
feet first
these
heavenly wings
(feet and arms
and all such things)
they were
so handsome
I, I felt so
unworthy.

Nevertheless
the sharp temptation
to fly
was in my eyes,
so I saved these
wings
as schoolboys
keep
worms and bees,
grasshoppers
and so many
sacred things
until I got old,
put them into
a golden rimmed
bowel
and traveled the world.

I tried to resist
the mad impulse
to put it off
like retired explorers
in the jungles
and deserts
I've read in so
many old books
(now sitting idle on wooden
shelves...)-
but I never could
stop
traveling or reading,
I just spread it out
like pages
in those old book
still sitting on those
old wooden shelves.

The moral
of this ode is this:
the mother has
twice the beauty
when she knits.

The Man Fish
(a Dramatic Poem)

"What is he waiting for?" she asked me.
"For time, simply for time," I replied.
"I studied him like an ocean lobster," she cried,
"until I grew algae in my eyes!"
And I replied, "I know this," and added,
"I tell you, he is waiting for time."
"He is like a thread in the water of
a deep lagoon!" she sighed.
And I replied, "The depth of man is
deeper than sand, and if you look deep
you will find, he is full of light, human
eyes, but dead in the darkness, if given
a dilemma, or worthless sigh!"
And she questioned, "I don't understand,
how can this be, I've been so unpleased?"
And I replied once more, "In your net
one night, like a fish trapped,
you caught him, by your whim,
and thought you could change him."

The Heartless:
An Elegy for the American Soldier
At War

The heart grew white with
patriotism, dark with anxiety
for war: yet he went even so.
"Oh death be mine for
liberty," he cried as the
white clouds grew gray
with blood and disease
and dust and dirt in an
evening under small
arms fire, and rockets:
a slaughterhouse of rotten
meat, and guts lying here
and there, everywhere;
a horrible day for freedom.

The white dove of the morning
brought forgiveness for the
living, who did the killing.
So dark was the clergy, with
a voice of trumpets, and a soaked
flag with dark red blood.

Here and there, and everywhere,
soldiers smoking in wild despair,
all their days of goodness, and
decency, dignity, and nobility
now in dark shaped halls- of
pale moons, and nightly storms
in their minds: there somewhere,
is a steep ladder they now must climb:
oh where is the heart, for the heartless
for our snowy cold leaders, in soft
linen beds, in Washington?

Cut the Losses

Funny Poems

Part 1 of 3

Ah! love can be harsh

(if it is not working);

loosen the cord

it is best to make

a new life alone

(than to die slow)

less knots in the

veins

more marrow in the

bones.

We are only eyes

and mouth

a body beneath

a sky—.

Empty are some of

us in this

world

(it is the way it is

the way they will

live and die):

like an empty jar

with only air,

no substance!

We are all headed

beneath the earth:

skin, eyes, everything.

raised in due time

for heaven or hell;

cut the losses!

Part 2 of 3

Escape, before you

fall, sink

into a hole of

silence

(so deep it can be);

rocks will cover the:

mind, and eyes—;

thus, the soul

will have no light

to see…

so, cut your losses

please

before it’s too late.

Part 3 of 3

One thing you should

know.

I used to look out

my window,

see you

near in the distance

far in mind.

Well, time has passed

little by little we

heal.

No need for anymore

ungratefulness

cut the losses

(what you see is not

love,

rather madness).

One can become

mad you know:

so

cut the losses soon.

Life passes by

quickly,

like roots

we grow old and

deep

to where one

cannot remember

things.

cut the losses before

the wind blows

you down…

blows you away

(like ashes in an

open urn).

In real love nothing

is extinguished or

forgotten.

Dirty love burns

like a fire

marching towards

the end of life.

Ah, for love’s sake

cut the losses

(remember: once honored

once betrayed,

third comes the fool).

Go on marching

stay on the road

love will find you.

The Essence of Poetic Prose and Thoughts Poem

These lines about the essence of poetic prose are designed to stimulate the thoughts of the reader and generate images one would normally not see on a regular basis. This is what the essence of poetry does to the mind as it elevates the soul to another level of perception.

The Essence of Poetry

Today, the essence of poetry

Is like a shooting star lingering

Not disappearing;

While on the other hand

The sun shines, snow sinks, and

Streets slush;

This brings an amazing sight of

The shining sun's rays

As snow sinks slippery slow

And side streets get so slushy.

Tomorrow will be a lovely day

Like flowers in May;

While smiling at my rings

Makes me feel like a king,

Alas, valuable things!

Life is good

Yet bad in its own way

Like night and day.

Just like when I went to the dentist

Came out later in a bending twist;

Seeing a disabled soldier in wheel chair

Yelling "I'm generation 'Y'

Why the hell am I here?"

Don't forget those who are:

Antagonist, protagonist, such absolutists

Give me someone who is a middle-ist

Wow a personalist!

Bring me dark chocolate

It' good for my heart;

Ate some and my sugar went up

Now running hills and taking pills;

Like all red roses have fragrance

Symbolizing Valentine's Day

White rose has its way too

Like each dog has its day!

Be mindful, aware, recognize thoughts

And return to the poetic breath;

'Cause Robert Burns over there

Made Scotland earned quite a few

Shillings and Pence!

As mountains of green trees

Capture the essence of spring,

Don't forget autumn leaves

Bring the essence of poetry!

War and Peace

Stuck into man is war

hammered into man is peace

and both are distributed equally

consciously

clumsily.

Educators,

politicians,

generals,

from laziness or habit

or even natural cursedness,

give defense for the dead,

and the uncorrelated systems

they vaguely know, yet support,

uninterested in the comfort

of others, only

in the (or their) masterwork,

and their exulted positions.

Nor are they interested in

the systems-per se,

that produced this cumbrous

and inefficient

way of unrewarded hopes

passions, laundry bills,

erotic experiences

to the young soldier,

and to the people of a nation

and thrust the young soldiers

(who fight for principle or flamboyant

experiences), thus,

into harms way they are sent,

considered freedom fighters.

They think we are above the Odyssey,

Or the Chanson de Roland, but

we are still in the Middle Ages,

Sad Love Poems

still back at Troy

trying to get out of its flames;

only literature has changed

(but not in words or deeds,

rather in scarcity).

The soldiers only ask

to be remembered;

the war now considered

along with the views

of the war makers

"...are they still valid?"

and most often,

"...had they been

very intelligent,"

in the first place?"

"Miscalculations!"

someone screams.

Another voice says:

"Comparative to what

war?"

A nation tranquilized,

family's low-brow now!

It's all in American tastes,

is it not...

((or the nation at war) (but

America seems always

to be at war, does it not?))

but more derivative.

I found the greater

darkness

in the children

considered the hope

of a country;

literate, and forthcoming,

fortnightly

premature,

once they have

killed a cat,

the scarcity

of killing is dead,

so summons the

hasty soldier

onto war.

Onto war I say,

and ready to invest

his life into his country,

disparate to be of value.

Who wrote these

satiric verses

for him to remember?

Someone blatant,

for organic

stupidity;

it is all too

ambiguous for the

young mind to

digest

or defuse

if he tries

his mind becomes

fragmentary,

unorganized,

for the educators,

the generals and

the politicians

have given him

various

volumes, in each age

to look at

(read, study-

throughout his life,

even his parents

gave him toy guns

at the age of ten),

now his brain is diluted,

and modified:

war is tattooed

inside of him,

his cerebellum.

So what do we do

(if anything)?

perhaps give him

forty versions of

the Chaucerian

for a anecdote?

I do not mean

to get you sidetracked,

comparing philosophy,

(I am not)

with grandiose figures;

nor comparing personal habits.

Let us by all means-though

glance at philology

-for in

all languages,

as most historians

or psychologists, or

war college professors,

will tell you

there are certain

attributes, each

country of war

preys on

(yes, we are guilty

of having the animal

hunter in us, and thus

we plunder

and victimize,

oppress).

And yes, yes indeed,

war is permitted

as a subject of study,

and its study is so

designed as to

draw the mind of the

soldier, or warrior

(to be),

away from leading

freely,

into the insanity,

to follow-blindly:

even in America.

Lima's Devouring Winter Dew

Lima’s Devouring Winter Dew

The mist of the pacific flows cool and fair—

On city streets that are far and near

With haunted blows, from Lima’s shadows.

Ah! Its pale magic mist now fills the air

Here I sit, at El Parquetito’s café

With a splendid delightful cup of coffee

As the phantom sun awakes and sweats

Trying to peek through Lima’s wintry cloak!