Night Before Christmas...

“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St.Nicholas soon would be there”...

The more we read it the more we love the lines.

An evening in winter...children...the elders by the fire side...one of them is reading out “Twas the night before Christmas...” or “A visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clark Moore...This evening is the evening before Christmas. One can hear the giggles of the children outside...the shopkeepers are too busy to meet their demands...the world never appears as beautiful as it is today. Everybody seems innocent in the land of Christ.

It is a very popular tradition of American families to read the poem by Clement Moore on every Christmas Eve. This is the poem from where we get a refined picture of Christmas and Santa Claus. Moore changed the image of Santa Claus. Prior to the publication of the poem St. Nicholas was conceived as a lanky, stern Bishop who championed the cause of dispensing both gifts and discipline. The poem portrays Nicholas as a cheerful, rosy-cheeked elf who gives out gifts to the children. Christmas came to be known as the occasion of exchanging gifts.

Santa turned out to be the loving persona. The research on this issue reveals that Santa laughs “ho ho ho” unlike what the people actually do. He has got “a little round belly/ that shook when he laugh'd, like a bowlful of jelly”. Santa was never associated with reindeer in the past. Clement Moore changed the traditional notions in such a way that now it is difficult to distinguish between the original and the revised version. We not only believe in reindeer but also memorize their names- Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitz en.

Thus we get from the poem a new image of Santa, a whole lot of names of reindeer and the mood of the event a day before the actual one starts. The poem is so popular that we have different versions of it. Joyce Luke wrote “ Twas the week before Christmas and all through the school/ not a pupil was silent, no matter what rule. “Just like Moore's poem this one also ends with “As she looked at the Christmas tree glistening and tall, / she smiled as she whispered, “Merry Christmas to All.” Moore's poem has been widely used for parodies. The parodied version for the gamblers goes like this-

“Twas the night before Christmas, I hit the casino,

I went there to play, more than just Keno.”

It can have another version for love craft-

“Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the hole

Not a creature was stirring, not even a Dhole.”

People nowadays decorate their tables according to the details given on Christmas and Santa in the poem. The table should give the impression of a snowy landscape. White sheet is spread out on the table and thus we have snow at the center of it where Santa and reindeer will be placed. Christmas candies are sprinkled on the table to make it more realistic. It seems Moore's lines have shaped both the ideas and activities concerning Christmas.

The night before Christmas is the day of setting up the Christmas tree, participating in the candlelight service early in the evening, attending Midnight Mass and enjoying the turkey or ham. Children will wait for their gifts even if the Puritans frown on the materialistic aspect of the event. While reading out the poem everybody thanks Moore for giving the hope of receiving gifts and meeting the jolly secular Santa.

Decorations done...the dinner was also wonderful...it's time to say “good night”...but on 24th December we love to end our day with the last line of the poem “Twas the night before Christmas”,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good- night!”

Beyond Man

(Originally written in 1963, and published in "The Surveyor," Washington High School newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota)(and first time published on the internet; the poem was originally written while in Journalism Class, at the age of 16-years old, Dennis' second published work) and his #18 poem.

Let's assume!

People seem to think

It's far too far,

The darkness beyond the sun;

But it's actually but a distance

Of the far-off run.

But yet it shields

A shivery chillness,

A warming sense of defeat,

But an ever lasting wanting

Of the far-off victories.

You know,

Imagination can go a long way,

As far as man can see,

And yet beyond the darkness

Man has yet to be.

Beyond he blue of the sky

Man has yet to see

The everlasting oceans,

Which stir eternally?

Note: One must remember, this poem was written before man had landed on the moon. Space was just being challenged, Star Trek, was just beginning to show up on TV. The Universe was a strange and haunting viewpoint of sorts; guesses for everyone. #18/ 1963. Therefore when I wrote this poem, it captures the moment, giving a breath of imagination, for us students at Washington High School. Metaphysics, or the study of the cosmos, was for the population at large, a new branch of study, other than the fictional movies of monsters from the moon or Mars, or ERB's books on Mars. So it was a poem for the school to be looked at, and the journalism teacher found it good enough for the paper.

Guard Duty on a Dusty Road

In Vietnam I wrote one poem and only one (1971):

Guard Duty on a Dusty Road

I'm out here on guard duty

rifle and all...

(sent a letter to Rachel).

The dust on the path

that leads to my hut

(near the ammo dump)

is dusty and rough...

not much to do here

just talk to yourself

count the hours

as they go by

(make sure the VC

don't get too near);

wait for the five-ton

to arrive, take me back

(off this dusty road)

to 611 Ordnance,

which I call home!

Note: I remember thinking (at the time), I should send a poem home, perhaps to my mother, or send it to someone, anybody, to let them know I was alive, even a magazine or newspaper came to mind. I remember, the day was long, and hot, I was in Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam, and was selected for guard duty, and when the truck picked me up, to take me back, we drove down along the South China Sea, a smoother road there, and up into our campsite, several miles from the three ammo dumps that occupied the peninsula.

I put the poem in my pocket, and forgot I left it there, would not realize it for a spell, and then tucked it away. The poem was written about June, 1971. It was shortly after this time, we got hit by rockets, which were at 2:00 AM in the morning, and I'd have to go this time inside of the ammo dump to guard, not sure what we were guarding, the rockets came all round us, and some within meters of me.

The VC would blow up the Air Force dump that night which was next to Charlie Dump, (one man got killed) and our dump being Alpha. It was a trying night. Anyhow, after many years, the poem appears, and for the first time since 1971, it is available for reading. It doesn't say much, just a hot day, on guard duty, far away.

The Beauty of Nature's Grief

The Beauty of Nature's Grief
[A prose poem]

The days in winter are piercing, insightful to the point of gloom!

Ah! There is amazement in the spell of this moment (produced by the sky), putting one’s self into a trance almost—, earnestly, drawing one’s fleeting look into the passion and imagination of the dim winter sky. Quietness, aloneness; branches from trees afar, reach into my view of the horizon (its sun bent redness, is putting on its chastity-belt, for soon twilight will dominate, will bend her into dusk. Only the littleness of it all do I see, its remoteness, from where I am in this here café looking out—, thus, the colors in the evening sky seem to have a melody to its dim rainbow. They say, as I think, “Reflect!” for in the grandeur of it all, the moment is soon lost, yes indeed, lost without dedication: twilight will pass.

All the same, these images in me somehow found this poem: projected from the birth of this here evening—to this intensity.

My nerves were tense today, now as I write, transmit (the evening away), the calls and ripples of the evening have calmed me.

The sky now yellow, red, tints of blue—, that skeleton of a tree still in my view; the sky confuses me somewhat. Yet it’s just one sunset out of many melting down. Perhaps the insensitiveness if it all, of the sky: for the sky irritates me tonight! I don’t want it to flee, eternally; even though I may see a new one tomorrow, “Let it be!” I say (but that’s desire, control, pride speaking).

The examining of beauty, if it sees you (and you it), will disappear if you do not grab its grief! (And so I have.)

Muir Woods

Muir Woods

(California, l968)

Old trees, that is what they were,

So high, they merged with the sky—

Almost touched the upper void:

3000-years packed tightly into roots

Soil astronomy never saw—; here

Is where (in: 1968) my mother and I

Walked, side by side…down—, its

Old dirt pathway

As ever she strolled along beside me

Without a burden, slowly, a mile an

Hour. End of the road—across the

Blue bay, laid San Francisco.

Funny how we remember such simple

Afternoons, 30-years in the past, sitting

Here now at El Parquetito, in Miraflores;

Tomorrow, who knows what’s next!

The Big House in Erie

I was invited to my boss’ house

I was young so young back then,

Perhaps twenty-five; l lived in Erie,

Pennsylvania, 1973

I hung around with his nephews

And when I saw his big house, it

Somewhat startled me: made of:

Red-brick, smoothly mortared

In-between: a few chimneys on

Each side of the house, Victorian;

It was a big, a huge house—windows

Everywhere: all around, up, down;

To a poor kid like me, my eyes

Were mortified, they were shaken:

(Hands fidgeting, legs weakening)—

I had to catch my breath.

When I walked inside, my boss was

Surprise, yet greeted me well, cheerful

I think he noticed I felt a bit

Uncomfortable (I was brought up

In an extended family where two bedrooms

Fitted four families); so, I smiled the best

I could, looking about the house

It was to me: Buckingham Palace.

When I was fifty-five

Years old, yes, a quarter century plus, had

Passed, I owned several big houses, one

Bigger than his;

And never did I once forget that big house,

In Erie.

Note from the Author: While locked out of my house today, sitting in my car, in my garage, having two hours to throw to the wind until I have to pick up my wife, this big old house in Erie come to mind

IN SPANISH

Translated by: Nancy Peñaloza

La casa grande en Erie (1973)

Me invitaron a la casa de mi jefe

Entonces yo era muy joven,

Quizás veinticinco; yo vivía en Erie,

Pensilvania, 1973

Deje pasar el tiempo con sus sobrinos

Y cuando vi su gran casa, esto

Un tanto me asustó: hecho de:

Ladrillo-Rojo, suavemente enfoscado

Entre: algunas chimeneas en

Cada lado de la casa, Victoriana;

Esta era una grande, una enorme casa-ventanas

Por todas partes: todo alrededor, arriba, abajo;

Para un pobre muchacho como yo, mis ojos

Estaban avergonzados, ellos fueron sacudidos:

(Manos moviéndose nerviosamente, piernas debilitadas) -

Tuve que coger mi respiración.

Cuando caminé adentro, mi jefe estaba

Sorprendido, sin embargo me saludó bien, alegre

Pienso que él notó que me sentía un poquito

Incómodo (yo fui educado

En una familia amplia donde dos dormitorios

Empotraban cuatro familias); Así pues, Sonreí lo mejor

Que pude, mirando la casa

Esto era para mí: el Palacio De Buckingham.

Cuando yo tuve cincuenta y cinco

Años de edad, sí, un cuarto de siglo más, había

Pasado, yo fui dueño de varias casas enormes, uno

Más grande que el de él;

Y nunca jamás olvidé esa casa grande,

En Erie.

By Invitation Only

Dennis' Aunt died yesterday (at 80-years old), and this is the poem he wrote for her; she was always a helpful woman to him, with many fond memories. Rosa

The Poem:

BY INVITATION ONLY

(Dedicated to my Aunt Rose)

So she has gone to that mystic country, which we all will visit some day, a different kind of country, drowned in mist and lore, legends and Biblical verse—called heaven.

I learned about her death today, my Aunt Rose, who used to buy for me those fat little steaks; give me some loose change for gas, in times when I wasn’t doing so well, in times when I took her shopping; and those picnics when I was just a kid.

Heaven, a true land where all is beautiful, restful—where life is not heavy; and sickness, does not exist. How sweet it is, where disorder and anxiety is unforeseen—, even banned. By invitation only is how you get there!

She was eighty-years old, died last night; I heard about it this morning. It is here where life ends, here on earth; but there, beyond its gravity, earth gravity, we must go to live—for infinity. Perhaps there, the clocks have no hands, and we will all have more time, meet again, and sit in the sun, like we did so long ago, at those picnics, when we were, oh—so young.

Kike Face

“Kike Face!...”

(Whiplash)

“Let them cook, after that we’ll see…;”

the devils voiced rattled—in Europe.

Hysteria bleeds, under the knees of

the Jew… (no truce from the world)

“Tell them to run, we shoot fast

and we don’t miss…!”

Whiplash,

out of the cradle of civilization;

whiplash, from past to present.

Whiplash, from the United Nations;

Whiplash, from the EU and PLO

(hatred replenished)

It is not possible to understand this

primordial pack—of snakes and rats

(it comes from the devils core).

Hidden under their UN and EU Rugs,

are: conceit, cowardice-greed, race:

wishing to cook a kike, for breakfast.

The cleric says:

death on the installment plan, for the Jew

anti-Semite: reflexes…reflexes: reflections.

When Americans left Europe, so did

restrained anti-Semitism—

thus, it starts all over again, the

yanking of the balls of the Jew…

by the EU, and UN; under the heading

‘Thou are not thy friends…’ (extermination)

In essence, America spoiled their fun,

since 1951, and now are refuled…!

Deep Image Revised and Reedited

Deep Image (the Poem)

Deep, deep, deep-deep down in the mind in its many chambers, and corridors is an image crying, and trying to escape; it is a picture of the room your mind sleeps in (in part), the other parts are the soul and flesh.

Between the psyche and the spirit, within your being, a leaf of energy, radiates from this one particular room, a room, you do not have its number to...and it only circulates, moves about, and flows within that very room, and it unfortunately, never sees the light of day, until all three parts of the soul (the Personal Soul, the Pure Spirit, and the False Arbitrator, and all its residue), recognizes God, and makes it clear to the mind (unfortunately, they are often times at war with one another, over: power, control and immortality-!)...

Thus, it reminds the hidden man (inside the guts of the soul, in the lowest part of the end of this catacomb like mausoleum), he is (or was (once it is released) you were the one, once upon a time, under the umbrella of un- divine pretence, and you need not wait to be on your deathbed to adjust your thinking, and reasoning, and to allow your mind to be unguarded for once, to be naked-sort of speaking, and to wipe away those deletions, generalizations, and distortions, to face God shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath, and look him in the eyes, to tell your being, there is nothing to hide. So the mind and the deep, deep image, is now free, to bury what needs to be buried, under the sun. (Perhaps you even need to ask yourself: how did I get here in the first place?)

Beware (the un-divine, wants to divide the soul, and its parts from the mind ((to keep it locked in its room)(that is how it got to where it is, the image)), be it by demonic forces or imp, or some dark angelic force within, assigned, he is telling the third part of the soul, not to work with other parts, to create fog in the mind, to leave the image inside the room, so it can't breath), in consequence, he leaps and floats and assaults, in this hidden chamber of your mind, hogties the soul, also (before you die, it wants to take you to hell, that's the aim-out of sight, out of mind, keep him or her that way-Oh yes! that's the reason the other parts of your being, fight so hard, they hope to awaken you) awaken your subconscious...to wakeup your conspicuous conscious, so it can jumpstart you examination, your reasoning, and so you can jump over the gap (the one someone, or something, created, long ago for you); thus, now your bring can bring the third part of your soul back: it does this by creating little earthquakes inside of you, disturbances to off set your system's balance, and so it remains until God, Himself, puts a stop to it. Or you end up in hell.

Boyfriend Birthday Poems

If you're looking for a loving but personal poem for your boyfriend then you're in for a treat! I have put together the ultimate collection of happy birthday poems for your boyfriend that you'll ever come across.

I was annoyed that I had to sit there and search through pages and pages of websites that offered "inadequate" or "irrelevant" poems for my boyfriend on his birthday. I realized at the end, that there was no way I was going to find that "perfect" poem for my boyfriend as it just wasn't out there. The thing is I was no expert at writing poems in the first place let alone a sentimental one for my boyfriend!

Here is an example of one of the poems I used:

Valentine Poems

On your birthday sweetheart, on this special day for you,
I promise to make it unforgettable and loving for you too.
You mean the world to me and I wish I could just show,
How good you make me fell I'm sure you'll never know.
With each birthday that passes, you mean so much to me,
I am so grateful for those things you do that you think may go unseen.
It's always so important to make an effort for this time,
You deserve the best you deserve the most I'm so glad that you are mine
I can get you many presents but they will never say,
How much you mean to me on this special day!

The truth is finding a high quality and unique poem for your boyfriend is a real struggle. You will stumble across some poems but can you be sure that they will really be the "perfect one for your boyfriend?"

Therefore I had to do something about it. I managed to get some of the most exclusive poetry writers together and persuade them to write the best ever "poems for boyfriends" they could with a personal yet perfected touch.

The Nephilm

The twilight was cold

Only warm garments

From pelts to cover their flesh!

(They came in the middle of winter

To the circle of the Raphaim

Came descending from the heavens

(The Shinning Ones, the Nephilm);

Came from the cosmos,

To put yokes around the necks

Of humankind—humanity’s loveliest!

To put yokes around their shadows

In the cold twilight of the night;

They had come to kill Jews

To subdue Jerusalem

To make there woes right.

(Old Giants of old,

Angelic renegades;

Watchers from the Heavens.)

When they slept, they rested—

Besides a roaring fire!…

And the wind and air filled with

Whirling particles, Pieces of faces,

Shadows exposed—all with deep

Yellowish-red glows.

Damned by God, His rebellious foes

(These giant with pre-historic souls));

This gray ocean of demonic beasts

Blazing a path through history:

Came with sullen roars of madness

Of revenge for old woes…!

Note: 5/29/06 #1361/Written at El Parquetito, Lima, Peru

Azaz’el’s Song

I have no old gifts for thee

No perfumes or Vampric words:

Only my hate that storms in me

Like the fires in the halls of hell

Whence the soul follows beyond the earth.

Ye, likened to the moon and sunrise

We are slaves to lustful illume ways

In the valley of sacred multiorgasmic

We have seduced the women of earth

And given birth to hybrid Nephilm.

The Devil Dog-heads of Peru

They swarmed about him, the youth from the northern highlands, the Devil Sect, the jackals of Peru (in the Valley of Recuay); they dragged him into darkness, they meant to do him harm (soon they’d dismember him alive) ‘no mercy,’ would he cry--, only curses as they roasted him alive: like mutton, these devil dog-heads, now long forgotten.

The fire grew, he clinched his fists, iron hands, burned like thick wood, his eyes lighted—inside his head, as he was being cooked alive like bread.

His lungs breathless, a cloudless sky, the morning wind blew fitfully, as he died, died, died, died: everything had a charcoal tint to it, especially where his eyes did lie (outside his head, surrounded by ash), looking up—into a gray brooding sky.

Note: After borrowing, for a short time, one of the devil figurines dated about 200 BC to 800 AD, from the Valley of Recuay; the author was inspired to write this poem concerning the plight of a youth that may have sculptured this figurine, and then became its victim. #1399/7/28/2006

There are many cultures in Peru, the Recuay is a mysterious one indeed, with pottery from devils, to Jaguars, to llamas. They date back to 400 BC, and seemed to have fadded into obscurity in around 800 AD. Dennis

In Spanish
Translated by Rosa Pentaloza de Siluk

Las Cabezas de Perros del Diablo de Perú
[Verso con Comentario]

Ellos pulularon alrededor de él, del joven de las tierras altas del norte, la Secta del Diablo, los chacales de Perú (en el Valle de Recuay); ellos lo arrastraron en la oscuridad, ellos querían hacerle daño (pronto lo desmembrarían vivo) 'sin piedad’, él gritaría—, sólo maldiciones mientras ellos lo asaban vivo: como cordero, estos diablos con cabezas de perro, ahora mucho tiempo olvidado.

El fuego creció, él cerró sus puños, manos de hierro, quemadas como madera gruesa, sus ojos encendidos—dentro de su cabeza, mientras él estaba siendo cocinado vivo como pan.

Sus pulmones jadeantes, un cielo despejado, el viento de mañana sopló de manera irregular, mientras él murió, murió, murió, murió: todo tenía un tinte de carbón a esto, especialmente donde sus ojos estuvieron (fuera de su cabeza, rodeados por ceniza), mirando arriba—dentro de un cielo gris meláncolico.

Note: Después de haberse prestado, por una corta temporada, una estatuilla en forma de diablo que data aproximadamente del periodo entre 200 A.C. y 800 D.C. del Valle de Recuay; el autor fue inspirado para escribir este poema acerca de la situación apremiante de una joven que pudo haber esculpido esta estatuilla, y luego convertirse en su víctima.