The Crusader: A Search for the Virtue Inside (an excerpt of an Epic Poem)
On through the darkness she searches the bones
Seeking the hand of her love;
Deep in the stillness, the maid searches on,
Petitioning help from above.
Onward she gropes through the flesh and the blood
Of the warriors disfigured and maimed;
She carries no hope for the life of her love -
For naught but his body she came.
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.
The Exit Poems [Iron and Fire & No Heroes]
The Exit Poems
[And Socrates]Iron and FireIron can be soften by fire-
grows hard in the cold;
and all the gates therein
are, as it was, closed again.
So, often are those misled?
by luxury and pride,
who push humility aside-:
thus, redemption their vanity
and perfection their virtue?
and in the end, they all collided.
An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]
Old skin, once held tight
Against her skeleton-
Rose no more, just draped
Loosely over unpadded flesh;
Un-tightened muscles, and tissue,
Lost its courage, no-fortitude-,
Gone are the days and years
That stood against the
The skeleton, now a landmark
Hidden under flesh and blood
Guts and moral fiber, backbone?
Collapsed from drudgery
Time, time: cascading inside-.
Bones now leaving impressions
Like tarnished silver!.
Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]
In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls,
In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: drops
Likened to music from its many streams-land
Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel
Everywhere?Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, of
Something, perhaps winter around the corner-;
As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes?
Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come earlyMaybe he's thinking about summer: miles and miles
And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now
Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the
Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the
Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch;
It's worn-out like him.The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all
The foliage, there's a lot of it.
Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]
[The ole Real House]The house needed painting
Sun-blistered and flaking
Grandpa started to have us
Boys-Mike and I- start
Doing some scraping-While he, pealed off the ole
Paint, and started painting?Just a humble wooden house
With several rooms, but
Strong enough to keep the
Winds and winter snows out,
How he loved that ole house!..
Uamaks Aquatic [suspense: now in Spanish and English]
Delicately, my mind was selecting a muffled tune, out of the dead dark empty space surrounding me?I saw a shape on a rock, not sure who it was; I had a sensitivity though, a feeling call it, or second-sight; I've heard that before, not sure if I want to put a lot of credence into it, but so be it, the sensitivity and numbness was there. I didn't' sense any danger in the moment, in the moonlit figure, sitting on the rocks, lurking, looking out into the deep.
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 frame
Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps
Hanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frame
Her footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto it
Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around her
A drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams
With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her face
Her figure etched against the wooden frame,
She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a bird
Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopes
She yielded before the sluggish advance of sunset
Blood dripped, with her dying darkness
And a crimson moon hurled a flame across
The shadowy clouds, burning throughout the sky
The tormented sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye gripped it
Rocky images, highest points
Thrusting herself up boldly from to the ledge
The painted morning blushed over the rim
Her brows and nose, face against the granite stone
Massive injuries was taking form,
Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sun
It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now
She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go.
Too much for any woman in a lost world
Out of the weak wood her mind had peace;
She knew soon it would all be over-alas
Mute and protesting against life's uselessness
A narrow path lay below her slender body
Between death and attainment, a careless foot
The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged
Plunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valley
Thinking 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.
Ceasar Vallejo: Black Roses [In English and Spanish]
Black RosesBow down your head ol' poet-
To face God's grace ahead
There are no more trenchesTo dig today?
In the forest of your head,So-:
Bow down, bow down,Ol' barbaric poet!
Death rides the horse ahead
I hear the crackling of a whip
See the crazed eyes of death.He summons you to his den-
The devil and his wind,So-:
Bow down, bow down
Your blood stained brows
He will take you to the edge.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
Infected Ideologies [a Poetic Portrait]
the disease of extremism
whoever cannot think of
growing up without it
is part of the phenomenon!
(the choice of the day).
with a powerful ideology
are seeds for suicide!
reasons to rage!.
Poetry and Popular Culture
Is poetry too complicated for the average reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of average people what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few different answers, but there is an overwhelmingly common category of responses.One of the main reasons that people say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Ole Bulky Jeeps & Paper, Ink and Rain [two Peoms]
Ole Bulky JeepsThrough late summer's heat
These bulky shaped jeeps
Ride by house and farm
City and barn-Hungry for
Spring-again, hoping to avoid
The Slipping and sliding
Of winter's ice and wind?[s]Their weighty legs are dirty
From moving dust and rain
(Here and there, everywhere)
Through all kinds of terrain
Like moving clouds caught
In the foliage of the woods?
They never slow down a ting
They have a duty, and give.It's part of how they live-
In military-, bulky ole jeeps!.
Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door
Blind DesignsBorn today, gone tomorrow
Like a butterfly with no stomach
Born n the morning, dead by night
Oh-let me whisper
Oh-let me cry
What man has not learned?
What man will not learn!
In his pomposity, his rhetoric
With his abstract concepts
With his intellect
With his creativeness
He has become enslaved
By them all, he will fall.
Ah! Yes-abstract concepts
Bombast and rhetoric
This he leaves behind
To his decedents!.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek
[Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake Superior
Rising out of the woods like:
A swamp mist
I'm waiting for breakfast(at the B&B)
I pace the grounds
The scent of green shrubbery:
Trees, flora, flowers-rain
Branches like big brown arms
The embankment, to the right
Blue eyed, like mine-reflect
From the creek beneath me
(my wife says 'be careful'
she went to get the camera)
The greens and blues touch
My face and blue jeans-
Reflections mirrored like
Musical notes of a symphony
(I'll see them later in pictures)
For now, it's daybreak
In 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.
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