Whats A Prisoner to Do?
August 14, 2008
What’s a prisoner to do when justice fails
and the innocent is escorted off to jail?
What’s a prisoner to do once stigmatized,
caged and abandoned and ostracized?
What’s a prisoner to do there’s no one to trust;
the system fails and the outcome unjust?
What’s a prisoner to do when family decide
the punishment is warranted and justified?
What’s a prisoner to do while confined in a cell;
the perpetrator’s free and faring quite well?
What’s a prisoner to do once his reputation is dead
and his life has been ruined because of what someone said?
What’s a prisoner to do when he’s not believed,
though he’s telling the truth, he’s thought to deceive?
What’s a prisoner to do as he sits all alone,
no one seems to care; former friends all gone?
What’s a prisoner to do sitting lost and idle
and most of one’s thoughts become suicidal?
What’s a prisoner to do when freedom’s taken away
and the will to live diminishes each day?
What’s a prisoner to do when hedged in by strife;
with no escape possible; no chance for a new life?
The King and Delka & Moiromma: the Cold Planet [Parts 25 and 26]
August 8, 2008
#25
The King and Delka [Split Mawkishness-on Moiromma /Part V]
Sickly Sentimentality
I have sought out friends Only to find rawness Of their passion; And the uniformity Of their vision.
Who out there can know My cerebral verve?
(Only the long dead)
By King Moir I
[Of Moiromma]
Ah! the aimless cosmos come back to his mind as he stands on his balcony looking up into he eerie dark. This he proclaimed to the ski: that evil and ugliness are simply ornamental bells attached to a being’s backbone; his tail in old age [he is now 500-years old]; crude as old age maybe, ‘?it has its frightful indisposed pride,’ he mumbles. It all gives him reason to love with hate, mix it up, mold it together, revolt with it; thus it turns into abhorrence and envy; flimsy as it may be, it wasn’t so in the beginning of his youthful kingship-he reasons, but it is now. Hence, he made a judgment, which ended up in his dramatic interest in Delka, the general’s wife, young and beautiful wife (the general being his old and faithful friend). And so he told himself all this, as he stood there looking into the bleak eldritch dark skies, becoming more nauseous and repulsive with a bitter filled mind.
In The Midst Of All
August 3, 2008
In the midst of darkness, there is light.
In the midst of evil, there is virtue.
In the midst of war, there is peace.
In the midst of agony, there is ecstasy.
In the midst of night, there is day.
In the midst of illness, there is health.
In the midst of winter, there is summer.
In the midst of hate, there is love.
In the midst of grief, there is healing
In the midst of hunger, there is Bread of Life
In the midst of thirst, there is Living Water
In midst of loneliness, there is companionship
In the midst of sin, there is redemption
In the midst of catastrophe, there is restoration
In the midst of rain, there is a rainbow
In the midst of adversity, there is privilege
In the midst of decay, there is renewal.
In the midst of hopelessness, there is possibility.
In the midst of poverty, there is wealth.
In the midst of pain, there is joy.
In the midst of tears, there is laughter.
In the midst of anguish, there is pleasure.
In the midst of disappointment, there is satisfaction.
In the midst of futility, there is hope.
Ballade of an Inca King
July 28, 2008
Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and land
Says the Inca King?;
In Spain, they leave the bustling streets,
For sail to Peruvian shores;
The murmur of the gold is sweet,
It glows and glistens like the sun
A mountain of gold, or the grave
Awaits the human, Inca-god?!
Spaniards sing their songs of victory
Where breaks the green Peruvian sea;
Who now, worships the Inca King (?)
Guarded behind prisons doors-?
They chatter about his golden rings
They watch the winds cross the shores?
They count the days that idle by,
For gold they worship and will die.
Envoy.
Another spring will never pass,
Swallowed up by death, and death-
The Spanish voices combine-:
Will kill the Inca-King in time;
Before the gold arrives I fear?
It all will be hidden low, low
In the hollow of the earth, in the
Moonlit tunnels of Peru!?
#731 6/13/2005
Three Love Poems [all wicked]
July 23, 2008
Advance: Mr. Dennis Siluk’s poetry can have its fire-hearted twists: as with ‘Lovers’…’, and ‘Death…’ and the ‘Loves’s Curse’;but love can carry with it, luring assets, especially in these three poems, as you will soon see; two of which he calls sonnets. He sings a dim song, but it all seems to fit in the river of bitter waters; or salty waters. Be that as it may, they are worth the adventure in reading them, weary as they may be. For those interested, his new book of poems will be out in weeks, “Spell of the Adnes,” it will be a charming book. Rosa Penaloza
Loves’ December
[or: December’s Sonnet]
Love died here
Songs ago;
O’er her breasts,
Two-faced soul,
Roses throw;
No more tears;
By and by,
Poppies near!
By and by,
De’cber ?tears
To Death’s King-
Does not die!
Wakes when white
December’s high!
#731/ 6/12/05
Death’s Sonnet
Day has flown!
Dim with gray
The winds sway
The Hell’s moan
Stand alone!
For this day
Is your repay
And atone!
Rare I know,
Life was so
Through the halls
Mechanical Poetry - Part Three
July 17, 2008
Have you ever read the lyrics of a Simon and Garfunkle song? Pure poetry. Want to write poems like that? Start copying them. Let me explain.
The Myth Of Creativity
Creativity is somewhat of a myth. It isn’t that it doesn’t exist, but people’s ideas about it are mis-informed. Many believe that to be creative is to come up with something completely new. There isn’t an artist or inventor out there who has done this.
Somebody had to write the first four-line verse or haiku poem, right? Now is everyone that uses these forms an uncreative copy-cat? No, of course not. We must copy forms, general ideas and techniques, so why not do it more systematically?
Poem Writing Tricks
Copy a poem you like, and then play with the elements. Part of the beauty of a poem is in the structure and the rhythm. Why not insert your own words into that, to see what happens?
Here is the last part of a poem titled “Gratitude.” It started by painting a picture of the mountains,and then;
Words fail, as they should…
So there is nothing to say
There is nothing to say
There is nothing
Is nothing
Nothing…
Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish]
July 12, 2008
Fair Andes! Thy arms reach high
Of iron-woven solid stone
Thu art a condor to the sky
Of glory hidden in thy heart
So many paths, a maze of art?
In thy old, Mantaro Valley
Where adobes, breathe and tremble
Beyond your rustic shadows
There lays the prettiest of brooks
Is my heart, within its stream!
My image deeply carved, rippled
In its undiluted shallow waters
Waiting, just waiting for me?
As it opens up, opens up my soul
My rippled soul-searching-eyes!…
Note: Between Lima, Peru, and the Andes, and just beyond is the Mantaro Valley; therein, lays the area and village called San Jeronimo; tucked away within its foliage, and rustic background, is a brook, a stream that runs down form the mountains. It is a lazy and peaceful place. It glistens with the sun. What more can I say. #725 6/10/05
In Spanish
A las Montañas
[ o : Arroyo de San Jeronimo]
¡hermosos Andes! tus brazos llegan alto.
De piedra tejida por hierro sólido
tu eres un condor para el cielo
De gloria ocultada en tu corazón.
Two Poems on the Traditions of Peru [in English and Spanish]
July 6, 2008
Atahualpa’s Game
[Peruvian]
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
Note: 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. And legend has it, because of a chess game, he was killed, while Catalina Wanka was on her way bringing Gold for his freedom, of which she stopped abruptly, and hid, once finding out, the king was murdered by the Spaniards.
El Juego de Atahualpa
A veces, no es sabio
Compartir su sabiduría
—como hizo, Atahualpa
( El Rey inca) en el
Juego de ajedrez; a partir de entonces,
Él fue condenado a muerte.
6/6/05 *713
21.
Ica, Witches
[Peruvian]
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]
Note: there are stories, that even my wife agrees with, that she has heard that witches haunt this area of Peru; a city in the South part of Peru.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
June 30, 2008
1.
Night in Jamaica
[Peruvianism: 1810]
It was a rainy night they say
When don Simon Bolivar
Slept in the arms of beautiful
-Luisa Crober
(of Jamaica); thus an
Assassin missed his mark
When he stabbed Major Amestoy
Sleeping in the dark
In Bolivar’s hammock!…
#719 6/7/05
2.
Sacred Something
Love for love
curse for curse
what you plant
(in the furrow):
is what you
get tomorrow.
6/8/05 #720
3.
Epitaph in El Dorado
Ride high, ride high
The shade replied
Over the mountains
To the valley
There upon a cliff
You’ll see
A placed called
El Dorado
His madden brain
Was sick with pain
Beholding to the shadow
But he found the gold
And then was told
You’ll never leave
The valley?
And so it was
That he grew old
Sitting there in the Valley
Counting gold
Eating toads?
And
I’m sick of this poem
But it needs an end
So my friend, I must say
This epitaph was is his story.
6/9/05 #725
4.
Epitaph of a Shoeshine Boy
[A Macabre poem]
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
June 25, 2008
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your answer is “I start writing.” Even writing a bad poem is better than waiting for the “right words.” You can always throw it away, and the process has begun. You’ll start to find the words sooner than if you had just waited. Here are some more ways to get started.
Sing A Poem
Try a little experiment - alone in the basement if you must. Describe something, then describe it again, singing instead of talking. You’ll notice the words you use change. Your sentences will generally be more rythmic. It is also easier to rhyme when you are singing.
Singing comes from the right side of the brain. This is the side that handles pattern-recognition. When you sing, you access this part of your brain, and you’ll get ideas or patterns of words that are difficult for your analytical left-brain to create. Try it.
Start With Poetic Materials
You can create poetry by listing words most likely to result in decent poems. Look for emotional content, for example. “Love” and “worship” have more poetic potential than “like,” right? Scan a book, pick out powerful words, and write them down. You may want to write words that rhyme with them alonside. Then start using them.
