(Poem in memory of Martha Murray, June 12, 1918-October 17, 2009)

Flow, tears of sadness, flow.

Go, tears of sadness, go.

Tears of distress,

tears of the stress,

do not be shy; do not get scared by mankind.

Borrow the voice of  Bartimaeus the blind.

Run, jump, fly.

Go, and fly high.

Go and wake up the Mandara Mountains.

Go and stand near all the Mokolo fountains.

Tell my people that one dear wing has gone above our zone.

Tell them that the other wing is left alone.

Tell them that California is shaking.

Tell them that my heart is aching.

Run, jump, fly.

Go, and fly high.

Put my pain and anguish in a bag tied with a strong rope.

Throw them in the ocean of hope,

and everything will be fine.

For our mother Martha Murray is gone to shine

among the brightest and most faithful stars in the sky.

Tell everybody that she will never die.

Flow, tears of joy, flow.

Grow, tears of joy, grow.

Fly, tears of holiness, fly.

Go and glorify the Eternal and Most High.

Composed by Moussa Bongoyok

Pasadena, 10/28/2009 at 6:30 pm

while thinking strongly about Martha Leota Murray.

© Copyright 2009, by Moussa Bongoyok.

Here is a poem on war, perhaps the last battle of WWIII; Dennis puts it into a biblical form. It is much like what is happening today, and this poem should live on as a reminder of war to be and its developing process. Rosa

Valley of the Beast
[Armageddon]

They were assembled for the feast, the feast of victory, in the Valley of the Beast, the Valley of Armageddon!

The vaults of Hell now, were opened, to assault the nations of the earth: hence, Hell spoke:

‘Cursed be to those who do not heed these words: join us in the valley of the beast, for war!’

And so the world sat waiting on war, with blood soaked knees, in the Valley of Beast. And they came from far and near: from bog, valley and woodlands; from the north, east; and far west—brother against brother (to fight for the Beast, in the Valley of Armageddon).

They came from Hell’s abyss, commanded by none other than, Agaliarept, Lucifer’s henchman; with hissing, clutching at the feet of nations, until they carried: “War, war, war…!” And there they stood with flaming swords, and many died caked with blood up to their thighs, as the fury roared—two billion died; and thus, the prince of darkness, was shackled for a season, but he will be back: by and by.

One Of Us

Vicki as you know I am not there,

I am sorry, I am on some distant sand,

but I just wanted to say “I love you”,

and I think these are words you will understand.

Because I have been ‘Blued’ for 18 years,

and in that time, I have missed many a special event,

but having said that, you have been there for me,

and I should know, my angel has been heaven sent.

Because you have often taken the load on your own,

your selfless actions have kept the family strong,

and never with any regard to your health or well being,

you have kept the home stable, all along.

You sacrifice every minute of every day,

and always, you are firmly last in the queue,

and Vicki, I just wanted to say “thanks”,

yes, I am very proud of all that you do.

Some say it is the military way,

some have said it is just the military life,

but I know nothing could be further from the truth,

I am so very proud of my wonderful wife.

Because you always put everyone ahead of you,

and all you ask is my love and respect in return,

but I am not sure I have expressed that so well,

so all my past efforts, I think I will burn.

Because you are so much more than a wife,

and I am going to tell you this before these lines end,

not only are you the love of my life,

yes indeed, Vicki, you are my very best friend.

I consider myself the luckiest man alive,

you and our daughter mean the very world to me,

and I just wanted to thank you for being you,

you have made my world a great place to be.

I want nothing more than to grow old with you,

I want you to see our love etched on my face,

because I am going to spend the rest of my life with you,

and I promise, for most of it, we’ll be in the same place.

But our bond is stronger than anything we know,

even though our relationship was a bit rocky in the start but Vicki,

I want you to know that you are here with me,

we’re always connected, no matter how many miles we’re apart.

But the longer we are together the more we become alike,

so I think you should give up and stop all the fuss,

come on! Get crazy, cross over to the dark side,

yes Vicki, it is time you became one of us!

But in the meantime, just know that I love you,

in truth, I love you with all my heart and soul,

for with you in my life, I am complete,

yes,you are the one that makes me completely whole.

And tonight, please go outside and look skywards,

and there you will see a twinkling star,

and that will be me, sending you my love,

telling you exactly just how wonderful you are.

So I will finish by saying Happy 17th Anniversary,

I guess that is really what these words are for,

s o here is to you Vicki, you are truly beautiful,

and here is to our everlasting love, for evermore.

Everyone is capable of writing a jaw-droppingly beautiful poem, so why do most shy away from writing love poems to those special people in their lives? They don’t know the tricks that the masters use to get emotion evoking works every time.

First you need to separate yourself from outside distraction and focus on writing. This may be achieved by turning on some beautiful music or by relocating: going to a park or other quiet area.

You must be able to feel every word and how it relates and sounds with the other words. So it is not a bad practice to read the poem or recite it as you are writing it.

As far as feeling every word: you should have already determined a general theme of the poem before you write (lost love, new love, pain in love, etc.). After you have identified that feeling there are a few steps you can take to draw the poetry out.

1) Read a similar poem by a master poet. (They are a master if they are able to create a reaction or feeling when you read it.) Then write your poem based on the same poetic conventions (techniques or form).

2) Watch a moving video with a similar theme to the poem that you plan to write about. Then after the feeling evoked by the video is still fresh in your memory. Write your poem.

3) Listen to a love song with a similar theme to the poem that you plan to write about. Picture yourself in the song writer’s place. Really connect with the feeling. You can keep the song on repeat after you have listened to it while you write your poem.

4) Choose a random title or theme that has nothing to do with love and somehow connect the two in the poem.

Examples:
Free Love Poems
Mustard
Her eyelashes were mustard the day we met
the smell of her perfume so strong that it made me dizzy
I thought the dizziness was me falling for her

The second time we met she wasn’t wearing perfume,
She smelled like an old locker room
And had the look of a hooker
Black lashes, black liner, black leather
…that was the end of the story with Sue.

Mustard (theme)
At first she seemed ordinary.
She seemed like a hundred other girls I met,
so I didn’t pay her any attention.
But after having her there in our little group for so long
I started to miss her when she got her full time job.
Every time we went out, everyone could feel something was missing.

After a couple of weeks I decided to visit her job.
She lit up like a kid at Christmas,
I chatted about how much fun we were having without her,
She looked down and asked why I’d come.
I said some of the girls were asking for her.
She said she’d see if she could join us on the weekends.

That weekend she came;
I started talking to her more;
she knew…
(What mustard adds to a dish is the underlying theme.)

5) Begin with an image in your mind of yourself in a situation that evokes the emotion or theme you plan to write about. It can be a real situation or imagined. Pretend that you are talking to the person reading the poem as you write about the experience (This is what good romance novelists do.)

Example:

It was dark and cold,
I could still feel his hands all over me,
The wind gushed
Pushing me back to the direction of his apartment.

I didn’t want it like this:
Kisses with a stranger, in a strange land,
He probably was a convict, probably had a disease,
It started to drizzle.

I didn’t have a car.
He didn’t have a car.
He wanted me so bad, cared so much
He didn’t even walk me home.

I’m a mile away;
These tracks I’ve crossed before have never seemed so long.
Why did I feel like there we a thousand eyes looking at me?
As I climbed the final steps up to my house,
I found my roommates asleep.

Why weren’t they worried about me?
Why weren’t they looking for me?
What if I’d never come home?
Sleep welcomes me for now.

For Mothers Day we need to make sure that our moms know that we as children and spouses love them deeply. Not only are they mothers in our eyes, but also mothers in God’s eyes as well. And I can’t think of anything better than to put your words with God’s and make a Christian poem she will never forget.

If you think you might have some trouble with creating a breath taking Christian poem for Mothers Day, then read on and follow the steps to achieve success.

Step 1 – Brainstorm
The first thing you need to do is think about all the kind things that she does for you daily and write them down on a sheet of paper in list form. It’s important to let her know you don’t overlook the small things she does everyday. Next, you need to write down BIG things she has done for you that you will NEVER forget. These are times where you couldn’t have made it through a situation if it wasn’t for a strong Christian mother. Write these memories down numbering them 1, 2, 3, 4, etc.

Step 2 – Go To the Word
Now this is the best part. Take the memories you have of the things she does for you, and compare that to what other mothers did for their children in the Bible. The easiest way to do this is to do a search for “mothers in the Bible” and read about the things they did for their children. Once you have a pretty good grip on moms you admire (Miriam, May, Leah, Rachel, etc.), then you can write down the scriptures on the same piece of paper you have your memories.

Step3 – Writing Some Lines
Now you are reading to begin writing some poetry. I suggest taking a memory and writing it down, then put the work “like” and add how a biblical mom did the same thing. For example: “You sacrifice your dreams for mine like JOCHEBED did for her son Moses”. Next be a little creative and add another memory/comparison and this time have the last word rhyme with the last word of the previous line. For example: “You love me just the same as Leah did, even though I’m not the oldest.” The words don’t have to rhyme exactly, but its important to have the biblical references in each line (adding scriptures would help as well).

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!”

#1761 3-24-2007

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.

Burning Autumn Leaves

[1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]

My long steel pointed rake punctured

And twisted through tons of autumn leaves

(back in the ‘50s);

And there’s a hill yet, I didn’t rake, I see

Behind it, two embankments

Leaves I didn’t rake a day ago;

The essence of fall sleeps on the ground.

I love the scent of burning leaves:

I seem to dream of them nowadays.

I cannot shake the excitement I get

From the sight and smells of burning leaves.

Now the city will not allow the burning,

Not sure what can take its place—:

Only wishful thinking and dreaming, I think.

But every leaf that now appears, in autumn

I keep hearing the cracking of the fire; see

The flickering-flames of burning leaves; I

Can even smell—-the autumn leaves of long ago.

I have had too much of raking leaves, I do believe—.

I’m now old and tired, too tired to rake those hills;

Yet raking I still desire, not sure why.

There were a thousand days I raked, back then

Held in hand, the rake that struck the earth—

Spiked, into its dirt—capturing those critters (leaves)

Like thieves—: thieves sleeping.

This tiredness of mine will never go away, I fear

It’s called aging, or something, so I will have to find

Another place, to smell the burning autumn leaves;

And perhaps, perchance, do just a ting of raking:

Before the long, long, very long sleep.

#771 7/24/05

In Spanish

Hojas ardientes de otoño
(Los años de 1950 en St. Paúl. Minnesota)

Mi rastrillo de acero largo y puntiagudo pinchó

Y dio vuelta a través de toneladas de hojas

(Atrás en los años 50);

Y hay una colina aún, que no rastrillé, yo veo

Detrás de esto, dos terraplenes

De hojas que yo no rastrille hace un dìa;

La esencia del otoño dormirá sobre el piso.

Me gusta la esencia de las hojas ardiendo;

Yo parezco soñar con ellas estos días.

No puedo sacudirme el entusiasmo que consigo

De la vista y los olores de quemar hojas:

Ahora la ciudad no permitirá quemar,

No seguro de qué puede tomar lugar-:

Solo el optimismo pensando y soñando, Pienso

Pero cada hoja que ahora aparece, en otoño

Yo sigo oyendo el crujir del fuego; veo

El parpadear de las llamas de hojas ardiendo; yo

Puedo aún oler- las hojas de otoño de hace tiempo.

He tenido demasiado rastrillando hojas, Yo creo-

Ahora yo estoy viejo y cansado, demasiado cansado

para rastrillar esas colinas;

Aun rastrillando y todavía deseando, no seguro ¿por qué?

Hubo miles de días que rastrillé, atrás entonces

Sosteniendo en la mano, el rastrillo que golpeo la tierra-

Claveteando, dentro de su suciedad- capturando aquellos

bichos (hojas)

Como ladrones-: ladrones durmiendo.

Este cansancio mío no se irá jamás, yo temo

Esto es llamado envejecimiento o vejez, entonces yo tendré

que encontrar

Otro lugar, para oler las hojas ardiendo en otoño;

Y talvez, la posibilidad, de hacer justo un intento de rastrillar:

Antes de largo, largo, muy largo sueño.

Illiria’s Tyranny I

Countless years of wondering aimlessly yet free
the savage and desolate nomadic tribes accounted for,
‘…where evil deeds…’ Illiria the king, said in his heart,
‘belonged to Reu and the Think Tank,’ for they no longer
resided on Lihmoir, and unjustly let these tribes defy the king:
these tribes that wondered the free Chaeronsierras.

For Forty-four years Illiria ruled Lihmoir, the last
twenty in tyranny; yet he was still king. Thus, he
took with dismay upon his subjects, wishing for
an equal, feeling quite superior, and taking
at will the women he wished under his rulership.
Women for him, he found to be fascinating,
but after a while boring. They simply wanted
to keep pace with wealth; when he wanted more
beyond their sight, if by receiving freely, or
by taking by might, it didn’t matter to him,
as long as it was an end to his end. He was
born to be king, king he was, so he felt, and would
remain. Yet both races received him carefully (the
Lihmoirils and the half-breeds), but gladly, yet
half holding their breath.

Vigilance II

Still the mountain nomads were hot against the kingship
of Illiria, over them for in their hearts they knew Illiria
was not for the betterment of the land, his kingdom, and
wished to bring them into his watchfulness, his yoke, heel.
Secretly, the nomads made swords out of a great meteorite
and so hard and sharp were they, they could be used as
a battle-axes. And Odlon the Seer cast a spell on them—
and swiftness and strength abound within the swords
transferring it into the bodies of the beholders, and more;
and the power of the warriors were great, so great!

The Battle

When these swords struck another sword fire came from them,
melted the metal and cracked the foes in-two, stunning the
demonic-hybrid whom died just like humans, in battle.
The Poet and Rodlon took no sides, to plight…war;
living in a grotto in the mountains, scorned by Illiria.

Thus, there was one-hundred swords cast in iron and
nickel of great power were they, and most desired by all…
for whom had them, were unbeatable in combat. Hence,
the two kingdoms remained unwelcome by one another
and no good will ever ceased between the two….

Illiria’s Lust and Pride III

Now Illiria’s pride increased until it had no
bounds, and he insisted he become master,
insisted with a deep profound madness to be
recognized as Lord and King of the Chaeronsierras
and the Real Mountains beyond them, which were all
clustered together, along with the high mountains,
the Navahos (or White Mountains). Yes indeed, he
became the black lord of Lihmoir, so the dark years
began, and many of The Great Enclosure of Totemic
fled to the three sets of mountains, to escape the
domination of the obsessive king…strange
he became. It was in the high Navahos the nomads
built their stonewalls, thick and high, with iron
tower framed roofs, and became fierce warriors.
Illiria seen this as a challenge of and to his might,
now sixty-one years old, he wanted to be know
like King Nirut, of long ago. And so great was his
craving for fame and power, he drove his large
army, 24,000-feet high into the deep White Mountains,
thinking the nomadic tribes could not withstand his ,
thirty-thousand men, against their five-thousand.
But pride and madness comes before wreckage,
and with blizzard after blizzard, and cold with
unforeseen hardships, they all perished in the long
winters unrest: and Rue, thanked the Almighty, for
opening His storm room, someplace in the heavens.

Written 7-22-2007

Index of Characters and Places

The names of the followers of Illiria were:

Ralov, Thogrom, Omlu, Ronaef’el,

Ramadle and Ewlo

Navahos (or White Mountains)

Real Mountains

Semyaz, the Astrometry Demon

Sesra, the Chief Maker (nomadic tribe leader)

Illiria, son to Ewwam and Tyr the Demon

The Great Mountains: Chaeronsierra

Agaliarept, the Henchman

King Roneaf: of Lihmoir

(Who seeks he Iron Core)) The Great Enclosure of Totemic))

Land of the Trees of Namear

Lord Rue of the Black Galaxy

The Cobbler of the Think Tank

Roklem, the story teller (Poet)

Rodlon, the High Priest and Adviser

Ewwam, wife to the King

Odlon, seer of the Dark Tree forest of Namear

Tyr, a demonic being, insane and lustful

Marduk, the Dark Lord of Hell, third in Command

Tnailognu, the Great sea of Lihmoir

Maybe there is a God.
Maybe we were never meant to live this way.
Maybe there is such a thing as true love.
Maybe we’re all crazy, and normal is only an ideal that is out of reach.
Maybe we should’ve taken that escape… or maybe we shouldn’t have.
Maybe we’ll never be happy… or maybe we are happy and we won’t realize it until later.
Maybe philosophy is an idea that got out of hand… or maybe religion is.
Maybe we shouldn’t have acted so quickly on an inhibition that failed to stay strong.
Maybe I let my guard down.
Maybe we experienced too much in too little time… or maybe we didn’t experience enough.
Maybe we should learn more about something we know nothing about…
and when we learn more about it, we should write down how it affected our perspective,
but we probably won’t.
Maybe these words will hit home, or maybe they’re just a waste of my time and yours…
not to mention a waste of ink and paper.
Maybe I should’ve stopped thinking before I started.
Maybe I’m repeating myself…again.
Maybe I opened my mind too much, or maybe I didn’t open it enough.
Maybe we’ll all die tomorrow, and that job, car, mortgage payment, deadline, project,
or whatever else we think is so important, really never mattered.
Maybe we forgot to say “I love you” when it was our last chance to do so.
Maybe there is a hell and maybe we’re all going there.
Maybe perfection is possible in this world, or maybe perfection is only a perspective.
Maybe fact is only an opinion.
Maybe all of these maybes and questions of whys, whats, and hows, cannot be answered…
or maybe the answers are right there in front of us.
Maybe we care too much about what others might think, or maybe we don’t care enough.
Maybe we should’ve held on to our innocence a bit longer.
Maybe we have more to say than words can portray.
Maybe we were just too lazy to try.
Maybe this is the last chance to do something that no one has ever done before…
and maybe that chance has passed.
“Maybe I should stop thinking about everything and focus on nothing…Maybe I should just sleep on it”

The Potato Patch

One day—oh, I suppose I was, say ten,

I asked my mother to ask my grandfather

For a garden plot—, somewhere in our

Backyard:

And somehow, she got him to agree—;

Twisted his knees, perhaps—I don’t

Know—but the Old Russian Bear

Was hard to please…!

It wasn’t a garden to plow or hoe,

Just a patch, a little plot in the backyard

By the fence: that’s all.

And there I planted my first garden—

Potatoes….

It was kind of neat (so I thought), hidden

From anyone passing by; until I found out

Potatoes grow underground—

(not on top), and yes, it was

A mess, thereafter: digging, weeding,

Watering.

It seemed the season would never end,

But I did stick with it; and then came the

Day, the great day, to pluck those

Potatoes from their abode, and to show

Them to my mother and grandpa:

I was quite proud.

And when I did, when I pulled those

(roots and all) potatoes—from

Under the earth, I was devastated to

To find out: the eyes were bigger

Than the potatoes.

Traumatic I took it at first, I think

I even cursed

Advice? I have none, but I’ll tell you,

I never tried to grow potatoes again.

Note: #1183 1/31/2005; the year this story took place was perhaps l958.

IN SPANISH

Translated by Nancy Penaloza

El campo de papa

Un día-Ah, yo supongo que era, digo diez,

Yo pedí que mi madre pidiera a mi abuelo

Un terreno para jardín- en algún lugar en nuestro

Patio posterior:

Y de alguna modo, ella consiguió que él aceptara;-

Doblando sus rodillas, talvez- yo no

Se-pero el viejo oso ruso

Era duro de complacer…!

No era un jardín para arar o azadonar,

Solo un parche, un solar pequeño en el patio trasero

Por la cerca: eso es todo.

Y allí yo plante mi primer jardín-

De patatas…

Yo era en cierto modo ordenado (entonces pensé), escondido

De cualquiera que pasara cerca; hasta que descubrí

Patatas crecer debajo de la tierra-

(No en la punta), y si, esto era

Un desorden, de allí en adelante: excavando, desyerbando,

Regando.

Esto parecía la estación que jamás terminaría,

Pero yo aguante con esto; y luego vino el

Día, el gran día, para arrancar esas

Patatas desde su raíz, y para mostrarlos

A mi madre y mi abuelo:

Yo estaba casi orgulloso.

Y cuando lo hice, cuando yo jale esas

(Raíces y todo) patatas- desde

Debajo de la tierra, yo estaba muy triste por

Descubrir: los ojos eran más grandes

Que las patatas.

Traumático lo tome al comienzo, yo pienso

Aun lo maldigo

¿Consejo? No tengo ninguno, pero yo te diré,

Yo jamás trate de cultivar patatas nuevamente.

It can be extremely difficult to find the perfect words when looking for a funny 50th birthday poem. Finding a funny 50th birthday poem that will not only make someone laugh but is special, personal and uplifting can be quite a quest.

If you are going to write the poem yourself try to concentrate on funny aspects of the persons personality such as their annoying habits, embarrassing moments or a funny catch phrase they use over and over again. Combining these qualities will help you build a funny 50th birthday poem.

There are of course people that are willing to create a funny 50th birthday poem on your behalf. All you need to do is find an online poet, send him or her as much information as you can and they will produce a funny 50th birthday poem for you that is both unique and personal.

An example of a funny 50th birthday poem would be

Hike It!

I would like to tell you a story,

I think it will be one you like,

because it’s about a special person,

and a rather special hike.

Life has plenty of valleys,

with many a mountain to climb,

sometimes its hard to find the track,

at others its hard to find the rhyme.

But you are such a wonderful person,

you have risen to the challenges in your life,

a successful career, a beautiful home,

you are a caring Mom and a loving wife.

But life does not always go to plan,

you can get stuck in a crevice or two,

but you have always kept calm and collected,

you have always known just what to do.

And we all miss your Mom so very much,

life can not always be a calm and placid sea,

but it is nice that you felt close to her,

when climbing (and rhyming) your poetry.

You are a genuine and caring person,

you have been there when it mattered the most,

we all know that we can rely on you,

you are like a dependable leaning post.

You have been both judge and jury,

counselled many a case over so many years,

you have waded through rivers of emotion,

and probably sailed across a lake of tears.

It must have been hard for you,

reading those lines each and every day,

and then to come home each night,

and not act out the words in the play.

And now your Fifty years are up,

that is about 17,250 days,

but you are still growing so much,

you are growing in so many exciting ways.

And you are a bit of a roamer,

everybody knows that you love to rove,

but beware that two pots and an absent mind,

usually make for a very hot and smoky stove !

And we wonder at your wandering,

off you go when the weather is fine,

wandering into a rock or two,

or wandering right across the line !

So we wanted to wish you the best,

that is what these lines are for,

just know that we love and care for you,

and wish you at least another fifty more.

And as this sentiment comes to an end,

we hope indeed that you like it,

because we have one last wish for you:

Go chase your dream, GO Hike It!

Once you have written your funny 50th birthday poem whether it be for you friend, a parent or sibling consider presenting it in a card or something a bit fancy rather than just handing them a piece of paper.

The Woodchopper’s Henchmen

Fear has sickened them. A Wound by something—, viper–shaped: it has gnawed its way into his brain. And to be quite frank, never will the wounded reptilian know a moment of peace until he fads into the mist of silence, and becomes a trophy for royalty down in the Woodchopper’s domain; likened to all human things, we captures plant wooden veins.

It happens day or night; for myself, I live in a vague and horrific shadow, looking for dreams that lurk within ones consciousness; my friends, so called friends, for I must go along with them: nightmares, chaotic life can be an everlasting think, for the daydreamer I wish to greet.

Once sleep was a gift: a privileged feast for me: now it is a feared and haunted world; isonomic blitz. And those who know me: flee I tell them, gibbering on my ghoul like soul; with howling nameless obscenities, wanting my ear to find the demonic world for them, forever on earth. Wishing to be something more than what they were made for: with primitive, black powers galore.

Who am I, I am a man, I mean, was—I still think like one, perhaps I still am—for I was normal: with a history that was solid—and life experiences were common, all cut away like an angelical cord (like Satan’s was), to join the reptilian race in the pale abyss from which: yelping, and garnishing of teeth never cease: we are the monsters: nameless monsters of the deep.

So what haunts me, you ask (?) ushered in by the sound of horror, which I utter. A strange behavior do you not think (?) you who have savage tastes, a pale twilight, who shuts down with a chill of the wind, creeping up his spine from a drowning sea; you who like ordinary, now here is the strange: me. Primitive, describes me, but powerfully felt. I shall transport you into a darker age, mine, and you will look to see the huge shadows, the hairy dying, the man-like grasses that stem from the woods; we cut you down, once we plant you in the ground. We creep up, when you are tall trees, with hatches: grip you, then reshape you: eternally.

At such a moment, in such an ambiance, I will stand, and suddenly—if not interrupted—I will ghoul-like, or demon-like, or some beastly creature-like, I will appear on your narrow shadow: not far from where you are planted, head down, on this preoccupied ground, I swing my hat (off), and ax, and like dust and hair, and woodchips of mass, I make a trail of blood out for your figure: tree and grass, tree and grass.

What can I do, I’m the Henchman, the Master’s Woodchopper, and you are the wood, a stocky typical flesh wood, bent and gnarled from old age, on earth. Sometimes I will stand on a neighbors shambling shoulders, where fagots are eating his roots, and as I fall I cop plainly into the twilight shadow you leave in front of me; boredom has its paroxysms.

—I did meet one, a bright, blue-eyed fella, so often found in the Midwest, of the United States; up there in Minnesota, where there are a lot of trees to cut, and people too.

Now this man was very close to me in the woods, he was kind I guess in his own way, he stopped to let me pass on the path. The blue eyed man jerked his head up, and he seemed to be aware of my tasks, perhaps some kind of second sight. He wanted to transpose my head on his. I read his mind. Peculiar was his gesture, frozen now in a stance, as I walked up the path. Lips quivering, terrible; he screamed: ‘unseen beast’ (that’s me I said, with a reptilian sneer): he lurked up, and ran toward me, ah yes, I was bewildered, but not shrieking, I made no move to stop him, saw him coming, his blue eyes glaring at me wildly though the dusty path).

“Stop,” I said to him, “lest you want to be a root,” I was most kind, for he gave me the right away. But he was approaching me quite fast.

“Devil man,” he cried. And my old ax came out from my hidden side.

“You’re mad,” I yelled back at him from, he now being but a few feet from me; but he only laughed insanely.

“Die, die, die,” he cried, and laughed like an unharnessed horse: not sure if that was for him or me, I was dead to the fleshly world anyhow, just on an everlasting mission.

Now standing next to me: face to face, his eyes were no longer blue, fading to root-darkness; my passion got strong, and I shouted:

“Step back! “ Assured I would soon chop him up.

“You are not my breed,” I told this needing to be: a devil-man.

His eyes turned to gray, and then dark-yellowish-red: no longer was there a healthy tint to his deathly smile.

“I am not insane,” he yelled, standing in front of me.

“My place is no place for men like you,” I said, as he followed me down the path. My speed at night increased, as he followed, until I was deep in the woods, of ‘noname’. He thought it was still in Minnesota, but it was not. If there ever was an intended plot to this, he was becoming it.

A rumble of the earth now slacked his pace, and I slowed down to the star lit twinkling of the night. We were now in the forest of the Woodchopper: my ground; and all the roots and men were plainly not visible to him; they were (to me of course, and to be furnished furniture, in the King’s room, the maniac and well—, my un- mannered ruler.

“I’ll rest,” I old the fella, and down we sat. “You are welcome to stay as long as you want,” so I said to him with a ‘thanks,’ for giving me the courtesy, of letting me pass first (ahead of him) on the path, but restless now I was, and was hell; for hell wanted to see what next would transpire. (They also were famished for want of entertainment.)

Unimpressed, I felt over saturated with his bellowing for his passion, his passion being an upside down crucifix, around his skinny chicken-limp neck. All I knew was my king wanted a new wooden throne or perhaps a chair (since he didn’t like his bellowing either)—and I needed to grow the roots: fleshly roots are what make a demons throne you know. He shook his head at me, and I knew he could see: see—what now, was coming; and he leaped in the air, to run, and my ax cut him down (like a bloody hound): enough problems I said, with such a voice like his; thus, I cut out his tongue as well. And now he’s silent, dwelling in the lodge (as a chair), deep in the Woodcutters Hell.

Notes:

here are some updated reviews of Dennis for the year 2005:

Note 1: Recent interview on Radio Programas del Peru, concerning his two publications: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”; (RPP; Radio Programs and Channel #6, Cable Magico)) reaching five countries, and three contient)); over 15-million people; by Milagros Valverde, 11/15/2005, 11:00 PM. (Milagors read poems from both of Mr. Siluk’s books: “Spell of the Andes”and“The Ice Maiden”.)

Note 2: “Spell of the Andes,” recommended by the Cultural Agency in Lima- Peru; located in Alfredo Benavides # 605 – Apartment 201, phone number 2428942

Note 3: Interviewed by JP Magazine, interviewer Jose Luis Pantoja Ventocilla, who had very positive comments and appreciation for Dennis’ Poetic Peruvian Traditions and Contemporary way of Life; 10/26/2005.

Note 4: Mayor of San Jeronimo, Peru, Jesus Vargas Párraga, “All mayors should recognize Dennis’ work (on his Poetic traditions of Peru; and favourable articles for the Mantaro Valley Region) and publicize it…. (paraphrased: we should not hide his work)”

Note 5: 91.7 Radio “Super Latina”, 10/19/2005, interviewer Joseito Arrieta, reaching 1.2 million people in the Mantaro Valley Region about the book “Spell of the Andes” (paraphrased): the Municipality and the Cultural House from Huancayo should give an acknowledgement for the work you did on The Mantaro Valley.

Note 6: Channel #5 “Panamericana” 10/16/2005, “Good Morning Huancayo” (in Huancayo, Peru ((population 325,000)); interviewed by reporter: Vladimir Bendezú, on Mr. Siluk’s two books: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”: also on, Mr. Siluk’s biography; for the Mantaro Valley Region, in Peru.)

*Note 7: Cesar Hildebrandt, International Journalist and Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluk’s book, “Peruvian Poems,” to the world, saying: “…Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important….” (Population of Lima, eight million, and all of Peru: twenty-five million)) plus a number of other Latin American countries: reaching about sixty-three million inhabitants, in addition, his program reaches Spain)).

Note 8: More than 240,000-visit Mr. Siluk’s web site a year: see his travels and books…!

Note 9: Mr. Siluk received a signed personal picture with compliments from the Dalai Lama, 11/05, after sending him his book with a letter, “The Last Trumpet…” on eschatology.

Note 10: Ezine Articles [Internet Magazine] 11/2005, recognized by the Magazine Team, as one of 250-top writers, out of 14,700. Christopher Knight, Editor; annual readership: three-million (?)

Note 11: Dennis L. Siluk Columnist of the Year, on the International Internet Magazine, Useless-knowledge.com; December 5, 2005 (Annual Readership: 1.5 million).

Deep Days in the Dead City

Different Types Of Poems

Deep days in the dead city, in its jungle like streets,
‘Our days are numbered,’ I’ve heard that somewhere along life’s line; in songs, perhaps in the Bible, here, there, but I’m still here. Everyone wants to play in this game called life, I just want to get away, out of the city, its parks and dogs, its streets, and family members that are more strangers to me than strangers I’ve just met; I think a city over 50,000-you lose something (if not your heart, your head).
The Devils around more of the time I believe, in such bigger cities; I know He’s here in my hometown, St. Paul, Minnesota; He’s at the movies a lot also, I’d say. I’m not missed here much, and I live here, no reason to stay, love is in some other place. But He likes it like this, more games to play.

I had to cross many rivers, many streets, or so I feel to get to so many people that are too busy to give a damn, or a once of time, whom are more stuck in their own cocoons than I. What is my solution? Go to the mountains—leave them all behind, leave them before you lose your mind, there is no love no affection, pretense is like a vine, it wraps around their busy, busy, busy minds. Here my eyes never go dry; I’m like a ship sinking, everyone grabbing the rafts from me—let him sink, they sing, we got money to make, do other thing.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, hope never to see you again, everyone. Don’t need me anymore anyway, time, struggles, the big city, the jungle streets: you never gave an once of peace, or sleep, and everyone thinks he or she is the great somebody, the man, the king of the house, the whore who never scored, the bitch who got rich, and lost her soul for a dead fish. Raise the kids to spit farther, too late to teach them right from wrong, respect or regret, the city will tell you how to act and raise them, or perhaps it did: it’s your children, the city’s got your best interests: and the kids turn out to be worthless. The walking dead, better you talk to stranger, less dread, or go to the mountains instead.

Advance: “What am I missing,” I asked myself, “perhaps nothing,” I answered my second self. Then I said, “…let the actions about to happen, happen!” Who besides God, knows what is missing in one’s life anyhow?” a rhetorical question at best.

“Perhaps it is the path I am looking for,” I ask myself; the one that very few find. Perchance I should worry about bridges falling, instead of trucks coming to save me. O yes, you are not aware of the riddle of the dream yet, not yet anyway, and then you will understand what I am saying here.

Dreams are like clouds, some grow heavy inside of you; some have thunder and go away; still some are like rain that drives you here or there. Some wipe out boundaries, others bring you a great harvest. But there are also shadows and riddles in dreams; windows that quickly—afterwards—disappear into thin air, but nonetheless they are there (were there), for a moment or two: like seashells, with an incoming tide: in a moment’s time, the outgoing tide will wash them away, back into the sea where they came from, some will be left on the shore, some I say, part of the riddle I would guess.

We are really but a guest inside our own bodies on earth, and conceivably, in the next world. Like guests I say, like those seashells we were talking about: thus, for a moments time, on the shores of your dreams we can be left likewise—I’d guess; rising and falling with the tide (fantasy has its own face, like salvation and ghosts, death, all with a satisfied desires, a truths, secrets lingering).

But let’s leave for the country where the dreams are born, and the riddles live. There the skies are always bright or dark, not much in-between, and the moon rides on a silly donkey, and the world on a fat shelled turtle. Here, poems are made to touch the secrets of the mind, as the mind hurls out dreams when it wants to tell you—in a less harmful way—those secrets. Maybe you can dream a little when you read this, so the riddle suggests.

The Poems:

I had been driving on this highway, in my car, I must had gotten tired
When I awoke, I found myself stalled was on its curb (somewhat);

I had slept the night away (or so, that was my best guess).
Thus, onward I went, straight ahead, leaving behind, whatever was.
Where I was going besides straight ahead, I ‘m not sure of, just going.
Then I found myself on this transverse (crossroads) of sorts; again
I found myself crossing them, and heading (it would seem) north.
I went under these bridges, and the farther I went, the deeper the mud

until that is, until the car could not move: hence, I abandoned the car.
I looked about, I looked forward to continue my journey but it was not

to be, the mud was too thick, for man or car to move about in it

freely…!

I looked back; I had gone too far to return, I’d not make it, too exacting

and I was too exhausted.
I looked at where I was at: here—it was not possible for me to remain—

and survive that is (plus where was I? I didn’t know).
There were truck tracks all about, several feet thick, and the road

several lanes wide.
“What can I do?” I said, bridges over head, “What truck could ever drive

through this?”

All this I was facing, a dilemma if not a riddle—I tried to escape this dream-

vision, but it would not fade—go away.
So I had little choice, but to stay where I was at, and somehow the riddle

told me to wait, be patient, but action is what I was used to.
The riddle said: “Remain where you are (for man does not live on bread

alone)) does he?))”
Then it occurred to me, beyond my realm of reason—there is less

limitations,
And so in my mind I created a multi dimensional truck, one that could

pass through all this damn mud, one that could reach
Beyond the tops of the bridges without damaging a thing (possibilities).

I’m still waiting under that bridge, perhaps when I wake up and write this

out, more possibilities will surface;

Perchance, just by waking up, is a possibility, and solves the riddle.

Perhaps the only way to find out the secrets, are in one’s sleep.
Maybe we are the seashells waiting to be pulled back into the sea, the

Universe, where we came from…more possibilities.
Whatever, or is it wherever the answer lies, we are in the middle I do

believe, and the riddle has told me: “…there are more possibilities.”

I have always told you
You could tell me anything
And for many years you have
But there was one thing you were holding back
Waiting
For the right time
But that time never came

You say
That time and time again
You have watched me give my heart
To another
And when it was crushed
You were there to help me
Pick up the shattered pieces
When all you ever wanted
Was just one chance to show me love

But now you tell me
That last time was the last time
That your tired heart cannot take
It any more
And this time I am on my own
You tell me
You are walking away
Because it hurts too much
To love me

And when my fragile heart
Is broken
Once again
I will truly be alone
And I will know
Finally
What it feels like to be you

Your words cut through me
Deep into my soul
A pain I never knew existed
(And I know something about pain)
And I know you mean
These words you say
I know I have to say goodbye
Set you free

I wish so much that things
Were different
I wish I could have loved you
The way that you wanted
And I don’t want to lose you
In my life
But I cannot
I cannot be that girl for you
I cannot be your “everything”
I cannot love you
As you want me to

And we cannot add this
To the list of things best left unsaid
And you cannot live in silent torture anymore
And I know why you have to go
I understand now
And we can never go back

But if you’re leaving
You need to go now
Walk away
And don’t say goodbye
Because I cannot
I cannot see the pain in your eyes
And know it is because of me
I cannot watch your heart break
And know I am the cause

So please just go then
And don’t look back
Because I cannot be
Who you need me to be
I’m sorry

The Poem:

Tale of a Heart and Soul

This is an odd story (or tale)

to say the least,

where I came upon any angry old man once

in Garmish Germany, back in ‘73—.

We walked together in the surrounding hills

and thus, spotted two young boys—

with silver-white hair, perhaps three or four

years of age, playing with a wolf,

that was peaceful, joyful, quite happy….

“Awe,” said the old man in fright and spite,

Just what do we have here?”

Spooked in admiration he was,

angry for whom, knows what!

He said to me, irritatingly, “If I were that

wolf beast, I’d be wild, free and happy!

I wish, I wish, I wish I could be!”

And I do believe, sometimes when we

wish hard enough, God grants us just

that, what we want, but shouldn’t have…

a lesson perhaps, to be learned,

if not by the ‘wisher’ hopefully by others.

And then, all of a sudden, the old man

was calm, peaceful, joyful, singing a song,

wanting to play with the boys, haply,

as if he really knew them…!

(something was very wrong);

then the angry wolf, attacked him—

not me, perhaps (so I thought at the time)

it was the Old man, inside the wolf’s skin,

and the wolf inside the man,

and the wolf killed him,

and I shot the wolf…!

#1784 4-8-2007 (D) Sometimes things happen for reasons beyond our comprehension, and simply not knowing why, so we guess at its internal structure, its motivation, reasoning, motives for being, happening, when it is the simplest of all to say what you really think and feel, and that is usually right. As in this case, perhaps the man got his wish, and envy got its revenge, one of the deadly seven sins.

The Story

Here for the first time in print is the story behind the poem “Tale of a Heart and Soul” as told by Poet Laureate, and author, Dennis L. Siluk.

November, 1970.

A village called Garmish, in West Germany in a small valley surrounded by mountains. A focus for the many on ski jumps, meadows, and hills in the valley, the valley with a population of at least than five thousand, supplying the churches, guesthouses and the few hotels. No movie house. The only way the traveler can find his way to the valley in winter is by automobile, the train runs up to the end of October.

The hotel is small and clean, the rooms are not well heated; not much more can be said about it, although it has a bar in the back of it, and the architecture is of an old German Bavarian look. A man named Ski (for short: he was Polish) once a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, a widower and retired and now living in Augsburg, Germany for the last seven-years. He is five feet nine-inches tall. He is in great physical condition and looks younger than he is. He has a handsome square chin, on his face, with deep blue eyes, and an unsmiling mouth that twitches when he is annoyed, irritated or simply angry, and quickly it shapes into grimness and germinates for hours.
Seldom does he smile, but sometimes a cleaver smile appears. The secret of his youthful appearance is not his physical prowess, not his quick wit, nor his sharp words; at times odd if not mysterious they can be, but his lack of tolerance (his facial mannerisms, his boyish frown); also, he is clean shaving, and his hair is always groomed, cu short and perfectly. The color of his skin is milk white and smooth, he constantly grooms himself.

We had first met each other at Reese Compound (an American Army base) at its small PX (a store for the military personnel) through a mutual friend on the base, Bruce Small, a southern boy from North Carolina. He thought we might be interested in going to Garmish Germany together, perhaps skiing, or just for a weekend holiday, since we both liked to travel, to get away, and drink in the few Guesthouses they have. I got to know him, He was an angry man, Ski, and had a reputation as a thief, but I was very interested nonetheless, in doing as much traveling around Germany as I could, and it was a good opportunity I thought to have company and someone who knows the area with me. And Garmish was on my mind. He often became alarmed at anyone disrespectful to him or anyone around him he liked, and as I noticed, had very few friends. He suggested we go to Garmish in November—this was in August. I said it was premature, but I would think about it. During this time there was an investigation going on concerning him and a robbery at the big military PX in Augsburg, the officials involved, were looking at him closely, and I expect the cloths he was wearing, for the robbery involved, $3000-dollars worth of stolen cloths, taken. Anyway, I promised to keep him up dated and informed on the matter.

And so it was that I found myself one cold November afternoon standing with Ski on this hillside lightly covered with patches of frost and snow, a winter chill in the air, the valley of Garmish below us, and a cozy farm along side of us. For the most part, this was ski’s getaway during winter nothings I had learned.

Ski stood stone-still on the ground, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s [whiskey] in his side pocket, to keep his insides warm. We had a fence in front of us; se somewhat absently shifted his body, as if off and on, as if he was playing chess. There were figures in the far distance, between the farm house and the fence were we stood, behind. We both, Ski and I stepped off the dirt road, closer to the fence to get a better look.

DS: The great thing about his place is we are almost alone here.

Ski: There’s no snow, wait a few more weeks, all of Germany will be here skiing or resorting for the weekends.

DS: I’ve never downhill skied before.

Ski: Want to start learning?

DS: You going to give me a lesson?

Ski: perhaps, let’s see who those figures are, they’re coming out way.

(What I found to be those figures are off were two small boys about four-year olds, silver-white hair, fraternal twins, and a large wolf, they were playing with one another, a large cow with a bell had followed them, and remained close by. They must have been less than twenty feet away from the fence, from us. They waved at us, and in a casual manner went about playing again. I think I took a candid photograph, snapshot inside my mind of this; it was odd for such a scene. It seemed the children were unaware of the danger that lay before them, or it was us who were unaware, that there was no danger to be aware of.)

A little trigger for Ski, I guess that’s what you would call this, or this being the beginning of it.

DS: Cute boys! (The cow moves about.)

Ski: Cute nothing…a wolf is never cute with two young boys, it can’t be tame, and no wolf is tame.

DS: It doesn’t look like they’re going to be victims. He looks tame (what I wanted to say, was: ‘…you look more dangerous than the wolf,’ but I didn’t.)

Ski: A dumb wolf (to be exact: he meant a wolf that was domesticated, unwilling to be a wild wolf). I think the would was happier before he met his master, look at the pathetic thing, rolling over like a cat, he is nothing but a coward. If I was…! (The must had moved, because I heard the large cow bell around its neck ring.)

If I were the wolf those little boys would have been eaten up, and someone looking for little coffins.

DS: That’s quite a view on things?

Ski: I wish I could be in the wolf’s place…just look at those teeth, and muscles, and bulk, I mean I’d give heart and soul to take his place, free and wild, not like that old cow, with a bell, that’s how I feel now. But beastly free.

(Around the fence, and among the slightly green and brown patches of grass and snow, the ground hardening, winter was present, a light wind touched the cheeks of both men, the sound was a hum to a low sharp hiss. I saw the wolf look at Ski, several glances, the boys busy playing, the dark eyes of the wolf under a snow warm winter afternoon gleaming peacefully, harmlessly, it seemed. I listened to the sounds of nature, winter, and the birds the big cow nearby—and its heavy reverberating sound, deep resonant sound from the bell, the breath of the wolf—its intensity and Ski’s vile mumbling.)

Ski: The wolf is free, no problems, wild and allowed to be so, because it is expected of him, it is his nature, wish I could make some kind of a connection! I wish, wish wish!

Everybody on base (it was not large) knows everyone else, at least by sight. There was no reason I thought at the time, why he would wish such a thing, perhaps a joke, but he was putting heart and soul into his request, now that I think about it. But again I repeat there was no reason I thought at the time, why he would wish such a thing—although he was an angry man.

(Ski was shrewd and calculating and chose his witty words to hurt or paralyze his victims to be. He left me alone, perhaps I was his equal in combat, and one of his only friends—lest he lose me too, and have no one. He liked to create fights, chaos. It would seem he inherited a bad disposition, if not gene. We had gone to Munich together for the October Feast, and on the train he started a fight with one of the officials, and in the bathroom of a beer tent at the feast, he started a fight, and trouble seemed simply to be part of his shadow. One I tried to avoid, and often tried to pacify if not subdue, in a calmly manner. He talked about the Army in a negative way. And I really was getting a headache. Anyway, Ski stood looking at the wolf and the two children. He regretted what he had in life. Thus, losing any motivations for the human race.)

I had been learning a lot abut him the last few months. Shrewd, tough, hateful, thief, and now I were becoming acquainted with Garmish. He had in the past, called on me to talk, just talk about problems. I thought he was drunk, but he didn’t drink half as much as me. He even wanted to give me the cloths he had stolen from the PX. I said ‘no’ to his supposedly kind gesture, and he was a tinge taken back, I actually hurt his feelings. But here we were, both of us, standing behind a fence, looking at a dumb cow, and his bell, and two children playing with a wolf, and Ski in some kind of trance.

DS: Uh-huh. Let’s find a ski lift and go up higher so we can look over the valley?

Ski: What I meant was, my soul and heart have a connection with the nature of this beast-wolf I was keeping that a secret. I’ve never mentioned it before, to anyone—I should have been born a wolf, never even told Bruce, my best friend.

DS: What are you thinking?

Ski: God made me wrong. I think murder is in the sky, the eyes of the wolf are dull, no fierceness.
What I saw was not what he saw evidently, the two boys seated on the ground peacefully playing. This was a vehicle of his own, his own invention, where it would lead to was profound. He must be kidding or mad, I told myself. I had to slap my face to wake me up to face this charade. Why? I told him; “I don’t think so, no I am sure you are wrong.” He found himself to tell me.

—In a moment he was calmer. As if he made a connection with the beast (as if someone had stepped in, and opened a door, and he jumped through it…). I told him not to talk so foolishly and surprisingly, he smiled said, “Don’t worry.”

Ski: the creek, you’ll love the creek; enjoy the cool clear fresh water. (He said it in a low, smooth and almost humble voice.)

DS: of course, I’d never have thought of that, going to a creek, but nevertheless, that sounds tranquilizing. Matter-of-fact, you’ve never mentioned that before. (He had not, so I would find out later, because he had never known of one in the vicinity, only a long time resident or a beast of the wild would know)

It was as though the wolf almost overheard Ski…!

DS: Isn’t it curious the wolf is starting to hiss louder, starting to get up, looking deadly at the boys and you Ski? I mean, its whole composure, equanimity, self-control, is changing in front of us.

Ski: Yes, you are right (he mumbled then: ‘…sometimes when you ask, alas, you receive, not really understanding what you are asking for.’)

DS: (Strange I thought at the time, what Ski said, now subjectively it fits into the composure of the wolf) I think something is going to happen, better we try to protect the boys?

(The picture, four of them, the cow in the background, his bell ringing, clanging, and keeping all alert to the growing alarm: the wolf that now had glossy black-and-deep red eyes. Ski with a darker flesh, and dove like eyes, calmer than me, I had never seen him this way. There seemed to be a narrow line between the beast and Ski, a line I hoped no one crossed over—some kind of unknown intensity was growing, over something I didn’t know was going to happen. Something had overturned. The wolf’s eyes were looking like headlights. I wished I had a guillotine—so I thought ((cut off the head of this intensity)), but I did have my 38-Special (revolver) tucked into by pants, and shirt, fastened to my belt, on my left side, for emergencies. The beast was no longer lying down, he was on all fours. And Ski merely stood their serene, except for the blinking of his eyes, his face was calm, his pulse didn’t seem to have raised one iota, no violence whatsoever on it, almost innocent, paleness only circled his eyes, soft eyes. Ski leaned forward over the fence looking at the wolf closer, and the wolf at him.)

First I saw simply a leaping shadow jumping over the fence. Then a snarling sound and two shapes on the ground somewhere around three feet from me. He, the wolf, killed Ski, ran back to the two boys, I cursed myself for not reacting quicker. My eyes looked at the attack, and then watched him make his escape. But when I cleared my head, I pulled my 38-revolver from its holster, from the left side of me, attached to my belt, unsnapping its leather safety latch overhead (it all took so long it seemed) and shot the beast at about twenty feet distance. In fact, the bullet struck its head, and was laying a foot away from the two boys, whom were simply sitting up, not sure if they were amazed, dumbfounded or what.

I never have understood completely, what took place, about that happening, just that it is so, but the why of it all, why it took place in the first place, will never be clear; I told myself, it is preposterous, but really there is nothing preposterous about it. My friend had simply figured out a nice neat way to decapitate his heart and soul (his spirit and will was strong in his quest) from one body of flesh to a new possibility, a wolf. I repeat, the reasoning, I’ll never know, it is like asking I suppose: why does the devil want to be like God. I doubt the devil knows him self completely.

I suppose someone, somewhere, sometime, someplace, will come along and say, there’s a mathematical element to this, or astrological one, or something psychological, or even demonic, involved here—for it is not possible. I’m always bewildered with such talk. I realize everything I say is virtually invisible talk, so broad; there is no room for daylight. Perhaps sometimes, God grants the fool his wish.

The bite from the beast, caught Ski right under his chin, took a slice out of his throat, as easily as cutting through butter. And that wasn’t preposterous. He loved and savored what he did, that long moment, not for protection or food did he kill, perhaps for a long lived envy or revenge. These are not yes and no questions, I doubt there aren’t any complete or perfect answers, only guesses, conjectures here; those minutes seemed like hours before and during the attack, when he wasn’t Ski to me, never once combed his hair, or tidied up this or that, or wiped his shoes clean, off against his pants legs, as he normally would. He was silent, not a sad silence, but an unexplained one indeed, for whom I had known him to be. It was only 12:00 O’clock (PM), the two itsy-bitsy little boys ran to the farmhouse thereafter; the cow following behind, clanging its bell in alarm. It was kind of like he killed himself, and I killed him too! The only thing that bothered me was that he involved me.

In short, I didn’t realize the significance of his will, even though he was begging to be that wolf. Chewing his lip, frowning at the wolf, I didn’t take it at first seriously, who would, I thought he was just being his old spiteful self, but the moment took place, strange as it be, but I think he savored the moment—he was in ecstasy, and I was his witness, and this is his story. He could have killed me, even after the first attack, but he didn’t, I knew then, and I know now, it was his cup of poison, his suicide note, fast and powerful, almost odorless.

Christmas is for the haves

Christ is for the have nots

Many show up at parties

Or don’t go because of a gift

They haven’t bought or got

Such feelings of being without

Feels like utter rot

Nevertheless the shopping frenzy

It continues full force

Spiritually seeming like a farce

Certainly concerning gifts

There is nothing wrong with giving

Preferably however there is living

It’s more blessed to give than receive

Christmas is a fantastic experience

When in Christ you believe

As for living

Simply sustaining oneself

On a daily basis

Unfortunately some of us

Aren’t a financial oasis

And therefore can’t easily buy

Our child a hippopotamus

Nor a rhinoceros

Christ is indeed most glorious

Christmas however is quite the fuss

Especially those

Who make merchandise of us

Decorating is nice

Nothing wrong with that

Yet you might not

Want to fall of your roof

Just so the neighbors

Can see some pretty lights

Becoming a paraplegic for Christmas

That’s not alright

Of course if you already are

There are niceties and blessings

For you too

Yet to become one for Christmas

One might not want to do

Nevertheless Christ the healer

Certainly works miracles

And can undoubtedly heal you

But back to Christmas

There is much more to say

Grumpy relatives

Disenchanted with their gifts

Demanding kids

Pitching a fit

Irritating shoppers

Pushing you out of their way

Than there are the grinches

With nothing to say

Except to call Christmas a happy holiday

The ACLU

The Public Schools

The fear factories of corporate America

Telling us not to say “Christmas”

Lest Muslims, Jews, and atheists

Murmur and complain

Such political correctness

Christ disdains

Hark the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn king

Jesus is the King of kings

Political profiteering and kingdoms of men

Will eventually come to an end

Christ the Prince of Peace

He’s our best Friend

Go ahead and celebrate

Drink some eggnog

Eat some ginger bread

Discard all your worries

From you heart and head

Forget walking on egg shells

It’s Christ that takes us to heaven

Pleasing everyone is the route to hell.

Make merry this Christmas

Rejoice and be well.

Yea though I walk

He is with me

Yea though I walk

He will never let me down

Yea though I walk

He always loves me

Yea though I walk

He is always good to me

Yea though I walk

In this complex world of technological gadgetry, we run at a pace which would make our ancestors blush at the thought. Faxes are not even fast enough as we have email which is instantaneous. And no matter that you are not at your computer because many cell phones deliver email in a snap. The latest news from abroad—good or bad—the latest stock quotes to brighten or stress your day—it’s all there in a digitally quick transmission of electrons. Is it any wonder that we have little or no time for self-reflection, for a quiet moment far from the maddening crowd?

The halcyon days of yore often seem like a distant memory. I remember the highlight of my day when I could sit in my room for several hours and savor the classics—from Tolstoy to Shakespeare from Hardy to Keats—the books containing these great works lined my shelves like eager moss lining its host tree. Whenever I would read such great literature, and particularly after memorizing some passage from one of the books or some verse from one of the classic poems, I would feel a soothing sense of good that today seems like a distant memory. The warmth I felt from reading the Shakespearean sonnets or those of Barrett Browning, and the delight I got from reading Keats’ “Elegy Written in a Country Courtyard” inspired me to new heights and eased any heartache I felt from being trapped in the mundane existence I felt compelled to live.

Probably for the reasons stated, I was inspired to write poetry. Poetry has a way of enduring long after the death of the poet, but more importantly poetry has a way of easing the heartache that is often imposed on us from daily living. Because poetry expresses things in a flowery and symbolic way, this mode of communication gives the reader the chance to spend a moment in quiet self-reflection and this very act becomes the anodyne to heartache. Moreover, if we infuse faith into the poetry and shift their focus to a higher realm and a higher being—indeed God our Creator—then we have the recipe to relieve all sorrow and pain.

So do yourself a favor and ease some heartache today. Read a poem or two and start doing some quiet self-reflection.

Joe is a prolific writer of self-help and educational material and an award-winning former teacher of both college and high school mathematics. Under the penname, JC Page, Joe authored Arithmetic Magic, the little classic on the ABC’s of arithmetic. Joe is also author of the charming self-help ebook, Making a Good Impression Every Time: The Secret to Instant Popularity; the original collection of poetry, Poems for the Mathematically Insecure, and the short but highly effective fraction troubleshooter Fractions for the Faint of Heart. The diverse genre of his writings (novel, short story, essay, script, and poetry)—particularly in regard to its educational flavor— continues to captivate readers and to earn him recognition.

Have you ever realized that there is better way of sending funny birthday poems for a boyfriend? You are probably sending your funny birthday poem for a boyfriend through the regular mail. Well if you are a member to an online social utility, then it would be easier for you to send messages like those for free. An online social utility is a website where you can sign in or register for free and use all the applications and tools available for you. Post on your blogs, chat online, send messages, post comments on forums and the list goes on.

If you are a member to this social networks or online social utility, your poems can be seen worldwide on the internet or you can make private. When you make it private, it would only be you and whoever you allow to see it. You will be the one who will dictate who can and who cannot see your poems. You may also want to create your own group of classmates or friends that are really into poem writing and that kind of stuff.

Memberships to these social interactive networks are mostly free. Becoming a member gives you a lot of choices in terms of sending and communicating to your boyfriend or the people around you. To connect and communicate to people you know cannot be easier. You can find people too, on a network like this. Best of all you can chat online with your boyfriend, relatives, classmates, schoolmates and people you know.

There are other things you can do with your poems. You can write more a let the whole know who wrote them, and then you become an instant celebrity or a well known poem writer. Some people make a living writing poems or write them on a part time basis. And the best vehicle for you to be known and recognize is through this social networks. The benefits of being part these groups are the free access to keep in touch with your friends or boyfriend. Another thing you can do is create a group of people who do the same thing as you do so that you can connect and communicate on how to do things.

It is so common nowadays to be a member of an online social utility network especially younger people. They love being well connected to their classmates and schoolmates that some of them may be registered to two or even five different websites. It is a craze that is going to be very popular especially sending messages and keeping in touch.

In today’s world, sending messages are mostly done online or through the internet. Using short messaging services can cost a lot of money if you use too long or more frequently. Whereas, in an online social utility network, it is free and you can do it for hours or as long as you can click the mouse of your computer. Thus, sending a funny birthday poem for a boyfriend can be done easier using a social group or community.

Mr. Taylor: Hack and Stack Them High

Liberian ex-President Charles Taylor

African injustice (1991-2002)

Bag the limbs little boys,

Bring them to Mr. Taylor

Like a bag of toys—;

Sierra Leone’s diamonds…

Is what it’s all about?—

And the merciless killer king,

President Charles Taylor

And his monstrous boy scouts.

Hack and stack their bodies high

Axes and machetes will do—:

Bring on the sexual slaves also,

All for the glitter of Diamonds

(and the world watched the show);

Now it time for the tribunal.

Saint Cecilia, a Roman virgin and martyr (230A.D.) is traditionally the patron saint of music and the inventor of the organ. Dryden’s poem Alexander’s Feast is written in celebration of St Cecilia’s Day on 22 November 1697.

The poem opens with Alexander the Great, son of Philip, King of Macedon, seated along with Thais, the young and lovely Athenian courtesan, enjoying the banquet in the Persian city Persepolis in celebration of his victory over the Persian King Darius III in 331B.C. We are introduced to the court musician Timotheus with his lyre and then told that Alexander was in fact the son of Jove, King of the gods, and Olympia. Thus, “the sovereign of the world” begot the conqueror of the world.

Timotheus sings in praise of Bacchus and the scene is filled with drunken revelry. Since drinking is the sweet pleasure of the soldier, Alexander grows in vain and fights all his battles again in his mind. Seeing the madness in Alexander’s eyes Timotheus changes his song into one designed to create a mood of pity. He sings of the fall of Darius, the Persian King, who was great and good, but was deserted by his own followers and his slain body left exposed to bare earth. The joy of victory evaporates from Alexander, and he sighs and starts shedding tears. Pity prepares the mind for love, and love is the subject of Timotheus’ next song. Alexander gazes at the fair lady Thais and sighs. Finally, oppressed with wine and love the “vanquished hero” sinks upon Thais’ breast.

Timotheus now shifts the music to a louder strain and rouses a sleeping Alexander to action. “Revenge,” cries Timotheus. The ghosts of the Greek soldiers slain in the battle cry out for revenge. The music fires Alexander with a great zeal to destroy. Thais leads Alexander to burn Persepolis. In this she is like Helen, whose passion for the Trojan prince Paris resulted in the Greeks burning Troy.

At last came St Cecilia, inventor of the organ. Inspired by God, she enlarges the bounds of music by adding length to musical notes. Cecilia is superior to Timotheus, Dryden declares. Old Timotheus should yield the prize to her, or at least divide the crown.

“He raised a mortal to the skies
She drew an angel down.”

Timotheus raised Alexander to the skies creating in the King’s mind the delusion of divine status. But Cecilia’s music brought an angel down from heaven.

In Alexander’s Feast music is shown to have a mighty range of influence. Timotheus draws his master Alexander to varying moods: pride, bacchanalian revelry, martial zeal, pity, love, and religious devotion. The rhythms and sounds in the refrains of each stanza echo the hero’s changing emotions.