Wedding invitations are one of the first tasks that you need to complete when planning a wedding. These invitations are important because they not only let people know when and where your wedding will take place, but they also collect information that you will need to have in order to complete your wedding planning. Since you are investing a lot of money in your wedding invitations you will want to put some thought into each component of your invitation. If you want to add a little whimsy to your wedding invitations then consider these creative ideas for stuffing wedding invitations.

Option #1 – Poetic Bookmarks

One creative item that you can add to your wedding invitations is a poetic bookmark. This bookmark can be designed around a romantic poem that reflects the theme of your wedding. You will want to laminate the bookmark and add a decorative ribbon to one end. On one side you will print the poem and on the other side you can print information about your wedding, such as when and where it will be held.

Option #2 – Mini-Movie Posters

If you are having a movie themed wedding or wedding reception then consider slipping in a mini-movie poster into your wedding invitation envelope. The posters that you select should reflect the theme of your wedding and wedding reception and it should also reflect the personality of the wedding couple.

Option #3 – Candy

Today you can get a number of different candies imprinted with your own message. For example, you can have chocolate bars wrapped in labels that deliver a specific message, such as information about when and where your wedding will be held. You can also have smaller candies like M&Ms and candy hearts imprinted with short messages such as the couple's names, wedding date and so on.

Option #4 – Mini-Puzzle Pieces

Another fun insert for wedding invitations are mini-puzzle pieces. You can make a mini puzzle by overlaying a puzzle template over a picture of the couple or over a graphic of your wedding invitation. Then you will print out the mini puzzle on photograph paper or cardstock. Then you will cut the pieces apart and insert them into the envelope. If you include a mini-puzzle in your wedding invitations make sure you also include instructions that explains what the pieces are and why they need to be assembled.

Option #5 – Promotional Items

Another option that you have is to include promotional items like pens, notebooks, keychains or even a calendar with your wedding information imprinted on them. This is a fun way to announce your wedding and a great way to give each person you invite a special gift to remember your special day.

Who am I as I walk this life striding with bold steps as I move towards my destiny
I am a Stone Golem to those that see me unnerving and imposing creating a path before
None venture close enough to see the cracks in the stone that have appeared over the course of life
Imperfections in design leave me weakened but they go unseen by those that fear someone unknown

My soul is Gemini through and true representing the good and bad that comes with that fame
I introduce you to one whose heart is as black as night and cares for only himself
To one who gets a job done no matter the cost or sacrifices that have to be made
He is one who commits statutory crimes with parents consent and leaves security hell bent
He’s your friend till you are no longer useful and is a danger to all around
Seducer, adultrer, women married or not ride the rod when it stands
Disciplined and sturdy overly brave and looking to have Satan fear him in his home
He is the one whose needs out weigh the many and with cold logic he makes his stand

Meet the twin that keeps him in check through sheer force of will
The one with a sick yellow fire burning in his heart barely keeping the dark one away
It is not strength of character but fear of loosing himself that represses the others desire
Inteligent, studious, well read, mental challenge is his favorite fun
Is willing to be the sacrificial lamb to make sure family and friends are safe
He is positive and radiates good will like golden rays of sun
He is loyal, but will stand with you ou of fear of him loosing face before you
A Poet, Lover, Musician, Singer, an artist, a tru disciple of what it means to be Gemini
A man who understands God is the only way

Together they are me and I am they no one indvidual
they fight to exist not knowing that becoming one would mean there salvation
To be a drunk then help a drunk is a the way of two souls
To prey on the weak then pray for the weak is a sign of contradiction in soul
To steal from a man then feed his child may seem like compassion from my soul
A soul that dosen’t know whether it is pleasant or evil but lives on any way

I have played in Paris and been shot at in da ‘Grove
I have tasted wines in Germany and drank beer from dirty backroom glasses
I have climbed to the top of mountains in triumph heart filled with pride
I have climbed down ladders illicit goods in hand and tears in my eye
To see me is to see contadiction and loose yourself to it
And to leave me alone in the twisted caverns of my soul

Suhagrat ki madhur belaa,meri dhadkan mein bas gayee hai.

Us raat mujh per chhaayaa tha, ek ajab saa nashaa.

Kyonki us rat unka jalwaa,ban gayaa tha kahkashaa.

Suhagrat ke baad piya se, meri preet badh gayee hai.

Jeevan bhar us rat ki khooshboo, mere tan badan mein chhaaee rahegi.

Kyonki us rat ki haseen yaadein,mere jeevan ki parchhaee rahengee.

Us rat piya ke roop mein mujhe,ek sachha dost mila.

Jisse khulkar kar sakoon main, har ek shikwaa gilaa.

Salone piya ka pyaar paakar,main sanwar gayee hoon.

Sirf unke jism mein hi nahi,unki rooh mein bhi utar gayee hoon.

The beach is hot but the game is on
Coach can’t hide in shade today
Cause my girls are working magic in the sand
They dig deep, volley perfect, and slam the balls over the net
the whole audience is in a trance from these toned witches spell

There going strong casting Hex’s on the other crew
Cause in the end both teams know what the loosers got to do
and this sun is hot enough to grill human flesh
Focus back on the game My girls are serving up match point
Damn compettition made a perfect spike

No they made the save and its our turn to hit em with that fire
yes we won the crowd roars for the undefeated champs putting another crew out to dry
the customary shaking of hands ends with a grimace as my witches lay back in the sand
the team loosers come by and remove winner panties to se whats been grilling underneath
team looser services my winners tilllustful screams are the only sound

They Talk, We Live, We see what They say
They Talk, We Did, Who cares what They say
Still they can’t’ focus on them They be talkin’ bout me
Talkin’ bout what I wear Talkin’ bout where I be

Posted with permisson from
Laren Neyland ©2009

Dancing in my thoughts lingering in my mind
Over me in hovers like a hawk waiting to dine
It taste my sweat blood and tears in the air
waiting in anticipation for the finale ….Graduation!!!!

Posted with permisson from
Laren Neyland ©2009

The ties that bind me to you are not strong enough,
to endure the stress that comes from this mess
Constant as the flow of life;
the demons from your roots create strife
and at this point I can not go on.
I can only mourn that which once was just you and I.
In the famous words of MIMI(from RENT) Good-bye love goodbye love (((TEARS)))

Posted with permisson from
Laren Neyland ©2009

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.

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.

From the time I was a young boy,

I always liked my dad.

He taught me how to work and play ball.

And with dad coaching the team,

Our championship team beat them all.

When I wasn’t at a baseball game with dad,

We were working together at the job site.

Dad you’re alright!

You not only won my heart,

But you’ve got the respect of my friends too.

And now we’ve got to wait

To get to heaven

To see you

But as for me,

While I’m here on earth,

I am going to keep you within my heart

And from that which you have taught me

I won’t depart.

Your spirit and strength are within me

So I go forth in victory

To be all that you would want me

To grow up and be

To make the world a better place

Until I see your face.

When I get promoted

To be up there with you

We are going to have

A heartfelt embrace.

Until then however

I will walk in the divine grace

By which you ran your earthly race.

My dreams wholeheartedly

I will chase.

The love you so generously gave to me

I will give to others

Beginning with my family, sister and brothers

Just look down from above dad

You will surely see

Everywhere I go

I will bring

Love, life and liberty.

Because in you dad

I have touched and experienced

Love unto eternity.

Paul Davis is a masterful poet, worldwide professional speaker, minister and author of several books including Breakthrough for a Broken Heart; and Stop Lusting & Start Living.

Paul is a life coach (relational & professional), popular keynote speaker, creative consultant, humor being, adventurer, explorer, mediator, liberator and dream-maker.

Paul’s compassion for people & passion to travel has taken him to over 50 countries of the world where he has had a tremendous impact. Paul has also brought revival to many in war-torn, impoverished and tsunami stricken regions of the earth. His organization Dream-Maker Ministries is building dreams, breaking limitations and reviving nations!

Paul’s Breakthrough Seminars inspire, awaken, impregnate with purpose, impart the fire of desire, catapult people into a new level of self-awareness, facilitate destiny discovery and dream fulfillment.

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”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Twice put high (WWI & “WWII)

Twice put low (Dec 7, and 9/11)

What is happening to you, America?

The Orient is weakening you!

You have conflicts everywhere,

And when the time of need comes

You’ll have no fruit to bear…”

Yes, of yes, Alas! But you will fail

At the time of real need-your

Adversary will make you wail.

Long wars, seldom fun, never won

Those you now call friend,

Will end, a short marriage at best,

And evil has an iron breast

It will double in your time, with

Death and dissention; rulers

Incapable will rise, ride the tide

Chased by the sea, out of the

Pacific, looking for peace-the

Adversary watche; there

In the Middle East, in

Palestine, in old Yugoslavia too…

Terror, and trembles, with

Huge fires and blood-ambition,

Pestilence, and all their kings,

Condemn in secret, America!

But it will all be soon, she

America comes too late, to save

The day, and so the land becomes

Desolate and divided, and the

Unwise, kings bring death

To the Great Nations..:!

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.

King Toledo of Peru, vs. El Perro

[The Hero dog]

Here is my new poem on the Hero of Peru, I do hope the King of Peru, Toledo, does not get mad, for the new hero has taken his throne away for a few weeks, the spot light I mean. But before I give you the poem I shall simply update you: El Perro (the dog), who has a name, ‘Lay Fun,’ to my understanding, was a watchdog on duty, and he killed a robber. And to the public’s dismay, the government, and Toledo is the Government in Peru, wanted him crucified, but some group came up with money and lawyers, and saved the dog from his doom, destiny, to a national hero of the month status. This of course, took the focus off the King of Peru, which Toledo, whom is on TV 7/24 I think. I doubt Sipan got as much attention as this little fellow got; I’m not saying he’s a bad king, he is Inca, so I know better—save, I could be roasted alive for writing this. Plus, he does like freedom of speech, and Americans, a few attributes not plentiful in South America nowadays, so I give him credit, and applaud. But on the other hand, I think his spouse (whom is out of control most of the time) ran off with a bunch of mummies to Paris or London or some place to cash in before the king steps down in a few days from his throne. So, having said all this, here is my little poem, dedicated to King Toledo:

E Perro—the Hero [of Peru]

There is hero in Peru these days,

El Perro, ‘Lay fun’ they call him

(I think it’s a he)—He killed a

Robber, I hear say, and he went

On trial the other day, for dog

Slaughter they say.

The Republic of Peru, took

A stand, and lawyers saved his

Dog, hide from the man:

Now he’s the hero of Peru,

I thought this could only happen

In America, I was fooled.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow’d to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair’d the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron’s opening couplet to “She Walks In Beauty” is among the most memorable and most quoted lines in romantic poetry. The opening lines are effortless, graceful, and beautiful, a fitting match for his poem about a woman who possesses effortless grace and beauty.

About the Poem, “She Walks In Beauty”

In June, 1814, several months before he met and married his first wife, Anna Milbanke, Lord Byron attended a party at Lady Sitwell’s. While at the party, Lord Byron was inspired by the sight of his cousin, the beautiful Mrs. Wilmot, who was wearing a black spangled mourning dress. Lord Byron was struck by his cousin’s dark hair and fair face, the mingling of various lights and shades. This became the essence of his poem about her.

According to his friend, James W. Webster, “I did take him to Lady Sitwell’s party in Seymour Road. He there for the first time saw his cousin, the beautiful Mrs. Wilmot. When we returned to his rooms in Albany, he said little, but desired Fletcher to give him a tumbler of brandy, which he drank at one to Mrs. Wilmot’s health, then retired to rest, and was, I heard afterwards, in a sad state all night. The next day he wrote those charming lines upon her—She walks in Beauty like the Night…”

The poem was published in 1815. Also in that year Lord Byron wrote a number of songs to be set to traditional Jewish tunes by Isaac Nathan. Lord Byron included “She Walks in Beauty” with those poems.

Discussion of the Poem

The first couple of lines can be confusing if not read properly. Too often readers stop at the end of the first line where there is no punctuation. This is an enjambed line, meaning that it continues without pause onto the second line. That she walks in beauty like the night may not make sense as night represents darkness. However, as the line continues, the night is a cloudless one with bright stars to create a beautiful mellow glow. The first two lines bring together the opposing qualities of darkness and light that are at play throughout the three verses.

The remaining lines of the first verse employ another set of enjambed lines that tell us that her face and eyes combine all that’s best of dark and bright. No mention is made here or elsewhere in the poem of any other physical features of the lady. The focus of the vision is upon the details of the lady’s face and eyes which reflect the mellowed and tender light. She has a remarkable quality of being able to contain the opposites of dark and bright.

The third and fourth lines are not only enjambed, but the fourth line begins with an irregularity in the meter called a metrical substitution. The fourth line starts with an accented syllable followed by an unaccented one, rather than the iambic meter of the other lines, an unaccented syllable followed by an accented one. The result is that the word “Meet” receives attention, an emphasis. The lady’s unique feature is that opposites “meet” in her in a wonderful way.

The second verse tells us that the glow of the lady’s face is nearly perfect. The shades and rays are in just the right proportion, and because they are, the lady possesses a nameless grace. This conveys the romantic idea that her inner beauty is mirrored by her outer beauty. Her thoughts are serene and sweet. She is pure and dear.

The last verse is split between three lines of physical description and three lines that describe the lady’s moral character. Here soft, calm glow reflects a life of peace and goodness. This is a repetition, an emphasis, of the theme that the lady’s physical beauty is a reflection of her inner beauty.

Lord Byron greatly admired his cousin’s serene qualities on that particular night and he has left us with an inspired poem.

The poem was written shortly before Lord Byron’s marriage to Anna Milbanke and published shortly after the marriage.

Note by the author: I am not sure what got into me about wanting to write a cat poem (as you can see I selected a great name for the poem); I just did it, out of the blue. I must have been triggered somehow because I do not care for cats. To be honest, if God gave me a choice between cats and cockroaches, I’d take the latter: and I’m sure I might have been a happier person. I do think cats are good for something, not sure what, perhaps for rats. It all stems back to when I was a boy scout, or at least that is what a psychologist would say: flashbacks, the white rabbit syndrome. When I was out camping at St. Croix camp grounds (Minnesota), back when I was thirteen, or so, I was in a big tent with kids, and guess who wakes me up? Yup, a cat purring down my mouth paws on my throat, and it scares the crap out of me when I opened my eyes and saw those marble eyes staring into mine.

Now that I think of it, perhaps this poem is long overdue. In any case, I dedicate it to all the cat lovers out there, to include my wife:

The Cat Poem

Cats, I never did care for them;

My wife had-before we wed-

Fifteen of them-.

They’re too lordly in the household

For me-:

Too aristocrat-able to please.

They are everything but what they

Seem, and

They seem surreal; and endlessly

Dreaming-or perhaps it’s scheming

(I can’t tell the difference)-but,

One thing I do know: they have mystic

Marble-eye-balls-: gives me the chill.

IN SPANISH

Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

Edit by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

El poema del gato

Por Dennis Siluk

Nota por el autor: No estoy seguro que consiguió en mí el deseo para escribir un Poema al Gato (como puedes ver seleccioné un gran nombre para el poema); sólo lo hice, cuando menos lo esperaba. Debo haber estado motivado de alguna manera, porque no me interesan los gatos. Para ser honesto, si Dios me da a escoger entre gatos y cucarachas, yo escogería a la última; y estoy seguro que sería una persona más feliz. Pienso que los gatos son buenos para algo, no estoy seguro para qué, talvez para las ratas.

Todo esto proviene de cuando yo era un muchacho explorador boy scout, o al menos eso es lo que diría un Psicólogo: Escenas retrospectivas, el síndrome del conejo blanco. Cuando tenía aproximadamente 13 años de edad, estuve de campamento en Saint Croix (en Minnesota), yo me encontraba en una carpa grande con niños, y ¿adivina qué me despertó? Si, un gato ronroneando debajo de mi boca sus patas sobre mi garganta, y esto me sacó fuera de juicio, cuando abrí mis ojos y vi esas bolas de ojos mirando fijamente dentro de mis ojos.

Ahora que lo pienso, talvez este poema está demasiado atrasado. De cualquier modo, lo dedico a todos los amantes de gatos allí afuera, incluyendo a mi esposa:

El poema del gato

Gatos, nunca me interesaron;

Mi esposa tuvo-antes de nuestra boda-

Quince de ellos-

Ellos son demasiado arrogantes en el hogar

Para mí-:

Muy aristócratas- para complacerlos.

Ellos son todo pero no lo que

Parecen, y

Ellos parecen extraños, y soñadores

Interminables-o talvez son maquinadores

(No puedo decir la diferencia)-pero,

Una cosa yo se: ellos tienen ojos

Místicos-que me dan escalofrió.

Slow Moving Moon over Vietnam

(in the hills of Cam Ranh Bay)

(in May of’71)

The ocean roars,

as the rain poured

over Vietnam

(in this war)-;

and here, here I sit

in the middle of it

in a hooch

as a barracks,

singing songs

drinking beer

wine and vodka

all night long,

and

laying with

women…!

pretty as a peas,

it’s how it is

most of the time here

in Vietnam….

When, when, when

is this war

ever going to end

and blow its top?

Too many dark

marble-eyed rats,

scorpions, bull-mosquitoes,

lizards like ants.

Half the soldiers

here

are on dope,

under the slow

moving moon:

some have gone

to rehab, in Japan,

others are kept

in solitary, high metal

boxes, like sardines;

the other half

are under the strain of booze

all are under a haze

from the rain,

and some are going crazy

from killing.

And I’m somewhere

between all this

trigger happy,

and I won’t miss!

Rockets inbound

coming from across

the bay

(it’s night time):

the Viet Cong

have been waiting

all day…

they’ve been

waiting, hiding

readying to kill,

in the surrounding hills,

here,

in Cam Ranh Bay

Vietnam.

I Want To Be With You Poems

Sipan, king of the desert,

and its sea of sand—;

Lord of the valley,

farthest bound:

behold the crimson sun,

above, shines down upon

your tomb.

By some new sorrow

in the wind’s tone

(expectant and alone),

I feel your pulse:

fresh from Your sea of sleep…,

from the Lambayeque Valley:

Your spirit weeps!…

Note: Sipan, King or Lord, of Northern Peru (around: Chiclayo), in the Sipan Valley, or—also known as Lambayeque, lived around 200 to 300 AD and ruled the valley for about 40-years. His tomb along with others were discovered in the late 80s; in 2006, I visited the site in March, it was most interesting, along with climbing the pyramids nearby. The spirits there are annoyed with the fact, that the tomb of the king, considered the richest archeological find of the 20th Century, has been dishonored (for all the original relics have been replaced with replicas (so they told me).

In Sipan, 13-individuals were excavated (1987), equal to the find in Egypt, of King Tut’s tomb. There are two pyramids in the compound area, and perhaps 15,000-individuals lived there. The region is perhaps 6500-Square Kilometers.

On February 25, 1987, the site of Sipan (and its tombs) was being extensively pillaged by grave-robbers, who had stripped pieces of gold from one tomb in particular. Local people had taken control of the monument, and in the grasp of a kind of gold-fever, were trying to break into other tombs in search of more precious metals.

This was the biggest archaeological find in Latin America in recent decades—.

The Lord of Sipan was a warrior priest (a Moche descendent) who died around 250 AD. In his tomb were found 1200 pieces of gold and precious stones;… (how much was robbed or taken, no one really knows)

Tears of Pain for lost love

 Many days and nights have we argued
Often with harsh words that loose meaning when spoken
Throughout these times we have been together unfazed
Hope is that forever will someday come true
Everyone has opinions on what you or I will do
Remember that to your heart you must be true

Only you can determine what it is that makes you happy
Forget the concerns and worries of others and give your all

Make your own decisions live without what if’s
You are a part of my heart no matter what choices you make

Chastise those around you for putting doubts in your mind
Hands should be used to lift each other up never raised in violence
If you seek ways to hurt me then when do you have time for love
Love is not something I say carlessly when I say it to you
Dare to express yourself calmly and patiently.
Remember only you can make yourself happy
Even my love can not change how you feel about yourself
Nevertheless I hope my love can guide you through