Five poems - poetry
Poems have atypical cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for a few emblematic language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not of necessity know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the excellence of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've freshly wrote, all with a assorted core, focus and style.
1) The Beehive [Poetic cut-ups]
[Paper] "USA Today," 75 cents, March 18, 20, 2005: '?it was all right in the l980's?as a cup of coffee?what I will not do is participate. . . to be clear, I have never taken criminal drugs?In my 19 years in the big league?Around the World in 8, days?. McGuire said repeatedly?recent spat of vehicle accidents in Iraq?Rice Reaches Out?Quest for Fame?Jules Verne 100th anniversary?Peterson to San Quentin?Jackson's young guests?Stun guns?'
[Sound] In the conditions of the café-bookstore, I hear the music of Nat King Cole: '?we are not too young to know?' Now I hear trousers striking legs?Dishes in the dishwasher [café] ?a laugh, I think its Erica at the back of the café counter?squealing of galoshes?a cough in the background? .
[Sight] Three girls went to the counter?lady beside me writing?Michelle came up to my table, chatting about her boyfriend?Mark waved goodbye for the day, just left his music area?lady in the front of me whispering?large woman with a thin sport jacket on at the front ordering food, chatting to the servers (some food to go I think)? .
[Dreams] Voices that let you roam at your will, but to collect the voices one must stop all the echoes, shadows, aggravations-find silence. The intuitive can hear ever action going on. I am like all warm blooded mammals: we all dream: bats, bears and beasts-like humankind. Dreams are the keys to care the heart beat, beating; stop the dreaming, you stop everything. Last night I dreamed of copy this poem.
[Epilogue] The mind, the mind, the mind: papers, sounds, sights and dreams-come in and out from all sides of me: day and night, and night and night and day, every which way. From all sides of me, like a movie; computer, filing, filing them all away, "?for what you say?"
2) Old Charlie Edwards
Old Charlie Edwards had an administrative center About one and a half miles from town Most cars that came by you'd know why He owned all the real estate In town He never smoked cigarettes Nor drank alcohol He never gambled with his money From what, most folks can recall, at some point in his influential years And until his High Educate Prom He'd play Monopoly year round And whip each Fine, as you may predict He made his money just that way It was like in performance chess, he'd say And he'd never rest, play all day And owned half the town Well, Old Charlie Edwards' Administrative center Was continually in the white Until the town's board Voted to build an expressway Just to spite Old Charlie and his ways Yes, Charlie had to move From that old spot As you may have guessed And thereafter, Charlie sold all His real estate After that, all the towns folks Ran to his bureau to look about As if he may have left some treasure Laying about But Old Charlie Edwards Basically moved out of town Laughing and Giggling Import more real estate in St. Paul!?
The Last Second
Angels come (sometimes) within arms reach but dare not touch the heart's beat; beyond its sacred melody? for your sake!. . .
Sid M. [l966]
Long ancient history is my friend Forty-year ago this spring- He died when he was twenty, And I was but nineteen.
I see us in our High Instruct Halls, With boyish hopes and dreams; His face was constantly high-brow But he never looked down on me.
To him who died so very young, And now, so very long ago? In memory, unsought, I say: I have never elapsed you!
The Scent of Paris
Calm as a Paris?river's afternoon Warm in the month of June And crammed with spirits, cherry people, Pervaded with a scent that could lead One's illusional dreams-to be!
A ghoul's scent haunts my hands As I foretaste the bridges: land to land As I touch the clandestine flutes of memory The scent of Paris-comes back to me.
About the author: Mr. Siluk is a world traveler, a lover of the mysteries about the world, and has visit many World Heritage Sites, his most contemporary being Easter Island, the Galapagos and Mesa Verde. His books can be seen on/at Barns and Noble. com, Amazon. com, Wal-Mart, Abe. com Alibis, Boarders and quite a few other sites and book stores. Many of his books can be purchased by means of the English Bookdealers. He spends his time concerning Lima, Peru and St. Paul, Minnesota, and has just complete effective on two new books: "The Ghoulish Poems," and "Perhaps it's Love," and continues to work on "Curse of the Abyss Worm," a dynamic mystery, and "Cold Kindness," a tragic love affair.
Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish]
English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you, Because the lot dead has twoSides; A sound is one arm of the quiet, Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating you To begin life again And never to stop hating you: That is why I do not hate you yet.
now is not the time to open open that great door again not the time to be more tolerant not the time to play to winnow is not the time for justice evolution mercy choices not the time to pet the puppies yipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindness not the time for compromise not the time for loving blindness not the time to close my eyesnow for one too many people not that i have gained no good heart has sown but flesh is reaping tears to mind and atrophied bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equals only those whose chords can howl deadly whether lone or social defending young or on the prowltell me not that you would die upon the spines of my displeasure live for me and for you will i cherish each cell as if a treasureput me not contained by a cage but roam with me by means of snow and sun be by my side or breathe my dust for i shall bleed again for noneNiki Lasher Artist, Writer, and Webmatron http://www.kthulah.
Two Poems and a Short Story
1)dying in the bar [sluggishly]yet, I would crawl too upto the bar, it was everything, the dampness the impressed wood the zoned-out-ness in my head dreaming; it was advance than death? then I took a new drink?so many I never moved much, like dead fish. my head split like an ass it was numb and, naught else numbness was my homeacross the street, dancing on the patio the moon was out.
The Crusader: A Hunt for the Benefit Exclusive (an extract of an Epic Poem)
On all through the darkness she searches the bones Seeking the hand of her love; Deep in the stillness, the maid searches on, Petitioning help from above. Onward she gropes all the way through the flesh and the blood Of the warriors flawed and maimed; She carries no hope for the life of her love - For zilch but his body she came.
A Ship to Remember
The Man Who Could Not Say Sorry For His Sins
Sorry would be a start.Though you cant take back your mistakes, and you cant clear up time, you'd think there would be remorse, for such a self allocation crime, to send others out to die, to pay the blood price you have decreed, when its chastely pomposity and posing, all about conceit and greed, to assured a perceived niche in history, glowing down the years, is the amount of your ambition, is the puny limit of your fears, when those you have sent to die, believing implicitly in you, leave relatives after who see, that nil you said was true, there is no attention now for those, whose add up to you dont count, they are yesterdays forgotten, though daily they still mount, no brain wave of resignation, no admission of guilt to those left behind, just forward with the ego, fast advance from those times, as if naught ever happened, as if your lies are quite ok, as if now is what to focus on, and then was a new day, lost back in the mists of time, obscured by clouds half seen, not an injury to the living, not impeachable and obscene, you may want to move on now, and discount your past infamy, but you ought to be tried for treason, and caged for blasphemy.
Lamenting Poetic Moods [six Poems]
Advance: in Mr. Siluk's poetry one finds symbolist values, affective impressions; verbal magic and even childish jingles; at times the accepted 8-syllable verse (ballad metre).
Spell of the Andes: (in English and Spanish)
Note: in print 4-15-05, while energetic because of the Andes of Peru, from Huancayo to Lima. I sensed I was but an ant, among the mass of stone, earth and plants of this enchanting, and continuing landscape.
Out of the eight poems provided here [all beforehand unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a few Creative [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a few Free Verse, and a few with more form and structure, more carefully to the Auden style of: stanza, musical rhythm, and rhyme. In axiom that, I do consider all the poems are handing over a rich association of meaning, some of them painfully close bond connecting pleasure and destruction.
Shakespeares Couplet XVIII, Shall I Associate Thee to a Summers Day?
Shakespeare's sonnets call for time and energy to appreciate. Agreement the many meanings of the lines, the crisply made references, the brightness of the images, and the density of the sound, rhythm and build up of the verse difficulty concentration and experience.
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your fulfil is "I start writing." Even copy a bad poem is change for the better than ahead of you for the "right words.
Testimony to the Night [In English and Spanish]
In the quiet of the cold night- In its deep northern skies, Dim are the lights, in its coldEvening frost?! Even the stars of the arctic Seem like a ghost stone frozen!Here, here is where you find Peace and the beast within-! Remote, no ears or wordsTo confusion the mind To cement the throat; Here, here is where you die?(for a moment).Here, the sky has eternal eyes Eyes with cosmic tides Tides that never rest: they warWith the Universe- Likened to a dark deep abyss; Endless and never resting?Here my eyes seek and search In countless hours, ebbing and Sweeping the heavens aboveNumbing, changeless- Are the cosmos, the heavens? Here resides a bizarre peace?Here, resides a astonishing peace With an army of stars to defeat Shinning, noiselessly in the darkThe ebbing, eldritch dark; Time has no bearing here, Here, resides a strange, peace?Cold and oddly numb are my feet, As I look up, upon the many bridges One star bridging the next-as if,If Kings and Queens were Guarding them-the Hosts- O-Yes! A strange, curious peace?Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to thee Flaming, furious firmaments-ye, Ye, prompt me not, of the wars I left,Of the foes, divine immortals?The enemies that never rest Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to theeI hear music, harmony from afar (there) There are storms clandestine in a storehouse, For tomorrow-war beyond, beyondOrion's dust?perpetual dust; There, there the sun is dim to bleak.
Review Of Stephen B. Wileys First Book Of Poetry: HERO ISLAND
Poet Stephen B. Wiley's first book of poetry, Hero Island, reflects tender snapshots and reminiscent overviews of a mixture of stages of his life as a adolescent functioning on a farm in New Jersey, summer vacations spent with his breed in Northern Vermont, and his assured stance on life.
Looking Out the Rear Window
The funeral rite concluded With the cleric shaking hands, Offering words of comfort I didn't quite understand.The undertakers came forth And summoned pallbearers' four.
So many looked to you for inspiration,Unlikely hero for the wheelchair nation.Proudly you fought and pompously you believed,Everyone loved you Christopher Reeve.
Ole Bulky Jeeps & Paper, Ink and Rain [two Peoms]
Ole Bulky JeepsThrough late summer's heat These bulky shaped jeeps Ride by house and farm City and barn-Hungry for Spring-again, hopeful to avoid The Slipping and sliding Of winter's ice and wind?[s]Their big legs are dirty From heartrending dust and rain (Here and there, everywhere) Through all kinds of terrain Like heartrending clouds caught In the flora of the woods? They never slow down a ting They have a duty, and give.It's part of how they live- In military-, bulky ole jeeps!.
Tale of the: Old Huntsman and the Fair-haired Hare [In SPANISH and English now]
There once lived an old man and his goodwife On the edge of the thick of the woods; They lived in an old run-down shack For forty-years and some. The old man hunted for his living, And his wife sewed on her lap.
Since Youve Been Gone...
My life has changedin so so many waysIt seems to constantly bein a state of disarray..
Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet]
Let's admire the poet to his Hell and heaven! Count his Ghosts and dilemma's?Reach out to touch his Stretched-out skies; let's follow The poet to see where he lays.Let's adhere to the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?.
Famous Poets Quotations - Top 30 Poetry Quotations by Eminent Poets
"For this argue poetry is amazing more philosophical and more creditable of considerable interest than history."-- Aristotle"Every American poet feels that the whole dependability for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary upper classes of one.
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