The gaul of la laguna de paca - poetry
I tell you a legend of long ago Of the cadaverous city of La Laguna de Paca, (Where I had met a long drawn out ghost) Within this county of Huancayo--Peru; Truth lies, but only the soul knows.
So the legend goes, of long ago: During the rising of the full moon The Mermaid of La Laguna de Paca, appears And to the adjoining towns folks, she echoes. . . Echoes: her cries and moans!!
Then when one thinks all is well-- The delightful rings, the rings. . . ! Of the bells, the Great Bells, bells Of the deep-set place of worship of La Laguna de Paca Are heard by the folks of the town.
But there is more to this legend: For it is said, in which the dark night (The ink dark chilling star-lit nights) Wherein the Errieness of the full moon Ebbs diagonally the Laguna Paca, gives birth, To the Great Bull,who scrotches the hillside
Scrotches the plants to its bones. . . ! Scrotches its with fire and brimstone.
And now I tell you of my tale-- A tale of that took place but a few days ago, By an embankmnment along the Laguna de Paca.
Here I stood, stood inside its grip,trance: Aloft in the eldritch dark it lingered This dim configuration of the Gaul, The gaul of the lake, Laguna de Paca--.
And there in the giant eucaliptus (tree) It shifted and swayed, looking at me. . . Then at forth glance, it disappeared, As if it sank in to the great lake. . . La Laguna de Paca!. . .
Poet-Author Dennis L. Siluk
Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a stiff frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the impassive frame Her foothold fixed the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing about her A hobo woman, discernible by life, and at an angle dreams With development of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her appear carved aligned with the stiff frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, lynching like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and crushed hopes She yielded already the slothful early payment of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a pink moon hurled a flame across The dark clouds, burning all over the sky The beset sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye absorbed it Rocky images, chief points Thrusting herself up audaciously from to the ledge The painted dawn blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face anti the building material stone Massive injuries was compelling form, Her line balanced so languidly athwart the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting anti life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her meager body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the statue hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, assessment with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead already her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was confident of falling.
JOINEDHeart beat of man pounding - yet unheard joined becomes the beat of a nation.Words of man written - yet unread joined becomes a proclamation.
A Happiness Poem
If a happiness poem could bring forth a smile, Then my face would all the time dress in style.If my ears could hear my laptop screen, From one to another, they, too, would grin.
Mechanical Poetry - Part Three
Have you ever read the lyrics of a Simon and Garfunkle song? Pure poetry. Want to write poems like that? Start repetition them.
The Assassinate of Lima and Footpath to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Peru; in English and Spanish)In what draw back art hid?-Where diminishing mountains groan In shadow and amongThe torrents of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the path of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, beautifully low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Ode to: The Ice Maiden of Ampatos Conference [now in: English and Spanish]
Dedícate to Antonio Castillo. L.
Death & the Supernatural: Poetry/Five Poems
Supernatural PoetryHere are five poems,-what I call-death and supernatural poems. Conceivably a bit bizarre, a few stanzas may be, but with abiding subtlety of course, and a ting of acuteness, but we have to hag on if we want a good ride:1.
Three Poems and Paradise Lost [One for Hell, One for Heaven one for an Inca King]
The Fast-moving water of HellHell's furnace- Likened to a chimney Vomits her torrents Of flames- Into the air Through earths crust And the earth's trembles-!Agitated, she projects A thick curtain of smoke To heat the feet of those Who provoke her every wish. Like molten iron She waits for the soul(the moment) Then molds, into her enclosure Human serpents? Out of savage flesh!No storm, no struggle No eruption, no typhoon, Just a terrible phenomenon, Hell is adept of producing; And upon death, Back into the Abyss They melt!.
Four Poems: Bring in of Beside yourself Domestic animals [Katrinas Pathway]
Four Poems: Katrina's PathwayHarvest of Enraged Horses ((Dedicated to: Katrina)) crisis)It has happened before: Nearby and afar, Where the four-horses of Apocalypse With their angry nostrils Breathed in the fury of the winds Only to vomit out, disaster; - Then galloped away, Against pale faces!..
Burning Autumn Foliage [a poem in Spanish and English]
Burning Autumn Leaves [1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]My long steel incisive rake punctured And twisted all 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.
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (English version)In what flee art hid?-Where diminishing mountains groan In shadow and amongThe white water of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the path of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, beautifully low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Live For Today...
Isn't that what they say?But what does that mean?There's no classification that mayanswer that question..
The Spirits de Copan
Part oneI see them in the skies I hear them in their hells They low voice and they moanAnd never are alone- The Spirits and the Ghouls? The Spirits de Copan!They are gloom in my world Echoes in my dreams A mystery and a force To a cosmic happening! The Spirits and the Ghouls? The Spirits de Copan!..
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast [Summer of 2002]?wind was blowing angrily It never left for a jiffy Bursts of fury I found it challenging to keep My feet placed, thus, I clung to my knees For one harmonious flash I could not now disguise it From for my part Some crafty affection Manifested itself Then the flow drew Sharply away from me With her mystery-Back out into the open sea Yet-, still it roared back at me! It was an spoken delivery It made my head swim I noticed it kept-step With my exultation!?#761 7/14/2005Notes: There are mysteries to the sea, at times it seems as to have its own mind, its own character; as if description was plugged into all that exist. Earth itself being an article with its own lively soul.
Poetry and Admired Culture
Is poetry too convoluted for the be an average of reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of be an average of associates what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few another answers, but there is an crushingly conventional group of responses.One of the main reasons that associates say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Like a cat I slumber, delightfully unencumbered, Through eighty per cent of my fixed span, Occasionally awoken, when conflict is spoken, And I cook up a new cunning five year plan, Lately it was pensions, that were being mentioned, So I rented from the French and Robespierre, Scrap all that went before, saved by tooth and claw, And let my all equal Citizens appear, Currently it is time, for me to be in my prime, For there is an added determination looming, I have to arrive sincere, for part of this appearance year, And comfort all and sundry that the lot is booming, Never mind accurate quotas, Ive imported multitudes of voters, And told them which party let them stay, Though Ive rigged the postal vote, and defamed all of note, You never know what might crop up on the day.So to be on the safe side, I swallow all my pride, And allow my colonize to hear my consecrated voice, And roll out the charade, put on the facade, And even make consider they have a choice, Next time about the crown, will be compacted underground, House of Lords and Lord Chancellor history, With the other Chancellor gone, I alone will soldier on, Yes, then there will only ever be me, Ill hold elections for you, as all dictators do, And fill positions with those that fat my palm, As for civil unrest, there is constantly house arrest, Or cloak-and-dagger caging for those that mean me harm.
Three Poems: Dona Leonors Revenge; The Old Moon; Conventional Sides [All in Spanish/all in English]
1) Doņa Leonor's Revenge [1627 AD]Rafael Ortiz's fate Was on the plate Of Doņa Leonor'sWhen she arrived In Lima, Peru; To taste revengeFor the beheading Of her husband. And so the plot?was now played out (in an alleyway) As she brokenhearted her trout!In SpanishTranslated by Nancy PenalozaLa leyenda de: La venganza de doņa Leonor (1627 después de cristo)El destino de Rafael Ortiz Estaba sobre el plato De doņa Leonor.
Tale of the: Old Seeker and the Blonde 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.
Ceasar Vallejo: Black Roses [In English and Spanish]
Cesar Vallejo: Black RosesBow down your head ol' poet- To face God's grace ahead There are no more trenchesTo dig today? In the afforest of your head,So-: Bow down, bow down,Ol' barbaric poet! Death rides the horse ahead I hear the crackling of a whip See the crazy eyes of death.He order you to his den- The devil and his wind,So-: Bow down, bow down Your blood blemished brows He will take you to the edge.
Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More
What Hides after the Minute?What hides after the minute? It seems, no one especially knows; How many times will we wakeup, To count the notes gone?The rose was dead when I arrived; The sword, was rusty and dull; The chance curtain was open, And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou? One, is not like the other-: Whirling in an at all orbit, As the ceaseless world discovers.
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