Sleep, dreams, and a poem - poetry
The Incubus' Flash-light
He looked exclusive my head
He didn't like-;
As I looked back at him,
Shinning a light
(and stole this poem from
Thoughts: Dreams and Poetry: in dreams we let go of our inhibitions; in poetry we write them back out. Some seem to be divine messages, while others seem more like satanic nightmares. Be that as it may, they are the gateway to our: fears, needs and desires. Our brains hang about dynamic all through sleep, thus some of us can plant an alarm clock contained by our system, and into our dreams.
During our dream states, muscle tone is nil (our bodies be converted into paralyzed). Why? Well, if not, would you actually like to act out your dreams? Not me, I'd end up on the floor swimming the ocean, or fleeting to a further fatherland exclusive of a plane.
It might be of activity to some: animals dream, just watch their eyes. But why? you might be asking, and that would be a good question; there are a few reasons. First, they are vulnerable, and yes, it is as it be supposed to be, part of the abolition deal with so other animals can eat. Second, cold blooded animals (reptiles) get energy from the sun, and thus at night, have very little; while warm blooded animals get it from food, and other ways to keep energy, and sleep is one of the ways, like us humans. Hence, sleep requires dreaming, and sleep gives energy. And animals need time to sort out strategies for survival, I would expect.
So I must ask myself: what dreams or memories are commendable of being a poem? For our brain-during sleep-sorts out the belongings sensible putting into our recall banks, and throwing away the rest. If not we'd have a big head, with a lot of useless-knowledge. Out of the #642 poems I've written, about 20% came out of dreams; and equally with my 150-short stories, and some 40-longer stories. So I can thank my sleeping and dreaming, for charitable much of my daily writings.
Note: #640, 5/10/05. In print while at the bookstore, brunette shop, in Roseville, Minnesota, USA
Poet Dennis Siluk, http://dennissiluk. tripod. com
Im Sorry Mom! A Mothers Day Poem
Mother's Day Poetry,I'm Sorry Mom!I'm sorry for the troubles And the reservations I brought you. I'm sorry for my mistakes, I didn't mean to make you blue.
I AM SO Indebted for simpler times. Stores were clogged on Sundays, TV shows seemed to make more sense, Family members spent ample time with each other, And citizens were valued more than things.
So many looked to you for inspiration,Unlikely hero for the wheelchair nation.Proudly you fought and arrogantly you believed,Everyone loved you Christopher Reeve.
The Plane from Iquitos [1959-Part One]
Iquitos & the Amazon Part OneIt was December 2, l959, I was meeting on a small prop-plane goodbye Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon en route for the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon,--to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city at all times impressed me, but more from this birds-eye view, you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all it tentacles [contributories: waters between to the river].
Shadows of the Andes; Ollantayambo; and Cesar Vallejo [Poems in English and Spanish]
1) Dimness of the Andes [or: Song to the Andes]I shall blend-in, into theMountains- Into the faintest thinShadowsof the mountains! Like the moss on moistenedStoneLike a leaf blown far fromHome?(freshly fallen)!I shall blend-in, clingingTo the mountains- Into its faintest thinShadowsNote: when I at home back home from Peru, my 7th trip in five years [April, 2005], I had spend about 30-days this time on the trip. I visited the Mantaro Valley, Huancayo, and drove because of the Andes.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is greatly unsatisfying. There are quite a few reasons for this, but two in detail come to mind.
Two Poems In black and white For the duration of Recovery
Since my wife and I are moving, or preparing to move, we've been going because of our belongings as most associates must, to get ready for the new location, and in doing so, I found two poems, ones I wrote in 1990, now 15-years old, never published, and so I'd like to advertise them today. I was a heavy drinker up to 1984 (some twenty years drinking), when I quite, and so these poems must have a touch to do with it, a feeble deliberation perhaps.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake Superior Rising out of the woods like: A swamp mist I'm ahead of you for breakfast(at the B&B) I pace the grounds The scent of green shrubbery: Trees, flora, flowers-rain Intoxicates me- Branches like big brown arms Descend? The embankment, to the right Blue eyed, like mine-reflect From the creek beneath me (my wife says 'be careful' she went to get the camera) The greens and blues touch My face and blue jeans- Reflections mirrored like Musical notes of a symphony (I'll see them later in pictures) For now, it's daybreak In Minnesota.#813 8/26/2005Note: the author, Dennis Siluk, took his wife Rosa [me: on my birthday] to Lake Superior, this summer, and I recognized the leading lake in the world.
Out of the eight poems provided here [all before unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a few Creative thinker [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a few Free Verse, and a few with more form and structure, more close up to the Auden style of: stanza, cadenced rhythm, and rhyme. In adage that, I do accept as true all the poems are handing over a rich exchange ideas of meaning, some of them painfully close bond connecting pleasure and destruction.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: A Argument of How Do I Love Thee?
"How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning was printed in 1845 while she was being courted by the English poet, Robert Browning. The poem is also patrician Couplet XLIII from Sonnets From the Portuguese.
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 inexpressive frame Her grip trapped the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing about her A rolling stone woman, clear by life, and diagonal dreams With development of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her assume carved aligned with the stiff frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, execution like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and devastated hopes She yielded ahead of the lethargic early payment of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a red moon hurled a flame across The dark clouds, burning all through the sky The littered sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye enthralled it Rocky images, main points Thrusting herself up bravely from to the ledge The painted crack of dawn blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face adjacent to the sandstone stone Massive injuries was attractive form, Her figure on the brink so languorously 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 lean 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 courageous of falling.
The Ballad of: Brawling Mad-dog Sergeant Rook [Now in: SPANISH and English]
English VersionA bunch of us guys in the hutIn ?Nam Were in performance cards, singing songs; In a solo-room, back of the hut Lay mad-dog, Sergeant Rook;And inspection from a distance Was his sidekick, Physical Cook.When out of the night, he wantedTo fight This bully of six-foot-two Dog-drunk, smelling like a skunkI sought after to fight him too.
An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]
Old skin, once held tight Against her skeleton- Rose no more, just draped Loosely over unpadded flesh; Un-tightened muscles, and tissue, Lost its courage, no-fortitude-, Gone are the days and years That stood anti the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmark Hidden under flesh and blood Guts and moral fiber, backbone? Collapsed from drudgery Time, time: cascading inside-. Bones now leave-taking impressions Accepting fate Like imperfect silver!.
Learn About Love From Poet Rumi
Learn about love by comprehension poetry by a long dead poet named Rumi. No need to look for antediluvian texts concealed in caves.
Learn About Love From Poet Rumi
In this current age of technology, busy lifestyles, and obsession with consumerism have taken a lot of the romance and love out of our lives. The Internet has befall a avenue to attach with colonize as each is conclusion it a lot harder to meet one a new in the 'real' world.
Top 20 Poetry Quotations
Explore the consequence of poetry and the motivation of poets with this distinctive anthology of suggestive quotations..
Growing hurts sometimes; saying goodbye to friends, to effects you've known and done to belongings you sought after to do. Growing heals sometimes the traumatized dreams and hopes of a life you once knew leading you to a new acquaintance of yourself.
Two Poems: Boyhood, and Old Age [with a note on style]
BoyhoodOh me! Thy glorious days have flown! I mealy noticed, now they're gone, How cursorily agreed the flowers! Time does not stop youth's bells; It was like I was in a spell, And my face now shows the hours!Ah yes! My childlike past days, Still lively in my fair age, When all was quick and new Now wrapped in cinema and books, And acquaintances and children were all I knew And love was shown by gracious looks!#741 6/26/05Old AgeThey stop by to see me now To find what's old and new, They peer into my-everything, And analyze my views; They tell me what I be supposed to like, And that I be supposed to be grieved-These are my fragile associates That takes the strongest liberties?I mean to take the signal off; And put the phone beyond the door; In vain I speak to tell them why -I shan't live here anymore!#742 6/26/05A note on Style: some colonize ask, "What style of poetry to you like the best?" I can never key that question; it is open-ended to me. If I feel like contravention free from tradition as in the poem of: "Old Age," so be it; and if I feel accepted verse, a stricter ceremonial archetype must be used, as in "Boyhood," and can be a factor abundantly to the poem, so it is.
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I clump down, contained by my coat,a customer clone, just coming up for a train.Insidious rain, just raining down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old chocolate cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
|home | site map|
|goldenarticles.net © 2018|