Three love poems [all wicked] - poetry
Advance: Mr. Dennis Siluk's poetry can have its fire-hearted twists: as with 'Lovers'. . . ', and 'Death. . . ' and the 'Loves's Curse';but love can carry with it, luring assets, above all in these three poems, as you will soon see; two of which he calls sonnets. He sings a dim song, but it all seems to fit in the river of bitter waters; or salty waters. Be that as it may, they are worth the adventure in analysis them, weary as they may be. For those interested, his new book of poems will be out in weeks, "Spell of the Adnes," it will be a charming book. Rosa Penaloza
Love died here
No more tears;
By and by,
By and by,
To Death's King-
Does not die!
Day has flown!
Dim with gray
The Hell's moan
For this day
Is your repay
Rare I know,
Through the halls
Of the Hell,
They pretend to be nice,
If it were not so
But they don't
This is the lovers' curse.
Author/Poet: Dennis Siluk http://dennissiluk. tripod. com
You make me smile like I've seldom done before You give me a reason to want more and more..
The Power of Intake Disorders
I want to get closeI am afraid.Afraid of what you might see.
My hero, my best friend, my Grannio (a.k.a my Grandmother)
She raised me like I was her own daughter from the day I was born 32 years ago.She loved me like minion else has ever loved me in my life.
Two Poems and an Examination ['Witness,' & 'An Old Love']
Two Poems and an Chemical analysis ['Witness,' & 'An Old Love']WitnessMy face belongs to whoever sees it Everything has a denotation but life Even the bugs strive for existence God saved man, from God Ghosts have lonely sins Her bones are stones Up and down the hill Gardens blossom Spotless skies Dramatists August I can not rest!..
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!..
Black Blood, in Jeremiahs Vines - A Poem and an Article
Black Blood, in Jeremiah's Vines [A Dream Poem]And I heard the crackling of wood, and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood, and fire came from his mouth.Then the wind poured its grief upon us-over our sins; and I heard the words for the seventh time, "Go to the mountains!"Foolish citizens of this land pray and understand-for He cometh! Thereof, toss by hand to thy knees, for the roar of defiant men will bleed: black blood, by means of the vines of Jeremiah.
House of the Elf [Part Two of Three/with notes]
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three]Here is where, where the air is stillAnd the mountains dimness disappear! Here is where, without a number spirits dwellWhere harp and reminiscence expire?Where the rainbow-leaps, from itsStoreroom-keep, and cries; And the sands along the heap coastEcho then die?as in sleep?;And where attraction turns into ghouls!..
I Hate The Wait (Weight)
I get up in the morningAnd want to stay in bedOh, so nice and warmLike fresh from the oven bread.My day is oh so busyI wish that I could stayIn the quiet of my houseIf only I could play.
Ballade of an Inca King
Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and landSays the Inca King?; In Spain, they leave the active streets, For sail to Peruvian shores;The hum of the gold is sweet,It glows and glistens like the sun A mountain of gold, or the grave Awaits the human, Inca-god?!Spaniards sing their songs of victoryWhere breaks the green Peruvian sea; Who now, worships the Inca King (?) Guarded after prisons doors-?They babble on about his blond ringsThey watch the winds cross the shores? They count the days that idle by, For gold they worship and will die.Envoy.
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 able of producing; And upon death, Back into the Abyss They melt!.
Growing hurts sometimes; saying goodbye to friends, to equipment you've known and done to belongings you sought after to do. Growing heals sometimes the devastated dreams and hopes of a life you once knew leading you to a new awareness of yourself.
Uamaks Water [suspense: now in Spanish and English]
Delicately, my mind was selecting a hushed tune, out of the dead dark empty space surrounding me?I saw a shape on a rock, not sure who it was; I had a sensitivity though, a atmosphere call it, or second-sight; I've heard that before, not sure if I want to put a lot of acceptance into it, but so be it, the sensitivity and lack of feeling was there. I didn't' sense any hazard in the moment, in the moonlit figure, session on the rocks, lurking, looking out into the deep.
Passion and Poetry, and Life
Ironically, the passion that can counteract the nausea for difficulties depends on the energy to overcome these difficulties. The irony resides in the circularity of this assumption - which applies to all areas of activity, as well as poetry: One must make the energy to overcome difficulties to do hit and feel capable, and one needs this achievement and atmosphere to have a passion for building this effort.
In the Mountans of Haiti [A Poem: in English and Spanish]
In the Mountains of Haiti(In the City)-July is a hot month-sweating Poverty out on every street (In Port de Prince); mixingMemory with appeal causes stirring. Not much rain in Haiti (in 1986); Summer kept us busy, building A health check clinic, in the mountains?.
Opposites Do Catch the attention of Quite Well
When I am climbing up, you are stepping down. When I wear a smile, you wear a frown.
Infected Ideologies [a Poetic Portrait]
the disease of extremism is infectious-; whoever cannot think of their child growing up lacking it is part of the phenomenon! (the array of the day). fanaticism,-- with a able ideology are seeds for suicide! murder: giving reasons to rage!.
To My Friend, With Love
All is still; all quiet; The world seems to be at peace. My soul is singing its periodic melody And I'm led like in a dream to write its tunes.
The Goat and the Rope [a Poem: in Spanish and English]
The Goat and the Ropewhere there were devils I saw none. nothing.
Four Poems: Two for the Devil, Two for Peru
Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the appropriate word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public's eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events--which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster dealings that are said to take place; and two poems production with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.Aztec BabyOn December 25, 2012 AD The Devil had an idea- He'd clone himself In the form of a baby; Called the Antichrist.
Like a cat I slumber, delightfully unencumbered, Through eighty per cent of my prearranged span, Occasionally awoken, when difference of opinion is spoken, And I contrive an added cunning five year plan, Lately it was pensions, that were being mentioned, So I on loan 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 a further determination looming, I have to arrive on the scene sincere, for part of this advent year, And declare all and sundry that the whole 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 and sundry 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 ancestors to hear my deified voice, And roll out the charade, put on the facade, And even make accept as true they have a choice, Next time about the crown, will be crushed 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 lubricate my palm, As for civil unrest, there is constantly house arrest, Or cloak-and-dagger caging for those that mean me harm.
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