Asha of darfur [a poem with a commentary by the author] - poetry
Asha of Darfur
Cry, cry-oh diminutive Darfur woman For your sister Janjaweed- [in Sudan's hard region-
who was raped to death); Where rape and death run ramped;
And Asha prays the Arabs don't' hear Here howling diminutive black tears? ?in fear she will be chained to a bed
In Darfur, by the insidious justice Of the Arabs, who run ramped?
Ah, yes! In Darfur you've guessed, It is not a crime to raped and arrested; By the very one who raped, and terrorized
You; it is the conquest?Satan's ribs!. . . Where rape and death run ramped.
Commentary by the author: again we see a following poem, or one taken out of in progress events. As I read the paper a few days ago, I saw the tears of Asha, and the bend in half principles in this African location, as it plays on the black citizens. It is a shame. There is not much representation in this poem, it is not needed. A few lines tell the whole story; as it does all the way through the whole poem. In this poem there is nobody for the bookworm to come across I fear no metaphors, just death, and its flow procedures compelling place in this Genocide of rape in Darfur. My badge if anything, is not private, it is public. Where in many cases a skull stands for death, here rape stands for death. Maybe I've fashioned in this poem my own clandestine figure of that nature, for many have survived the rapes and the genocide [or killings]; I attach them at once to mean the same thing though. For once we have been despoiled so badly, we die bit by bit anyhow, or so I feel.
Poet Dennis Siluk see his books at http://www. bn. ocm or http://www. amazon. com
The King and Delka & Moiromma: the Cold Globe [Parts 25 and 26]
#25The King and Delka [Split Mawkishness-on Moiromma /Part V]Sickly SentimentalityI have wanted out friends Only to find rawness Of their passion; And the equality Of their vision.Who out there can know My highbrow verve?(Only the long dead)By King Moir I[Of Moiromma]Ah! the directionless outer space come back to his mind as he stands on his gallery looking up into he eerie dark.
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (English version)In what departure art hid?-Where lessening mountains groan In shadow and amongThe white water of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footsteps 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? .
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 before 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 acclaimed the leading lake in the world.
Truth is stranger than fiction according to many citizens who have seen what happens about me and to them, on many occasions. From time to time I have had others distress me in the same way.
A Hundred and Fifty Dead [Korean War--l952]
There I sat, ninety-five gradation weatherOutside; the bookstore café, was cool.An Old Timer stood by me, explaining:"There were two-hundred of us on the Island,Near North Korea, back in '52-We guarded 16,000-prisners?"All of a sudden, all hell broke looseThree-hundred North Koreans cameOver the bob-wired fence, in pursuit"It all happened in a affair of secondsThe machineguns killed 150-of themThat's all I saw in the war of '52.
Im Sorry Mom! A Mothers Day Poem
Mother's Day Poetry,I'm Sorry Mom!I'm sorry for the troubles And the doubts I brought you. I'm sorry for my mistakes, I didn't mean to make you blue.
To My Friend, With Love
All is still; all quiet; The world seems to be at peace. My soul is singing its musical melody And I'm led like in a daydream to write its tunes.
Poems have assorted cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for a number of 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 automatically know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the enormity 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 a short time ago wrote, all with a another core, focus and style.
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]
Lima, City with the Stretched out WingsIt's an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sightJust dots of: red, green and white-white lightsAs the plane descends, descends, slides down On the long-drawn-out-spun-out enduring city of light Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The disturbed city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding all the way through the valley's, forests, and streams Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlesslyAs,I'm descending, down, over and about the city (descending, descending, and sliding to the ground)The city with stretched out wings-and endless lights Down, behind, around, the ground, it's immune to me I'm just part of its evening, a initiation in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights; People: walking, talking, sleeping, consumption by the dots People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and a new tomorrowThey say-:you are ruthless, and I know this to be trueAnd they tell me you have thieves and murders-And this, I dare say-but shall-is also true, very true But show me a city to the defiant of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with biting and hungry hearts;I say, show me one that sings in poverty and smiles Prove me one that celebrates year-round of its heroes Show me painters that are as good-that sell on streets-As good as: Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt, and Yang YangAnd that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no moreWith this,I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streetsAs well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and dirty air, And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofs Sights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parksAnd the abundant food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, cover all-My Lima, Peru with its celebrated Cathedral:Golden blonde with lofty crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its craggy aged men, lovely women,They all stand tall and bow to its Inca history, its glory- Its world that once ruled all, like the Roman Empire,Like the American Dream, they were the noble, the kingsAnd now, from chore and toil, sweat and strive, all, all Grinding, grinding away, each and everyday, lover of the, King of Kings: Jesus Christ-this is the Lima I know today; a mighty ship that has before now sailed the seven seas, now resting!?Spanish VersionLima, La ciudad con las alas extendidas Translated by Rosa PeñalozaEsta es una noche oscura: no estrellas, ni luna a la vistaSolo puntos: rojo, verde y blanco-luces blancasMientras que el avión desciende, desciende, bajando A la larga-extendida-plana persistente ciudad de luces Plana como un panqueque, encendida como un árbol de navidad-La despierta ciudad, con sus alas extendidasExtendidas desde las montañas hacia el océano Zigzagueante a través de los valles, bosques y riachuelos Estirando, estirando sus alas desnudas-interminablesMientras,Voy descendiendo, abajo, por encima y alrededor de la ciudad (Descendiendo, descendiendo, y deslizándose a la tierra)La ciudad con las alas extendidas-y luces interminables Abajo, Abajo, detrás, alrededor, la tierra, es inmune a mí Sólo soy parte de esta noche, un bautizado en su oscuro océanoInvisible: gente, gatos, perros, pájaros, y ratas, infinidadIncontables: puntos, riachuelos de luz, puntos de luz; Gente: caminando, conversando, durmiendo, comiendo bajo los puntos de luz Gente: esperando, matando, robando, rezando bajo los puntos de luzPor mañana, mañana y otro mañanaEllos dicen--:Tu eres implacable, y yo se que esto es verdadY ellos me dicen tú tienes ladrones, y muertes-Y esto, me atrevo a decir, que esto también es cierto, muy ciertoPero muéstrame una ciudad de ocho millones contraria --? Sacudo mis puños y digo: "?muéstrame," pero nadie lo haceTan viva, tan valerosa, con corazones fuertes y hambrientos:Digo, muéstrame una que canta en pobreza, y sonríe Pruébame una como esa, que celebra alrededor del año a sus héroes Muéstrame pintores tan buenos-que venden en las calles-Tan buenos como: Picasso, Dali, Rembrant y Yang YangY que recibe al mundo con extendidos brazosMuéstrame todo esto, o algo de esto, y no diré masCon esto,Desciendo a sus calles, atiborrada, zigzagueantes callesAsí como su raro vecindario con polvo en el aire Y oigo la risa de los niños, los perros en los techos Vista de los lustrabotas, hombres y muchachos, en los parquesY los numerosos carros de comida, músicos y vendedores de periódicosY con su desnuda y desplumadas alas, cubriendo todo-Mi Lima, Perú, con su renombrada catedral:Amarilla dorada con su coronadas torres, yDentro de su plaza cuadrada, una celebrada piletaBajo su piel, con sus arrugados ancianos, tiernas mujeres,Todos ellos parados altos, y reverenciando a su historia inca, sugloria- Su mundo que una vez gobernó todo, como el Imperio RomanoComo el sueño de América, ellos fueron los nobles, los reyesY ahora de pesadez, y esfuerzo, sudor, lucha, todos, todos extenuados, fatigados, este y cada día, amantes del Rey de los Reyes: Jesucristo-esta es la Lima que conozco, hoy; un poderoso barco que ya navegó los siete mares, ahora descansando?Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, web site: http://dennissiluk.
I Shall Wait...
I Shall Wait..
Life is a Fantasy
LIFE IS A FANTASY!A pink-eyed rabbit, fuzzy whiteHops in bedrooms crammed with frightA child of six with much to knowHer father's basest feelings showShe knows of LOVE, only because of himHe satisfies his every whimHe leaves, she wipes himfrom her chin!Her protect NEEDS to see the bestHe answered her God requestTo have a roof to comfort bringA yard where all the birdies singTell me how she could actually knowWhat basis for erudition could she go?Her care for frequently beaten if not worseThe cycle of violence - a woman's curseConflicting visions, dependenciesOne can go on many idiosyncrasiesShe could not make him defendant beDenial, avoidance? she disbelievesThe rabbit hides beneath tall trees.At thirteen a step-grandfatha'Finds a well-trained girl that oughta'Do what authoritative men requestNever conscious what is bestAnd run away she does at lastFreedom can be such a 'blast'A rabbit's foot upon a chainThe FANTASY her 'safe' domainHow long in life must it remain?To care for her from these menWho at all times for her lips, do 'yen'A state trooper in Tennessee Like every other man does see Her lips so full and moist red Through the bars, not in a bed.
Contract of Death [Now: in SPANISH and English]
Contract of DeathI heard today, the holy woman say: "Daniel has warned us long ago, Of the trials and harms we Are now facing, with our foes?"He says the 'Antichrist' was now In Europe crying: 'peace,' and the 'Axis of Evil,' had before now placed Hidden Atomic Russian weaponsUnder our feet, here in the good Ole heart of the United States; 'Palestine's cry for peace,' he adds, Is a deceptive Gun for Revelation 3:10;America. A 'Contract for Death,' Is what he called it.
The Business of Copan [In English and Spanish]
English VersionThe Commercial of Copan [480 AD]Advance: The ballgame at the Honduras quad in Copan, the year was 480 AD, Copan's 3rd ruler, Mat Head, whom succeeded Quetzal Macaw, whom was the break down of the city is now the new ruler. Mat Head, was a female, the other half of Quetzal Macaw, and here is where the story begins.
As I singled out up some of the polished gemstones in the rock store I began to think about what the gravel looked like beforehand they were polished. The store had a number of rocks on demonstrate presentation the ahead of and after and I realized that if not you knew what you were looking for, you could by a long shot pass by a costly gemstone.
Give Me a Lily Pad & The Continuum [two Poems]
What can I do to keep this world in its orbital spin? I gave up annoying to win the hearts of the many-. Throw the meat-balls anti the wall, stop, stop!! Trying to make them spin, like God did in the heavens!Sexual longings-a alleyway to anger and rage- Turn the page to the cheap hotels, turn the page Give it a corridor to run, tell your friends, they've won.
A Altered Place...
I wish we had met 20 years ago..
The Poets Angle [Three Poems with a review]
The Poet's Corner [Three poem/ see appraise of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly's Amongst the hillsIn open skies Of San Jerrónimo, Near Huancayo?Forbidding any To near his path-Lest he dare To risk a attack, Near Huancayo!..
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is agent of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by sore heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey because of poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and pecuniary achievement can be identified by all Scots and collective men the world over.
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your fulfil is "I start writing." Even inscription a bad poem is advance than ahead of you for the "right words.
Two Poems, with Metaphoric Language
Says Mr. Dennis Siluk, when asked to analysis his poetry somewhat, for he hesitates all the time when I ask him to so; I can tell you.
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