Storm rising along the lima coast - poetry
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
?wind was blowing furiously
Back out into the open sea
Notes: 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 body with its own lively soul. We all seem to be come what may attached do we not, to the sea, to its ghosts that live inside it; to the earth that holds it, and its ambiance about us that seems to a consider concerning man, characteristics and space. Even the moon has its duties to the earth, and man, to guard us from damaging elements. Who gave them such a command? Sometime it wall all fly into space, the load and all, and earth knows it, and wants to share with us-as it is part of us-its compliant mystery, while time lasts.
Dennis Siluk's new book, "Spell of the Andes," is now accessible at your internet books stores; http://www. amazon. com and http://www. bn. com; he live is Minnisota and Peru with his wife Rosa.
Do not be frightened to shine. This world needs what you have to give.
Savage Nature: The Life of Ted Hughes
One of the most critical poets of the post-war period, Edward James Hughes (1930-1998), was drawn towards the primitive. He was charmed by the beauty of the accepted world, normally portraying its cruel and savage disposition in his work as a contemplation of his own not public distress and magical beliefs - committed that avant-garde man had lost touch with the elemental side of his nature.
Burning Autumn Grass [a poem in Spanish and English]
Burning Autumn Leaves [1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]My long steel barbed rake punctured And twisted because of 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.
How to Write Bad Poetry
"All bad poetry springs from actual feeling."--Oscar WildePeople write poetry for a glut of reasons, but this condition has a sharpened arrowhead aimed absolutely at the fingertips of amateur poets who wish to be in print yet garbage to learn the attributes of a well-crafted poem.
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is characteristic of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by stiff heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey all the way through poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and pecuniary achievement can be identified by all Scots and communal men the world over.
Opposites Do Appeal to Quite Well
When I am climbing up, you are stepping down. When I wear a smile, you wear a frown.
The Ballad of: Brawling Mad-dog Sergeant Rook [Now in: SPANISH and English]
English VersionA bunch of us guys in the hutIn ?Nam Were live cards, singing songs; In a solo-room, back of the hut Lay mad-dog, Sergeant Rook;And study from a distance Was his sidekick, Bodily 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.
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and ability to see bleary, all night sat there copy COBOL, coding apply crosswise the bed sheets, changing language rules for the mainframe, having tartan my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command, but there below my effectuation, appeared the cryptic communication, "Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nonentity more.
Tale of the: Old Huntsman and the Fair 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.
The Exterminate of Lima and Road to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Peru; in English and Spanish)In what back away art hid?-Where declining 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, delightfully low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
AFRICA (to africans in diaspora)africa here i come, africa africa of the black soul the soul of an antediluvian cultivation the background of your timid tribes.its your voice i hear africa your voice of the discussion drums your beaded drums and the royal trumpeter the metal gong of your town crieri have come to see your music dance i have heard of your perpetual minstrels have i not heard of your fluctuation hips! i have heard an adequate amount and have come to watch wouldn't you dance for me africaafrica here i come africa would you not show me to your tribes the timid tribes of your syrupy tongues the miscellaneous tongues of your honorable menafrica, black soul africa tell me about your gods your gods of the sky and of the look after earth your gods of the hills and of the rivers aboundshow me to your kings africa your kings of the antediluvian dynasty the antiquated era of rusted spear and shield africa, here i come africaHEAVENLY GUESTheavenly guest heralding thunderously in its own awake pelting on men as well, the gods gathering itself drop by drop.
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 burdened Gun for Revelation 3:10;America. A 'Contract for Death,' Is what he called it.
Im Sorry Mom! A Mothers Day Poem
Mother's Day Poetry,I'm Sorry Mom!I'm sorry for the troubles And the fears I brought you. I'm sorry for my mistakes, I didn't mean to make you blue.
For My Mother
I cannot bear to think of when you will be gone.I do not understand how I will get along.
Exalted Poetry; Two poem [and commentary]
Bells for Belphegor!..
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I cluster down, contained by my coat,a rail user clone, just coming up for a train.Insidious rain, just damp down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old brunette cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
"I heard what you said, Red. Yet, I have to disagree.
Write Your Way to Fame
Have you ever accepted wisdom about how nice it would be to see your poem discussed in the New York Times? Think you have what it takes to befall a eminent poet? Well the fateful truth is that no one has what it takes to be a eminent poet. Here's a barely exercise: Name the most celebrated contemporary poet you can think of.
Publishing Your Poetry
If you are considerable about as your work available by dependable publishers, there are a few points you ought to consider. First of all and most obviously, you need to affect if you have poetry worth publishing.
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 alongside 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 departure impressions Accepting fate Like flawed silver!.
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