Friday, February 27, 2009

In Another Time (Donkeylalnd, 1986)

It wasn’t any serious conversation they were having, nothing much at all, mostly about not seeing each other after a long time; she invited him to sit down by her in the Monetary Bar, off the corners of Sycamore Street and Acker, by the Jackson Street Bridge, the railroad underneath it, he sat on a stool, hadn’t seen Jennifer St. Clair, for fifteen-years she being thirty-one years old now, he about thirty-eight. It was a wet spring, and the cool early evening wind came through the barroom doors, it was warm in the bar, sitting down rubbing his hands together, there was kind of a odd feeling inside of him. He looked round noticed they—the old neighborhood gang, the Donkeyland gang as the police called them, were all there, the same ones he left in 1968, when he went to San Francisco, and then onto the Vietnam War, to college, and traveled around the world some, did some writing, and worked as a psychologist for the Federal Government.
They looked different, had different expressions across their faces; older, much older now, old before their time. He felt as if he had entered the gate to the lions den. There were unusual looks from the several old gang members over in the opposite corner, across from him in the bar, trying to figure whom he was he presupposed. Someone leaned over the bar, one of the gang members to see who he was; it was Jennifer’s husband, John,
“Haw Chick, is that you?” He said.
“Yes! It’s me…! ” Said Chick.
“Good,” he said. “Come on over here with us guys have a drink!”

There were others Chick Evens knew around the bar, but they were too drunk to notice him. Someone was hammering on the bar for another drink, an old friend he noticed; then he noticed another old friend, who hadn’t noticed him yet, was bragging how he was a Black Belt in karate, standing up leaning against the wall, talking looking over at Chick, and then at John who was a few feet from him, he waved at Chick, with a smug countenance. Then Chick Evens ordered a coke.
“You’re fortunate Chick, to have gotten out of this drunken neighborhood when you did,” said Jennifer, “I heard you quite drinking, I guess seeing is believing, I’m really happy for you.” She then winked at him, adding to her monologue a question, “all right, what’s up, what brought you back to this corner bar?”
“You mean, why I am here if I don’t drink anymore?” said Chick.
“Everyone around here still gets heavy drunk, not going anyplace in particular, except up here to these two corner bars, you’re one of the few who got out, and if you stick around here you’ll be like us again, drunks, busybodies, and gossipers—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose I do, things haven’t changed much have they?” he said.
“It not very interesting here, not at all interesting,” Jennifer said, waving her hand at her husband.
“They’ll want you to go over there in a few minutes and drink with them, you know how they get,” she said, then hesitated, adding, “please Chick get out of here while you can. People hate those others who used to walk with them, and now have passed them.”
Chick looked over at the guys, he waved at the several, saw they all seemed to have rebuilt faces, old before their time, he knew they all had heard he had traveled some, and so forth, whereas they all had done the same—still the same—their background being here, up at this corner bar, and the one across the street, he had been a reminder I suppose to them, life had been long and pale as it was. Chick still wanted to greet them, but it looked close to what Jennifer had said, ‘…people hate those who pass them…who at one time walked with them,’ so he hesitated to make a move.

He noticed her hands were still slim and brown and lovely, she was of the Chippewa race of Indians, like Johnny her husband.
“I will, I swear I will go after I finish my coke!” said Chick pleasantly.
She glanced at him, and put out her hand, and he held it lightly, then let go quickly (as she picked up her glass of beer and drank it half down),
“I always liked you Chick” she said, adding “you were always different. I’m sorry Chick, but nothing has changed here since you’ve been gone, although it’s nice you haven’t forgotten us.”
“I understand.” He said.
“Yaw, that’s the trouble, you do understand,” she said with a sigh, and finishing off the other part of the glass of beer, then yelled at the barman to bring her another glass of beer.

(It did bring back some old memories to Chick Evens, as he sat there drinking down the last sip of his coke; it was a hell of a thing all right—he told himself, to get drunk daily, chase the women drunk, or half drunk, nightly, then pass out, wake up, feel as if you were hit by a hurricane, and start the cycle all over again, each twenty-four hours.)

They hadn’t said a word for a few minutes now, chick had zoned out of the present, and she noticed that.
Johnny had yelled again for Chick to have a beer with the guys again, and so did Mr. Karate Man, and Big Ace, and a few of the others, of the one time Cayuga Street now past middle age.
Said Jennifer back to them,
“What do you want with him, we’re talking yet?”
“Have him come and have a drink with us,” said a voice from the group.
“No,” she said, “Were talking about old times, I just told you that.”
“All right,” said the unnamed voice.
“You better go now,” said Jennifer.
He looked at her, the shape of her face, there was still youth in her eyes, she had three children now, so she had said, her cheek bones curved outward, in another five years, she’d be unable to find her beauty, he knew that, funny she still had some he thought. She had a thick head of dark hair, and a nice forehead he thought.
“Oh, you’re too sweet,” he said.
“And when you come back, you can tell me of all about the travels you’ve done since then.”
Her voice sounded a little stranger than it had a moment ago, not completely, recognizable, yet settled in the fact it was as it had to be. Maybe as he would have liked it to have been for her.
“Yes,” he said ominously, “if the good Lord’s a-willing.” Adding, “you’re right, I’m a different man, and these are different times I’m even a stranger to myself here.”
He looked at the door, at her, he saw that she was a tinge uncomfortable with him now, the forth glass of beer in front of her, half gone, him, still sober as a sparrow, and he was to her likewise, a different looking man. The group down at the corner of the bar moved a little ways closer to them, as if working their way down to them. Then looking into her beer glass, it was like a mirror, he saw his past it was all quite true, he was out of place here.
Next, he started to leave the bar, she said, as he passed her,
“You look very well—healthily Chick; you must be living a very good life.”
He never looked back, he knew if he had, he’d see the group, and then have to have that drink, and one was never enough, and it just wasn’t worth it.

Written in Lima, Peru 1-2-2009; previous name “Days Without Women” • (ds)


Friday, August 29, 2008

"Here today, gone tomorrow" (Poetic Prose)

“Here today, gone tomorrow”
(Poetic prose, on real life)

“Here today, gone tomorrow,” my mother used to say, in her simple natural way—and in-between, few of us are remembered. Movie stars, I think they think they’ll be remembered until kingdom comes, like presidents of nations, and generals of armies, so many alike, but they are akin to old books badly written, put on shelves, like old songs, long forgotten, not much else. I think my mother took a pick—between this and that, said “…what do I really want, wish,” and she chose life to live, and simple things, a little money, and her two children, her brother and sisters, and a few friends, and that was it, it was enough; at the end, at eighty-three, she said to me, “I never expected to live this long.”
It was all for Jesus now, she done her best, with what she had, it appeared to me, at the time, He, Jesus gave her a moment to prepare, recall, and then, then she said, “I’m ready,” and she left.
I think earth bored her some, perhaps me and my brother too, we were all caught up with our own lives, adventures, troubles and things to do. And so she left, just like that, as simple as she came, like she meant, and let me paraphrase: here one day, and gone the next—; so simple and fast it all seems now, as if it was planned: I think we’re all just a little less than a vapor fading in the wind: and the best we can say, at the end is: we came, we saw and then left.

#2473 8-29-2008 (on the roof top, in Lima, Peru)

Saturday, August 23, 2008

The Sweeper (a poem on war in Somali, with commentary)

The Sweeper
(A poem, on war in Somali)

I’m Tired of man’s wars
Tired of this world’s Leaders
I stand facing blood crushed limbs
Of those I once knew as friends,
In Somali’s dark city
Where the Butchers Plague
Has come, to stay, and I must die.

Here, I became part of the dead:
I harbor no delusions.

I once listen to the sounds of fish,
Even of jumping frogs, in ponds.
I could fall to sleep at secluded waterfalls
In Venezuela’s, Gran Sabena,
Listen to its shroud’ like veils
Of pouring water…!

It’s what I gave up, sadly gave up,
And weep as I write this poem
Torn from my shell, I am one of those limbs
The sweeper is sweeping up right now,
Off the streets of a Somali port city,
If only I could have,
Seen another autumn also…!

#2472 8-23-2008

Note: There has been a three day battle, or war, part of an ongoing war, a period in Somali, where people have been dying like flies, and it will soon be tucked away, in the writings of time, perhaps brought to surface now and then down the road of life, but for the most part forgotten. Eighty-nine-people died, and over two hundred wounded: mostly civilians, body parts stinking up the city’s streets. When you are in war is one thing, one shoots out of a plane, or from a distance he sends rockets your way, or the armor comes in, and shoots it shells. Lives are taken in the name of war, and progress, and all such silly things. And the insurgents, be it Ethiopian or Islamic, or Somalia’s citizens in its capital, nobody, nowadays, sees the dying much anymore, until they are dead. Facing death, the death you bring on in war, puts the warrior in a deep freeze, you don’t see, hear what you are killing, you just kill the enemy, whomever they are, and for whatever they’ve don. From the looks of things the Somali city Kismayo is an open air, graveyard, where limbs and body parts are likened to an unkempt butcher’s shop, or market place.
I say to myself, and I have been in war, “I don’t want to die in some bloody city, in somebody’s backyard, because someone, somewhere shot a anti-aircraft gun, and shot my legs off, then my arms, and he doesn’t know me, nor I him, and he will sleep well tonight because the shock part of seeing the dead you killed is nullified. Now comes the bullet to my head because someone a mile away decided to press some buttons. Or someone fifty-miles away wants to have a personal, not with the people he will kill in the city, he will simply just kill them for fun, if they get in the war, but war to rule over people who they want to control.”
Control is power, and nowadays, the new philosophy, or so it seems to be, is not so much to be rich, than to be in control of those around you. And should a ruler not be, then he will kill and destroy everything, something the USA does not understand, that being, the rulers of today, do not care if you starve their control, as long as they control, because they will eat anyways, and blame the rest of the word for their countries woes. If they can’t control it, they will destroy it. Again I say, it is a different kind of a bird that rules nowadays, more on the peacock order.


Tuesday, October 09, 2007

A Simple Man (A Poem(

A Simple Man

I’m sure I can’t remember where, but some
Where in my simple life I found the key
That unlocked the door of the jungle around me.
Back then, the Lord and I, walked side by side,

Up and down that old path, a dirt alleyway!
I would sing, and hum, in the snow and rain
That circled over my head, on the way to school;
But then He disappear; growing up was done.

I was a simple boy; those walks were all I knew
No dog, no father, just mom, Mike and grandpa;
A hamster that looked at me, a turtle and poems
(I started writing them at twelve-years old).

Today I’m sixty-years old, can’t sleep all that well
Yesterday I tried to talk to the Lord again, just
Like I did way back when; my voice, words
A bit rumbled? But then, I’m now a simple man.

Commentary on the Simple Man: No: 2012, October 7, 2007. I’ve learned in life, God takes the simple things and stupid as they may be at times, and he loves them. He hears them weep as children, and swear as adults, and somewhere in-between, He gives them keys to open certain doors (if they are willing; He even embarrasses the smart and strong and arrogant with the simple), and yes, he keeps coming around, to see if the simple spider stooping has floundered into the empty air, and become a lovely, butterfly. When we are young, simple and innocent, it is different than when we are adults, simple and likened to a dragon. But I’ve learned being simple can be appealing to the Lord, you know he made us as we are. It is best we do not forget who we are, perhaps tuck it away now and then, if it is too much to swallow, but learn to live with it. Some folks laugh the simple-ness of other folks, it is not wise to do so, lest the Lord remind you, who you really are (and bring you back down off your high horse). I have learned if you love God, and trust Him, and the odds are against you, He can even them up, if you take the opportunities He throws your way, and wait, prepare. Once I waited for ten years, but it was worth waiting for, I had to prepare, be available, willing and usable.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Two Poems on Life (By D.L. Siluk)

Two Poems on Life

Surprised by Morning

There is an unknown dilemma that is by us…;
day has come, and evening has arrived on time.
As for the evening, shades of darkness fell,
so I noticed looking through the glass windows.

I sat quietly back in my white plastic chair
on the Platform, and wrote this poem,
thinking and looking:
“How did it all come about?”
“How will morning be?”

At last I found myself in bed,
the waters of my mind, rose and fell;
then I wakeup, surprised, somewhat,
morning had arrived (it was here).

Note: No: 2008, October 2, 2007, written on the Platform, in Huancayo, Peru, 2.55 PM

“Upon His Death”
(An Elegy, before Death)

Now close his eyes—please, for all his breath has gone.
For, they will not open up here, on Earth again!

For years, life has fed upon his ivory bones
That with his breath gave in (to death) all at once.

Deep inside our minds, we decay, suffer on…!
Until our minds, bodies and souls say: it’s enough.

Now let him be, and his body let us bless
That came to earth, at birth, and goes to heaven to rest.

Short Commentary: Death comes sometimes slowly, or so it seems— (or can be) for us folks watching this happen to our loved ones; perhaps it is harder on us doing the watching, than those doing the dying (?)
We often try to get the last photographs, our facts in order; tell and listen to the last jokes, stories and simple conversations we will forever share, and preserve them deep into our memories. Yes, all these gathered images we truly loved of that individual—and we wait; and until we die like them we simply endure. It’s all called life!... No: 2004 (9-28-2007)


Saturday, September 15, 2007

DEATH PASSED ME ONCE (Poetry by dlsiluk)


New Poems on Death (8-2007)
Death Returns
Death: Roots of the Earth
The Honored Ones
Dialogue with the Devil
Selected for Death
Death Passed Me Once
The Rocks (with notes)

New Poems on Death

Death Returns

Death returns: it found no resting place;
I saw it in flight, last night over the Sierras;
beneath the last sparks of twilight—!
The condor’s wings covered death’s decent;
and glides now through the air in peace!
Yet death’s tail-shadow leaves at dawn, to
return at dusk, blue-bellied full—as
if it has swallowed a whale (once again).
The condor, the condor, likened to a fly in a web
death finds no rest, only new flesh, new flesh!

No: 1949 8-27-2007

The Roots of the Earth

Death has a way of saying Hello, when it means Goodbye! We human beings on earth’s surface never really disappear—only transform.

From the moment of death the body will change, you can’t
hear it, it simply gets foggy—becoming the roots of the earth.

No: 1950 8-27-2007

The Honored Ones

How mysterious to be born a human being
—and then to die as one!
To be able to wash off those old fleshy garments
of bark and milky-clay…!
We are the honored ones—(you know)
given to a whole world system—:
one hand reaching to heaven the other to hell.
Those who have not been born yet:
man and beast are not so far apart
(and the second, very hard to please).

No: 1951 8-27-2007

Dialogue with the Devil

“I’ll make a pack with you,” said He to me (the Devil),
“I have detested you long enough. I first saw you as
a child—then when you were old enough to make friends
I saw you again…. It was you who worshiped my kinds
of sins—then you broke away, but now is the time to start
carving new adventures. I have left one sap and root for
you—let there be commerce between us?”

I said back to Him, “Dark eyed, ivory scandaled thief, there
is none like thee, among heaven, earth or hell; none with
such swift feet, or tongue—eyes or hears, none like thee,
dark as midnight are your sins, —face of a death’s seabed.”

No: 1954, 8-28-2007

Selected for Death

“No, no! Go from me—!” I left death lately in her sheath
—oh! Dim it was, for she surrounded me.
Thin, are her arms, yet such a grip—they bound me,
immoveable, and left me…cloaked, as in a web,
a cocoon—subtle and swift she was, like magic, in her
“No, no! I cried, “go from me, I have still your taste—
your scent, your soot, your aye—halt!”
(But she wouldn’t listen.)

No: 1952 8-28-2007

Death Passed Me Once

This man knew the secrets of death
(he cast them over my head).
No man could know such things, unless
he was part of it.
And now he’s gone, he up and left—
(just like that…).
I called out: “Are you near?” and he did
not answer back.
Then at the end of my bed I saw—why!
There stood in my hospital room, the
eyes and shoulders of a great being:
He did not speak, —he simple watched
over me.

No: 1953 8-28-2007

The Rocks
(Rapturous poetry)

Friend, please tell me what is wrong with me?
Or is it perhaps the world?
For I told myself, it could be either way!

I gave up drinking, smoking and gambling,
and I never swore, but then I started to.

So I prayed on that, and went after women
instead, and became compulsively attracted.

I went and got married to give up women
and just have one, and I started up swearing again.

I worked hard at trying to figure myself out,
pushing aside pride, greed, lust, envy and gout!

And every time I take my inventory, I find one
more issue, that had been hidden under a rock!

“Listen up Friend, there’s only been one
who has ever been able to kick over those rocks
and find nothing of value to talk about…!”

No: 1955 8-29-2007 In this poem I try to put what I call eccentric energy into its rebellious branches; a tinge of spirituality; the ego and the body play a role here, and how a man may try to prepare himself for death, trying to subdue his impulsive nature, be it sexual, or excessive energy in other so called, taboo areas: acted out and un-acted out desires. The rocks, or rock, are ones invitation to look under it, for there is where you will find your problem, the situation is always on top, and thus the problem has to be under the rock. This is an old Hindu style form of poetry.


Friday, August 31, 2007

The Hour of Death (Commentary; in English and Spanish) & Poems on Death

The Hour of Death
(Poems and Commentaries on Death)

Dennis L. Siluk, Dr.h.c.

Illustrated by the Author (in English and Spanish)

Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma
(of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Poeta Laureado de la Ciudad de San Jerónimo de Tunán, Perú (2005)
(Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006)

Also awarded a metal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment

“The Hour of Death”
(Poems on death by: D.L. Siluk)
Copyright ©2008 by Dennis L. Siluk

Then I heard a voice from heaven say,
“Write: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.”
“Yes…for their deeds will follow them.”

Revelation 14

Dedicated to My Little Wife:
Rosa Siluk


Commentaries One and Two

Commentary on Death
((The Hour of Death)(in four parts: written: 8-2007))


Watching Death
About Dying
Death by the Numbers

New Poems (8-2007):

Death Returns
Death: Roots of the Earth
The Mystery of Life
Dialogue with the Devil
Selected for Death
Death Passed Me Once
The Rocks (with notes)
Poems written 2003-2007

The First Depth
Satan’s Daises
The Iron Raven
The Marble Tomb
Winter of Death
To Death (with notes)
Old Mrs. Stanly (with notes)
Grandpa’s Cellar Ghosts
White Shadows
(Scented Death: in seven cantos: with notes)
Tanger’s Kasbah ((Casaba)([Black wind))

Poems to My Mother
(Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk)

One Long Glimpse

Love and Butterflies

An Old Wood Pile
Commentary One of Two

Commentary on Death
(A Four Part Commentary)

Part One
The Hour of Death

Without warning, death comes to thousands of earthlings each day, every second of the day, for a variety of reasons. People die in natural disasters as well as in war, we see this in the media, the newspapers, television, radio, in all forms of reporting, it comes to us daily. Rich and poor alike must face this sooner or later. In the Army I saw people die, and now being older, many of my loved ones are dead, the older I get the more death I witness on the road of life; yes, around me death is cluttering.
I’ve had heart attacks, strokes: and other diseases, illnesses in life, been put on diets, and I am still living, but it is still a matter of time for me, I’ve been fortunate to have been able to reach the age of sixty-years old, and being here, or there, one must know the day and hour is not far off, thus, one must be prepared in advance, to face it, know it is but a few pages off in the book of life.
From the day we are born, we are facing—like it or not—a dying experience, in future time, be it a week, month or century. Some see death as the enemy, a twisted enemy that wants to shatter us like glass if only it could get a hold, a grip on us.
Death has no flashing red lights, no ominous dread—it rides a pale horse often, and has no distinction between pauper and elite. It has a one time experience (usually), where body and limb lay sprawled out someplace— and when found, is put beneath the ground: we often call these tragedies, but it is of course repeated throughout the world, everyday, and is as normal as drinking a glass of water.
Death has its form of grief for the living also, it can be crushing, and can cause dramatic changes in individuals, and families, especially if unprepared, yes indeed, and it can alter future plans. But we have only a few options when death approaches, to face it and deal with it, or pretend it does not exist, and deal with it in the afterworld, if indeed we can. If death suddenly strikes, there are of course no more phone calls to one’s loved ones, no more daily business meetings or crusades, or admiring the beautiful city, or the far off mountains. No more interviews by Time magazine. One will only discover he or she has arrived, seriously arrived, and consequently arrived, at perhaps a distasteful, painful, unpleasant platform. On the other hand, perhaps at heavens door one may arrive, where famine or epidemics are no more, no more fatal elements the world has to offer, no more causalities of war; no matter where we end up, death is permanent, but not lifeless, or so I believe, and in one-way or the other, we will carry on.
Thus, this book is about death, in poetic form, after you read it, you may want to confront it, dodge it, avoid it, or try to reason with death, but what must really be done I believe is, somewhere along the line you have to make friends with it, let go of it, and make peace with those around you and God, with the time you have left. Realistically, you have little choice, your sins will follow you, dwell within you. When you die, you take with you what is inside of you, how else could it be, it is inevitable, for death does not cleanse one from a conspiracy (or scheme to cheat afterwards), now that he or she is silent— and death has struck, you politely can not ignore it, the high command in Heaven and Hell will not allow it. Each one wants you—desperately, the question is: who gets you? The uncertainty is not in dying, that is well known, but rather in what order do you belong to? The battle never stops until after the fact.

Part Two
The Enemy

If truly to one, death is the enemy, death being the silent conspiracy of the pale horsemen, thus, one cannot afford to ignore him. This is your warning my friends, “…your deeds will follow you,” Revelation 14. Break the conspiracy, face it, for death never sleeps, it hides behind the condor’s dark wings, and all of a sudden it is in front of you. It is really an impossible theme to get away from. Did God plan death? “I don’t think so!” that is why we live on afterwards—it was not part of his original plan, it crept in. I am not really telling you anything new, it is not any boiling new news that you will die, but discussing death, or the aspects of dying, facing the facts we must face sooner or later anyhow is prudent, and needed, with or without fear, for it is simply healthy to do so I believe; another point being, it is not a riddle, it is simple: we need to get knowledge of it, like anything else. Call it a phantom, a ghost, that stalks you, whatever you wish, but please try to approach it objectively, and with some compassion, for God has shown you it: Paul in the bible says in so many words: it is ones last enemy; but he never did fear it, nor should we.
Death takes a person, snatches him like a hawk to rodent off the ground and drag him up to its den; yes, it robs one of its potential, or can; a friend of mine at the bank back in 1993, was taken at the age of 37-years old, a stroke in his car driving home from work. A young man in his late thirties recently, died of a disease, his children still in school. A friend, an electrician, was electrocuted a number of years ago working in a steel mill. I can go on and on, all taken from life experiences, but the point being, Death comes not as a stranger, but as a rival to God’s plan. Again I say, for Paul implied, the last enemy is death (1 Corinthians 15.25, 26).
Yes indeed, death can destroy life, it does, has and will, the very opposite of God’s original plan. But why then do we have death? The question can be extended psychologically to: why do people sin that was not part of God’s plan, and what is the penalty? Like Satan, and Adam, and mankind, we have scoffed at God’s warning, and the price for this is death of course. As we see in the bible, it reads, “For the wages of sin is death…” (Romans 6:23). Consequently, death has taken over the world, animals, plants and human beings. But Christ has delivered (saved) us, yet we must die. But if man would not have sinned, or Satan, or Adam and Eve, what then? I think we would have passed ‘go’ (or gone from earth to heaven) without death.

Part Three
Laughing at Death

Let’s not laugh at death, so many people do, for it will catch up with you one way or another. Some folks don’t believe in death, others think it will never come, some even think death is better than life. Some have a fatalistic concept of it, saying, “It’s not a big thing, what’s the problem, once you die, you die, you sleep forever—no more problems!”
So we see people can go from one extreme to another; psychologically paralyzing themselves with the fear of death. This is of course the fate of the person who has no faith. Or someone is trying to buy God’s favor. Fear of death is for the most part, common to man, to Christians as well as non Christians.
Mentally and psychologically, one can face death realistically, and make it a victory, by grabbing on to the love of God, through Christ; we see this in Romans 8.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die tomorrow, but I would like to know about my forthcoming departure from this earth.
I am not writing this to be morbid, but because it is a subject avoided so often. And perhaps we can find in death some peace, a feat, maybe even a little wit.

Part Four

As a minister, or as a Counselor in psychology, here are my recommendations: if you have accepted your death, or transience (humanity as it is) thus, you should put your affairs in order, make a will, make peace with God, with your children (if possible); try not to make it hardship on the living; do not leave a mess of confusion. Some folks say: hell with it let them take care of it when I’m gone. It is a selfish way of looking at things, anger perhaps for dying. It is one thing to go on to heaven (assuming this is where you are going) and leaving a mess for your loved ones down on earth. Would it not be great to help those who need it still when you are gone, and you know as I do, they will need all they can to carry on: it will indeed mean a lot to them to have things in order. When my mother died, she left her will to be cremated; told me were here insurance papers were, paid the last perineum on them, gave us her account number to her bank, and phone numbers to her pensions. She even paid her last electric bill, and months rent (which she never got to use), so it would not be a hardship on the living. There was no sourness, no greed in her. I hope I can be as polite as she was upon death.
We need to make arrangements, for eventually death will grab us like a viper in the tall grass. Planning and prayer, if need be seek counsel from qualified advisors. My mother’s family fought over my grandfather’s estate, except for my mother who said: let them deal with it, I’ll take whatever. But my grandfather left a mess, and yes, there were hard feelings between the many sisters and brothers up to the day they died. Long before death, this could have been prevented.
Just like your wedding, plan your funeral, if you want a party, so state it, as if it was a birthday party, it is up to you. You will someday, stand before God and give an account.

It has been my privilege to write this commentary for you, for deep down in my heart, I know the reader loves God, otherwise he would not have reached these last words I am now writing. People can be complex, but the true believer knows death longer has a sting; it has been conquered by the resurrection of Jesus Christ: death as I have said previously is revolution to a new beginning.

Spanish Version

Comentario sobre la Muerte
(Un Comentario de Cuatro Partes)

Por Dennis L. Siluk

Parte Uno
La Hora de la Muerte

Sin aviso, la muerte llega a miles de terrícolas cada día, cada segundo del día, por una variedad de razones. La gente muere en desastres naturales, como también en la guerra, lo vemos esto en los medidos de comunicación, en los periódicos, televisión, radio, en todas las formas de reportaje, este viene a nosotros diariamente. Ricos y pobres de la misma forma tienen que enfrentarla tarde o temprano. Cuando estaba en el ejército vi gente morir, y ahora siendo viejo, muchos de mis seres queridos están muertos, cuanto más viejo me vuelvo de más muertes soy testigo en el camino de la vida; si, alrededor de mi la muerte esta abarrotando.
He tenido ataques al corazón, derrames cerebrales y otras enfermedades, enfermedades en la vida, he sido puesto a dieta, y aún estoy viviendo, pero todavía es una cuestión de tiempo en mi, he sido muy afortunado de llegar a la edad de sesenta años, y estar aquí, o allá; uno debe saber que el día y la hora no está muy lejos, así, hay que prepararse anticipadamente, para enfrentar a esta, saber que sólo está a unas páginas de diferencia en el libro de la vida.
Desde el día en que nacemos, nosotros estamos enfrentando—nos guste o no—una experiencia de muerte, en un tiempo futuro, sea esta en una semana, un mes o un siglo. Algunos ven a la muerte como a un enemigo, un enemigo inesperado que quiere hacernos añicos como cristal si sólo esta pudiera cogernos, agarrarnos.
La muerte no tiene luces rojas intermitentes, tampoco un pavor siniestro—esta cabalga un caballo pálido a veces, y no hace distinción entre pobres o privilegiados. Esta tiene una sola experiencia en la vida (normalmente), donde el cuerpo y las extremidades descansan estirados en algún lugar—y cuando es encontrado, es puesto debajo de la tierra: a veces los llamamos tragedias, pero este, por supuesto, es repetido a través del mundo, todos los días, y es tan normal como beber un vaso de agua.
La muerte tiene su forma de aflicción para los vivientes también, esta puede ser aplastante, y puede causar cambios dramáticos en las personas, y familias, especialmente si no están preparadas, si ciertamente, y esta puede alterar planes futuros. Pero nosotros sólo tenemos pocas opciones cuando la muerte se acerca: enfrentarla y hacernos cargo de ella, o pretender que esta no existe, y hacernos cargo de esta en el más allá, si de verdad podemos. Si la muerte sobreviene repentinamente, no habrá por supuesto más llamadas telefónicas al ser querido, no más reuniones de negocio diarias o luchas, y no más admiración de la bonita ciudad, o de las montañas lejanas y no más entrevistas con la revista Time. Uno sólo descubrirá que él o ella ha llegado, llegado seriamente, y consecuentemente llegó, talvez a una plataforma dolorosa y desagradable. Por otro lado, talvez uno llegue a las puertas del cielo, donde no hay más hambrunas ni epidemias, ni más elementos fatales que el mundo tiene para ofrecer, ni más casualidades de guerra; independientemente de dónde terminamos, la muerte es permanente, pero no sin vida, o eso es lo que creo, y de una forma u otra, nosotros seguiremos.
Así, este libro es sobre muerte, en forma poética, después que lo leas, tu talvez quieras enfrentarla, esconderte, o evitarla, o tratar de razonar con la muerte, pero lo que debe de hacerse creo, es de que en algún momento a lo largo de la vida tú tienes que hacerte amigo con ésta, y dejarla, y tener paz con todos alrededor de ti y con Dios, con el resto del tiempo que te queda. De manera realista, tú tienes muy pocas elecciones, tus pecados te seguirán, morarán contigo. Cuando mueres, te llevas contigo lo que tienes dentro, cómo más podría ser, es inevitable, porque la muerte no te va a limpiar para una conspiración (o confabulación para engañar después), ahora que él o ella están silenciosos—y la muerte ha sobrevenido, tú cortésmente no puedes ignorarla, el Comando Alto del Cielo e infierno no lo permitirá. Cada uno te quiere—desesperadamente, la pregunta es: ¿quién te obtendrá? La incertidumbre no está muriendo, esto se sabe bien, pero más bien ¿en qué orden tú perteneces? La batalla nunca se detiene hasta después del hecho.

Parte Dos
El Enemigo

Si es verdadero a uno, la muerte es el enemigo, muerte siendo la conspiración silenciosa del jinete pálido, así, no podemos permitirnos ignorarlo. Esta es tu advertencia mi amigo, “…tus acciones te seguirán”, Revelación Capítulo 14. Rompe la conspiración, enfréntala, porque la muerte nunca duerme, esta se esconde detrás de las alas oscuras del cóndor, y de repente está enfrente de ti. Es realmente un tema imposible de alejarnos. ¿Dios planeó la muerte? “Creo que no” es por eso que vivimos en el más allá—esta no era parte de su plan original, esta se escurrió dentro. Realmente no te estoy diciendo nada nuevo, no es una nueva hirviente noticia que tú vas a morir; en cambio, analizar la muerte, o los aspectos de morir, nos enfrenta a los hechos a los que nosotros tarde o temprano debemos enfrentar, de todas maneras es prudente y necesario, con o sin miedo, porque es simplemente saludable hacerlo, yo creo; otro punto es, de que no es una adivinanza, simplemente es: que necesitamos tener conocimiento de este, como cualquier otra cosa. Llámalo a esto una aparición, un fantasma, que te acecha, lo que desees, pero por favor trata de acercarte a este objetivamente, y con algo de compasión, porque Dios te lo ha mostrado: San Pablo dice en la Biblia con estas palabras: es nuestro último enemigo; pero él nunca lo temió, ni tampoco nosotros debemos.
La muerte se lleva una persona, la arrebata, como el águila lo hace con el roedor de la tierra, y lo arrastra arriba a su escondite; sí, nos roba de su potencial, o puede. Un amigo mío del banco allá en el año 1993, fue llevado a la edad de treinta y siete años, un derrame cerebral mientras el manejaba su carro de regreso a casa. Un hombre joven en sus últimos treintas recientemente murió de una enfermedad, sus hijos todavía en la escuela. Un amigo mío, un electricista, se electrocutó unos años atrás mientras trabajaba en un molino de acero. Puedo continuar y continuar, con casos tomados de las experiencias de la vida, pero el punto es, La Muerte viene no como un extraño, sino como una rival a los planes de Dios. De nuevo, digo, porque San Pablo implicó, el último enemigo es la muerte (1 Corintios 15. 25, 26).
Si, ciertamente, la muerte puede destruir la vida, ésta lo hace, lo ha venido haciendo y lo hará, muy opuesto a los planes originales de Dios. Pero, ¿por qué entonces tenemos a la muerte? La pregunta podría ser extendida psicológicamente a: ¿por qué la gente peca, que no fue parte del plan de Dios, y qué es la sanción? Como Satanás, Adán, y la humanidad, nosotros nos hemos mofado a la advertencia de Dios, y el precio por esto es la muerte por supuesto. Como vemos en la Biblia, esta dice: “porque el pago del pecado es la muerte…” (Romanos 6; 23). Consecuentemente, la muerte se ha apoderado del mundo, animales, plantas y seres humanos. Pero Cristo nos ha salvado de esta, pero todavía tenemos que morir. Pero si el hombre no hubiera pecado, o Satán, o Adán y Eva, ¿qué entonces? Creo que hubiéramos pasado “ido” (de la tierra al cielo sin morir).

Parte Tres
Riéndose de la Muerte

No nos riamos de la muerte, tanta gente lo hace, porque esta te alcanzará de una forma u otra. Algunas personas no creen en la muerte, otros piensan que esta nunca vendrá, algunos incluso piensan que la muerte es mejor que la vida. Algunos tienen un concepto derrotista, diciendo “¡No es una gran cosa, cuál es el problema, una vez que mueres, moriste, dormirás eternamente—no más problemas!”
Vemos que hay personas que pueden ir de un extremo al otro; paralizándose psicológicamente con el temor a la muerte. Esto es por supuesto el destino de la persona que no tiene fe. O de alguien tratando de comprar los favores de Dios. El temor a la muerte es por lo general, común al hombre, para cristianos así como a no Cristianos.
Mental y psicológicamente, podemos enfrentarnos a la muerte de modo realista, y hacer de esta una victoria, aferrándonos en el amor de Dios, a través de Cristo; lo vemos esto en Romanos 8.
No me interpretes mal. No quiero morir mañana, pero me gustaría saber sobre mi próxima partida de esta tierra.
No estoy escribiendo esto para ser morboso, sino porque este es un tema evitado muchas veces. Y talvez podamos encontrar en la muerte alguna paz, una hazaña, talvez incluso un poquito de ingenio.

Parte Cuatro

Como ministro, o como un consejero en psicología, aquí están mis recomendaciones: si tú aceptaste tu muerte, o tu humanidad (humanidad tal como es) así tú deberías poner tus cosas en orden, hacer un testamento, tener paz con Dios, con tus hijos (si es posible); trata de no crear una penuria con los vivientes; no dejes un lío de confusión. Alguna gente dice: al diablo con esto, deja que ellos se encarguen de esto cuando ya no esté. Esta es una forma egoísta de ver a las cosas, rabia talvez por morir. Es una cosa ir al cielo (asumiendo que allí es donde estás yendo) y otra cosa es dejar un lío para tus seres queridos en la tierra. No sería fabuloso ayudar a aquellos que necesitan cuando te hayas ido, y tú sabes como yo lo se, ellos necesitarán todo lo que ellos puedan para continuar: esto significará, ciertamente, mucho para ellos para dejar las cosas en orden. Cuando mi madre murió, dejó en su testamento que quería ser cremada; nos dijo dónde estaban los papeles del seguro, ella había pagado hasta la última cuota de éste, nos dio el número de su cuenta bancaria, y los teléfonos de quienes les pagaban su pensión. Incluso ella pagó su último recibo de electricidad, y su alquiler del mes (el que ella nunca lo llegó a usar), para que no sea una penuria para los vivientes. No hubo amargura, ni ambición en ella. Espero que yo sea tan amable como ella lo fue a la hora de su muerte.
Necesitamos hacer planes, porque eventualmente la muerte nos cogerá como a una víbora en la hierba alta. Planes y oraciones, si se necesita busca a un consejero de asesores capacitados. La familia de mi madre peleó sobre los bienes de mi abuelo, excepto mi madre que dijo: déjalos que ellos se encarguen de esto, tomaré lo que sea. Pero mi abuelo dejó un desorden, y sí, hubo resentimientos entre los muchos hermanos y hermanas hasta el día en que ellos murieron. Mucho antes de la muerte, esto pudo haber sido prevenido.
Justo como con tu boda, planea tu funeral, si quieres una fiesta, entonces dilo, como si este fuera una fiesta de cumpleaños, esto depende de ti. Tú algún día, estarás enfrente de Dios y le darás cuenta de tus actos.

Ha sido un privilegio para mi escribir este comentario para ti, porque en la profundidad de mi corazón, yo sé que los lectores aman a Dios, de otra forma él no habría alcanzado estas últimas palabras que ahora estoy escribiendo. La gente puede ser complicada, pero los verdaderos creyentes saben que la muerte ya no nos hace daño, esta ha sido vencida por la resurrección de Jesucristo; la muerte como lo dije anteriormente es una revolución a un nuevo comienzo.

Poems on Death

New Poems

Death Returns

Death returns: it found no resting place;
I saw it in flight, last night over the Sierras;
beneath the last sparks of twilight—!
The condor’s wings covered death’s decent;
and glides now through the air in peace!
Yet death’s tail-shadow leaves at dawn, to
return at dusk, blue-bellied full—as
if it has swallowed a whale (once again).
The condor, the condor, likened to a fly in a web
death finds no rest, only new flesh, new flesh!

No: 1949 8-27-2007

The Roots of the Earth

Death has a way of saying Hello, when it means Goodbye!
We beings on earth’s surface never really disappear—only

From the moment of death the body will change, you can’t
hear it, it simply gets foggy—becoming the roots of the earth.

No: 1950 8-27-2007

The Mystery of Life

How mysteries to be born a human being
—and then to die as one!
To be able to wash off those old fleshy garments
of bark and milky-clay…!
We are the honored ones—(you know)
given to a whole world system—:
one hand reaching to heaven the other to hell;
the truth is, we have two flavors.
Those who have not been born yet:
man and beast are not so far apart
(and very hard to please).

No: 1951 8-27-2007

Dialogue with the Devil

“I’ll make a pack with you,” said He to me (the Devil),
“I have detested you long enough. I first saw you as
a child—then when you were old enough to make friends
I saw you again…. It was you who worshiped my kinds
of sins—then you broke away, but now is the time to start
carving new adventures. I have left one sap and root for
you—let there be commerce between us?”

I said back to Him, “Dark eyed, ivory scandaled, there
is none like thee, among heaven, earth or hell; none with
such swift feet, like your tongue—dark as midnight
are your shoulders—face of a dead seabed.”

No: 1954, 8-28-2007

Selected for Death

“No, no! Go from me—!” I left death lately in her sheath
—oh! Dim it was, for she surrounded me.
Thin, are her arms, yet such a grip—they bound me,
immoveable, and left me…cloaked, as in a web,
a cocoon—subtle and swift she was, like magic, in her
“No, no! I cried, “go from me, I have still your taste—
your scent, your soot, your aye—halt!”
(But she wouldn’t listen.)

No: 1952 8-28-2007

Death Passed Me Once

This man knew the secrets of death
(he cast them over my head).
No man could know such things, unless
he was part of it.
And now he’s gone, he up and left—
(just like that…).
I called, “Are you near?” and he did
not answer me back.
Then at the end of my bed, I saw—why!
There stood in my hospital room, the
eyes and shoulders of a great being:
He did not speak, —he simple watched
over me.

No: 1953 8-28-2007

The Rocks
(Rapturous poetry)

Friend, please tell me what is wrong with me?
Or is it perhaps the world?
For I told myself, it could be either way!

I gave up drinking, smoking and gambling,
and I never swore, but then I started to.

So I prayed on that, and went after women
instead, and became compulsively attracted.

I went and got married to give up women
and just have one, and I started up swearing again.

I worked hard at trying to figure myself out,
pushing aside pride, greed, lust, envy and gout!

And every time I take my inventory, I find one
more issue, that had been hidden under a rock!

“Listen up Friend, there’s only been one
who has ever been able to kick over those rocks
and find nothing of value to talk about…!”

No: 1955 8-29-2007 In this poem I try to put what I call eccentric energy into its rebellious branches; a tinge of spirituality; the ego and the body play a role here, and how a man may try to prepare himself for death, trying to subdue his impulsive nature, be it sexual, or excessive energy in other so called, taboo areas: acted out and un-acted out desires. The rocks, or rock, are ones invitation to look under it, for there is where you will find your problem, the situation is always on top, and thus the problem has to be under the rock. This is an old Hindu style form of poetry.

Commentaries Two of Two

Watching Death

Like it or not, we think in line with our customs and traditions often times, right down to the point of how we imagine, or what we believe in about death. Death being a normal and natural thing, we mimic our parents and our TV heroes, and how they portray death; perhaps that is why there is so much gloom out there on death. The Maya, Inca and Aztecs took dying as a preparation period, along with rituals to be put into place; when they knew it was near.
On another point, People fear to talk about death, as if it was a storm out of control, brewing just for them. Death is seldom viewed by children in America, as if it was a private affair. I seen my mother in the hospital 26-times in 23-days, when she was dying; and she was laughing and joking in her death bed. I am grateful for that time. It is a choice I feel, and I’m glad I had the deciding vote. I believe children should be allowed to visit and see their grandparents on their dying beds, should they so wish to, and even push them a bit to do so. My son’s daughter saw her grandmother while she was dying in the hospital, and started crying, she was but a child. But what I feel she will remember is not her crying, but her great-grandmother’s smiling, for that was the last picture she saw of her.
Perhaps death is too much like hell for Americans, because most people I talk to think everyone is going to heaven, and thus, hell no longer exists. Be that as it may, what a cheap escape from the arms of hell; as my mother used to say, “Dennis, why does everyone think they’re going to heaven.” I couldn’t answer that, but now I can, hell is too close to death, and death is their nemeses. Written 7-15-2005 (seen internationally on the internet by 25-sites, and thousands of readers)

About Dying

Has the thought of dying ever occurred to you? Is there emotional pain with this issue? That being: are we looking at the end of the road? When we roll over and get out of bed, most of us will see things as normal, ordinary, unrelated to death: you most likely will not say: “Is this my last day on earth?”
Every two seconds someone dies someplace on earth. To a city the size of Lima, Peru, perhaps it is as high as 80 to 100-deaths a day; or to a smaller size city like St. Paul, 10 or 20. In my twenty-years of counseling, I’ve seen many folks suffering a loss in the form of a death of a loved one: thus, the grief comes next; it is perhaps why I got out of the business, enough is enough.
Many folks go to drinking, into depression, or into other stages of emotional illnesses: all this to deal with death, to find comfort. We even seek out psychologists and the clergy out.
What is true to the body, should it not be true to the mind (?) If we can reason it, it most likely is. Death can be no less than becoming part of a completion of a part of something. If one is to become more complete, on his deathbed, gender is put aside, and just completeness remains in the processing stage.
What wise words can a person say to another while dying? I thought about that when my mother was dying, and I had no wise words, but she did. She said: “I’m fine with it… I’m ready… I don’t want to live like this…. I’m ok with it,” and she enjoyed the guests and folks stopping by to greet her in the hospital.
—But what really was she saying, or how do I interpret her words for me? just this: ‘…the here and right now matters, this moment is real, and this is where it all is at, where it will take place, the present holds the proof, transformation is about to take position.’
She was not worried about bills, dinner, and so forth and so on: she was involved with the transformation process. That I believe is what she was telling me. (Written: 12-7-2005)

(Additional note: perhaps on another point, she was trying to show me how to die, for there comes a time when it is the only thing left to do (some of us need to be taught).

Death by the Numbers
(A short Commentary)

Death comes and goes as quick as the shifting of gears in a car for this world’s population (s). If one makes it to 60-years old, it has been said, he or she is lucky. Not because of health reasons per se, but because we live in a dangerous world, for the most part. One can die a thousand ways, just leaving the house for eight hours. Compile that to 60-years x 365-days, equals: 21,900 days to have been killed in, and thus, that same number, is how many times you have avoided death. The odds are not in ones favor; if one believes 1000-times a day he could have been killed (by transportation accidents, killers, tripping and falling, getting cancer, a chicken bone, etc), this equals: let’s add three more zeros to that, and it comes out to be: 21,900,000 chances to have been killed in the past sixty-years. Most people never do seem to catch sight of this. We become too carefree. But death is not no scarecrow, it lingers all about, like white on rice. Perhaps we have a guardian angel, it sure would seem so in my way of thinking.

Poems written between:

The First Depth

Struggling against ungraceful skiesthe warlords of eternal darkness—unseen to life’s obvious eyes—ebb and seek the prize, dominion!
‘The First depth,’ the silence of the deepeternal legions with ungraceful eyesthe Abysses storm, uncircumcisedthe colossal ramparts now untied
‘The First Depth,’ with rival skieshere, gathers demonic and divinenow with storms, once hidden beyondarmies of defense, build their saga
and I saw dreadful swords like sunsthunder and lightening by Orionthis was the tidings of cosmic doomif only man could have seen the gloom.
And the echoes I heard from the starsunnamed, immortal flames cast downgathered on earth for the final countdownArmageddon’s titanic onset!...

#610 [4/2/04]

Satan’s Daisies

Walk slowly, he is nearabove the clouds; talk softly, he can hearour venom mouths!

With his dark charcoal hornsand plotted lustHe that was once fairis after us!

#612 [4/3/05]

The Iron Raven

“You cannot escape, debased death (says the axiomatic, Iron Raven,who delivers the dead)—.My imperishable Icons…!Die, you shall, exhumed someday—!”Fame is no exception—to the Ravenhe seals fate, in ignoble ways!

#611 [4/3/05]

The Marble Tomb

‘Twill be the same, the same (I told him, when he was living), A wood or marble tomb—in a hundred years, let’s sayor a hundred so called dayswhat matters to he,(for he will be dead)—?a pompous monumentwill be of no use—yet he built it out of marble (nonetheless), not wood!
Your name will be forgottenamongst the rubbish and rootso’er rotting dampness; andwho will clean your tomb?(I asked him all these thingsbefore he died; and he neverdid reply—and built his tombof marble, admiring its size!)
You—in there, in that tomb…!You cannot hear a thing—!!!!!And out here they’re buildingyes…another mausoleum for another rich man…!

#613 [4/3/04]

Winter of Death

In the winter of doubtDeath swims—engulfsLike a hurricane—likeA ship sinking; thus, Pitilessly tons of Crushing sea!

Here I stand on the lofty Poop, above the angryWaves—, as it waits For Me!...

#943 [12/7/05]

To Death (a Poem)

There are 72-deaths, and God said, “Pick one,” and so he did, “To Death,” was its name: its eyes were sleepy, droopy. He then wondered what the other 71-deaths were like.

Many of the deaths were among the dark hills, stone-forests below…! Waters that were full of flames, undrinkable!

Stagnant, he slowly glided down its gap, to its warm end, from its glaciers of cold sweat, from flesh, and found death to be his friend (for a while anyways); no dread, just calm, sweet dancing in the dark—here all the longing desires became beautifully-mad, with pounding.

As time passed, people trampled the dark path. Then he learned a prayer—one most everyone heard, but only a few said (it echoed throughout the halls and tunnels of death, it sounded something like this:

“Use us again, if only but for an hour…!” (Regretful voices.)

Here in this death, one of 72, he was intact, but death was no longer his friend, he was likened to a pacing panther. Then a voice said: “This is your new existence and the best of the best, of the 72-deaths” (perhaps he should have chosen life).

#1318 4/17/06

Notes: Elements of Poetry: there are many elements in poetry, I’ve written on a few before, I normally do not make it a habit to do so; I’d rather swim in with the piranhas, and let the skeletons do the narrating on what is and is not poetry. But here is how I see a few things, take it with a altering view please, nothing is written in stone here: Free Verse without fixed meter or rhyme but using formal elements of pattern verse (e.g. assonance, alliteration), it is a popular way to write poetry, everyone who has published contemporary poetry seems to have used it in one way or another. Suspense in poetry can be created by what is called lines enjambed; that is, a clause or sentence can run over into the following line (I have used it many of times). Thus a kind of mystery is forced, or expressed, emphasized: as used here in the first sentence of my poem, “To Death”.

“If Death Had Wings”
(A poem on Death)
If I saw death, and death had wingsI know where I would go—someplace between Heaven and Hell,--in the form of an eternal soul:where peace and hunger was no more—;if only death had wingsthat is where I’d go—!
Yes, yes, if only dearth had wings!Wings, wings, wings—I’d put them on my soul.
Note: No: 1562 12-10-2006

Old Mrs. Stanley

She sits on her porch and knitsbending at the window-sillwith old, old waxed fingerssmiling away her day my old neighbor, Mrs. Stanley.
Now comes forenoon, she stops the knitswitches to another window (still on that little porch though)looking down now, down the street(I’m but fifteen, she doesn’t see me)‘Doesn’t she have anything else to do?’
I say…!Through the drapes I can see her face,
she seems homeless in that big house.

Notes: I remember her husband, he died two years after we moved to Cayuga Street, in 1958; I remember how he loved that Rambler (automobile), he bought it in 1959, and it sat there after he died for ten years in that old warn out garage, until her son took it. In 1968 I’d leave for San Francisco, in-between, I’d travel some, in 1966 and 1967, I traveled to Seattle and Omaha, Nebraska, but in ’68, I’d not really return for 12-years; around the world I’d go, and Mrs. Stanly, she’d be looking out that window, until she died at 93-years old (she died in the 1990s). ((7/1/2003)( 10:55 PM)) #1518

White Shadows
(Scented Death: in seven cantos)

Cantos: 1-7

White Shadows
[Scented Death]


Ah, yes, a cantankerous age indeed
is old age: so they say
the golden age. Somewhere along life’s line for me
there came a basis, a set belief: we all have our branch to perch on if we can find the tree.


I walk, used to walk the shadowy streets, ‘…now this is your day,’ says my second-self; ‘life has been a blaze.’ It is early March; ‘tis the time, the great day; there is no other like it –never will be. (‘Before I was, I was not, now I am, and
and soon to be again. It all comes out clear at the end.’ So says my second self.)

And it’s hard to leave something old—
things, just things, but nonetheless, hard to leave: anything, it all entails grieving.


Home to sweet rest: to waves of laughter; no more storms to clash against. Now sunlight
gleams over the horizon; fire and comets
shooting across the sky…
darting to and fro; so many spirit filled worlds I want to explore,
get to know—to go to.


‘It’s your day, your walk, your first step, to
the beyond (so says, my second-self
again!)’ ‘Twas all I ever knew, this world, everything else surreal! I suppose. I can no more say
what shape I’ll be, than when Venice will sink.


I have seen many faces in life, had many
breakfast’s: some heavy, some light; watched the soul grow, decay, rise again. All within the next step: which often is, and one never knows—semi-dramatic….
Yes, O yes, we are all part of this marathon,
post –Donate? Who shall inherit my garments—? I don’t
know, nor care; let Faulkner have them.


I will not dazzle future ages; no, not like Poe, or
Longfellow. Or shall I do tricks, or
showmanship; take the Nobel Prize and shove it; it only limits the visions of the Poet; confounds his wit, and spit he needs to write with, his: lyrics, stanzas and sonnets.
The pen and the man, not always do they deal with
God’s plan, more poets live in a lie,
a burnished-mirror, creating voices they never hear, covered with clouds and clouds
and white shadows, in the great halls of
humanities waste.


Sailing in the way of the wind, like us humans—do,
hence, how shall we (or is it I), die? None of
us want to, until the day it happens, and you got to!...
I lived, dimmed, only by the cascading of time
within me; like a box of scented wood, when the scent left, I was gone, just like the white
shadows above.

Note by the author: we talk about death, because we are born for it. It is natural now, and it is a way of telling how much you liked living, or can be. In this fragmented canto-poem, the journey is just a journey. We must live in preparation for the fullness of tomorrow, the next step, the one beyond. Subjective or objective, it can be depending on how you adjust to the direct treatment of things. Things are to me just things, made to be used, moved, and onward. I am a thing, and I must move onward. And because I can reason an afterlife, so there must be one. The transition is the point of contention for most people not the facts. We as humans compose in a sequence, the outcome, when in reality, the result of life, the gift of life, the sadness to leave it behind, is in fact, the product of somebody whispering into your ears: feel the poetry of death, it’s but a white shadow, like everything, the unknown, yet the premise has been set: as in a poem. I shall be geared up for death when it comes so I can roam the galaxies, it is my next mission. How do I know this: I bet in time, Venice will sink (how do I know that). #1263 Written: 3/6/06.

Grandpa’s Cellar Ghosts

It was the ghosts. He knew them—well,
by now anyway, and with good reason.
My first impulse (when I heard his story)
was to shut it out of my mind: not listen,
but I couldn’t, he needed to talk.

The ghosts halted at the end of the tunnel,
so grandpa said, helplessly—to me…,
it was all in their favor, he put in his mind.
When I had last talked to him, the door to
the cellar was open, it now was shut, he
—standing in the kitchen by me, said:
“I’m waiting for things to happen,”
restlessly waiting he was; funny I thought,
to see him waiting for once
not complaining.

“They’ve dug this tunnel, you see…” he said—
(hesitantly); he stood there a moment longer,
as if in a trance, “in the cellar, they’re coming for me…”
so he did believe (the tunnel had taken six weeks
to dig, he told me).

Now leaning on the old stove in the kitchen,
balancing his physical being with his thinking
(his upper teeth grinding on his lower) whispered,
“Hand me my coffee…” he never said please,
his hands shaking (he had just eaten some
scrambled eggs; I made them). “I could hear
them digging down there, for weeks,” he said
with a—troubled face, “in the cellar….” He added.

The only fault my grandfather had besides being
moody: fault with me that is, I didn’t’ pay him
much attention. Perhaps that day he had forgotten that
fault, as I was questioning where this cold fear of his
was coming from (surely he knew we all had to die
but I was only 26-years old, and death was some-
thing new, even being in war, does not prepare you).
He was 83-years old; perhaps death was the grave,
no such thing as ghosts, but here they were: waiting.

I thought, looking at grandpa, thought (not saying
a word) thought perchance he was wondering if
the ghosts were now going to chase him around the house?

Funny, was all this, so I thought at the time…
not sure why. These ghosts had no reason to chase him
around the Cellar or try to find him in his house. Then I said,
“They’re harmless, grandpa,” as if they were real, I was
talking like him…and he said, “Come into my world,
and you’ll see…!” Of course that was not possible,
so I just leaned my back, against our old stove.

These cellar ghosts I figured, would pass on, fade away,
after a good night’s sleep for him: or two or three;
that would do the trick); but no such thing, that wasn’t it.
I really didn’t know what to believe—like I said before,
I was but twenty-six years old.

Now that I look back, being fifty-eight, things have changed (they always do, don’t they?); those old familiar spirits are more than they seem, now—, more than what they were back then; for there is another world, as real as ours, as perplexed as it may seem, and I suppose they are willing to wait for me; should they find an opening (another world within our world that is).

He died two weeks later—after that last conversation:
back in ’74, a long time ago, of course. He died face down
on his belly, flat on the floor in his house, trying to get from one room to the next, as if someone, or thing was chasing him.

Note: This occurrence took place in our old home, in St. Paul, Minnesota, 186 Cayuga, Street, in 1974, perhaps a few weeks before my grandfather died. The place now is torn down, a park was build along side the property, then a parking area for cars, and I lost track now, who knows what is there now. #1234 Written in Lima, Peru, at my home 3/18/06; modified 3/22/06.

Spanish Version

Los Fantasmas del Sótano del Abuelo

Eran los fantasmas. Él los conocía—bien,
por ahora de todas formas, y con buena razón.
Mi primer impulso (cuando oí su historia)
fue aislarlo de mi mente: no escuchar,
pero no podía, él necesitaba hablar.

Los fantasmas se detuvieron al final del túnel,
eso decía el abuelo, impotentemente—a mí...,
todo estaba en su favor, él puso en su mente.
Cuando hablé últimamente con él, la puerta del
sótano estaba abierta, ahora estaba cerrada, él
—parado en la cocina cerca de mí, dijo:
“Estoy esperando que pasen cosas”,
esperando inquietamente él estaba; gracioso pensé,
verlo a él esperar por una vez
sin quejarse.

“Ellos han cavado este túnel, ves...” él dijo—
(vacilantemente); él estuvo allí un momento más,
como si en trance, “en el sótano, ellos vienen por mí…”
eso él pensaba (había tomado seis semanas
para cavar el túnel, él me dijo).

Ahora apoyándose en la estufa vieja de la cocina,
equilibrando su físico ser con su pensamiento
(su dientes superiores rechinando con sus inferiores) susurró,
“Alcánzame mi café…” él nunca decía por favor,
su manos temblando (él acababa de comer algunos
huevos revueltos; que los hice por él). “Pude oírlos
cavando allí, durante semanas”, dijo él
con una—cara preocupada, “en el sótano...” Él añadió.

El único defecto que mi abuelo tenía además de ser
malhumorado: defecto conmigo es decir, no le presté
mucha atención. Quizás ahora él se haya olvidado de ese
defecto, mientras me preguntaba de dónde este miedo frío
de él venía (seguramente él sabía que todos tenemos que morir
pero yo sólo tenía 26 años, y la muerte era alguna-
cosa nueva, incluso estar en guerra, no te prepara).
Él tenía 83 años; quizás la muerte era lo grave,
no tal cosa como fantasmas, pero aquí estaban ellos: esperando.

Pensé, mirando al abuelo, pensé (no diciendo
una palabra) pensé talvez él estaba pensando si
¿los fantasmas iban ahora a perseguirlo alrededor de la casa?

Gracioso, era todo esto, eso pensé en ese momento…,
no estoy seguro por qué. Estos fantasmas no tenían razón para perseguirlo a él
alrededor del Sótano o tratar de encontrarlo en su casa. Entonces dije,
“Ellos son inofensivos, abuelo”, como si ellos fueran reales, estaba
hablando como él... y él dijo, “Entra en mi mundo,
y tú verás…!” Desde luego eso no era posible,
entonces sólo me recliné en aquella estufa vieja, contra mi espalda.

Estos fantasmas del sótano (pensé, pasarían, se desvanecerían,
después de una buena noche de sueño para él: o dos o tres; esto haría
el truco); pero no tal cosa, esto no era. Yo realmente
no sabía
qué creer—como dije antes, sólo tenía veintiséis años.
Ahora que miro atrás, teniendo cincuenta y ocho años, las cosas han cambiado
(ellos siempre lo hacen ¿no?); esos viejos espíritus familiares son más de
los que parecen, ahora—más de lo que eran en ese entonces; porque hay
otro mundo, tan real como el nuestro, tan perplejo como puede parecer,
y supongo, que ellos están dispuestos a esperar por mi; si ellos encuentran
una apertura (otro mundo dentro de nuestro mundo esto es).

Él murió dos semanas más tarde—después de esa última conversación:
allá en 1974, mucho tiempo atrás, por supuesto. Él murió boca abajo, sobre su vientre, sin vida en el piso de su casa, tratando de ir de un cuarto al siguiente, como si alguien, o algo lo perseguía.

# 1234 18/Marzo/2006; Escrito en Lima, Perú, en mi casa modificado 22/Marzo/2006. Nota: Este acontecimiento ocurrió en nuestra vieja casa en la calle Cayuga 186, en San Pablo, Minnesota, en 1974, quizás unas semanas antes de que mi abuelo muriera. El lugar ahora ha sido derribado, un parque ha sido construido a lo largo de lo que era la propiedad, luego un lugar de estacionamiento, he perdido la cuenta, quién sabe que hay allí ahora.

Tanger’s Kasbah (Casaba)
[Black wind]

I walked among the eager and neglected—; Arabs and queers and Spanish boys; Merchants and foreigners; it was a long odyssey, with a hovering black wind overhead, long and icy finger all over me. Black wind above my head—seeping, seeping everywhere, within, inside the Kasbah: a maze with no end; the spirit of madness contained by—unconscious…addicts everywhere—; a few,…just a few gracious men, laughing here and there…it was a hot unceasing day. I felt at first, akin to a bullfighter; then later on, like the bull; then, at the end of the day, I felt empty like the bullring after the bull has been dragged out and butchered!...but what an escapade!

Note: in l997 the author visited Tanger, Morocco, and got into a bit of a jam; found his way back to Spain safely. [#490 2/19/2005].

The world is a mixed one, and we must all live together, this is why I added this poem to the collection of death poems, so many will die in the black wind of some far off Casaba, and Satan will have his death wish for the lot.

Poems to my Mother

Elsie at 19-years Old

The Long Glimpse

From the arch of the doorway
She’d look my way, into the garage, at me—
as I readied my automobile to go someplace;
She’d be looking-steadfast
I’d open my car door a bit, ask:
“Why you staring? (at me)”
“No reason,” she’d reply, smiling.
Then with a tinge of hesitation
she summon up, and said (at 83):
softly, in an almost whisper “You….”
((as if she had remembered the day I
was born) (almost in a trance.))
And I’d for the life of me—
not know why; I know now though, she was
simply getting a long glimpse before
she died (for she died shortly after).
I guess, she was really saying goodbye,
saying goodbye with a long glimpse
to last between now and then, when we’d
meet again.

No: 1947 8-24-2007
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03

An Old Wood Pile
Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk

Old skin once held tightagainst her skeleton—rose no more, just drapedloosely over her unpadded fleshun-tightened muscles and tissuelost its courage, no-fortitude—.Gone are the days and yearsthat stood against the indomitable elements; the skeleton, now a landmarkhidden under flesh and blood,guts and mortal fiber.
Backbone, collapsed from drudgery (time, time’s—cascading inside).Bones now leaving impressionsaccepting fatelike tarnished silver!...Her hands look like autumn leavesfallen from old trees. Winter is around the cornerthe door of time is closinglike an old wood pilebeing burnt up—.Hard to open things,hard to do anything.She’s precariously balanced—painfully slow….
She hears my feetcross the room—her palesweet blue eyes, flickerlike butterflies….
Tilting her faceto catch her breathShe says:“Who wants to live like this?”

#793 [8/11/05]

Notes by the author: “I think of myself as an old wood pile you might say, and so I use that analogy here: in my poem “An Old Wood Pile,” not out of disrespect, for I used my mother as an analogy, as well as my grandfather (in a prior poem), and even myself, which I’ve also used on occasions, within this book: “Last Autumn and Winter”. My mother had her mission, I was part of it; she was part of mine. I think I have learned to do one thing, if anything, in life, which is to examine it; otherwise, for me it would not be worth living. For this is where the truth of the matter is. Why do we do what we do [?] My mother said, “Who wants to live like this…?” and I had to make a choice for her, after she made her choice. We live in a world where most people, willing or unwilling live in a pretense. When my mother said what she said, there was no more deception for her, if there ever was any. She wanted to go to the next level, and said goodbye in her own way; as we all will in time.” Originally published in the book, “Last Autumn and Winter.”

Versión en Español

Un Viejo Montón de Leña
Dedicado a Elsie Siluk

La piel vieja que una vez se mantuvo lisa
contra su esqueleto—
no se levantó más, sólo cayó
sueltamente sobre su carne flácida
músculos y tejidos sueltos
perdieron su coraje, ninguna-fortaleza—.
Ido son los días y los años
que estuvieron de pie contra los
elementos indomables;
el esqueleto, ahora una señal
escondida bajo carne y sangre,
tripas y fibra mortal.
Espina dorsal, demolida por servidumbre
(tiempo, tiempos—torrentes de tiempo dentro).
Huesos que dejan ahora impresiones
de aceptar el destino
¡como plata deslustrada!..
Sus manos lucen como hojas de otoño
caídas de viejos árboles.
El invierno está muy cerca,
la puerta de tiempo se está cerrando
como un viejo montón de leña
que está siendo quemada—.
Difícil de abrir las cosas,
difícil de hacer algo.
Ella es efímeramente equilibrada—
terriblemente lenta…
Ella oye mis pasos
cruzar el cuarto—sus pálidos
dulces ojos azules, parpadean
como mariposas….
Inclinando su cara
para coger su aliento
Ella dice:
“¿Quién quiere vivir así?”

# 793 [11/Agosto/05]

Apuntes por el autor: “Pienso en mí como un viejo montón de leña, podrías decir, y por eso uso esta analogía aquí: en mi poema ‘Un Viejo Montón de Leña’, no por falta de respeto, porque use a mi madre como una analogía, asimismo a mi abuelo (anterior a este poema), e incluso a mí mismo, que también lo hice en algunas ocasiones. Mi madre tenía su misión, yo fui parte de ella; ella fue parte de la mía. Pienso que si he aprendido a hacer una cosa en la vida, es examinar ésta; de otra manera, para mí no valdría la pena vivir. Porque aquí es donde está la verdad del asunto. ¿Por qué hacemos lo que hacemos? Mi madre me dijo, “¿Quién quiere vivir así…?” y tuve que tomar una decisión por ella, después de que ella hizo su elección. Vivimos en un mundo donde la mayoría de la gente, dispuesta o indispuesta vive en un pretexto. Cuando mi madre dijo lo que ella dijo, no hubo más engaño para ella, si alguna vez hubo alguno. Ella quiso ir al siguiente nivel, y dijo ¡adiós! en su propio modo; como todos lo haremos en su momento”.

Back of Book
(use picture of me standing by Napoleon’s grave)

In 1993, Mr. Siluk was ordained as a minister, allowed to minister with his psychology and Bible in hand, at the many hospitals and clinics he work at, and was General Manager of Hawthorn Institute, a chemically dependent clinic in Minnesota. In 2007, he was given the title of Dr. h.c. for his impeccable behavior and contributions in the Mantaro Valley of Peru. In 2005, and 2006 he was awarded the title of Poet Laureate, and given the Cross of the City. And between 2004 and 2007, was awarded many accommodations from Universities, and magazines for his commentary and poetic cultural contributions. He was a licensed counselor, in dual disorders, and worked for many clinics and hospitals during the 1990s thru 2001. In the middle to late 1980s, Dennis attended seminary graduate school, for several months studying theology. And for the first time, Mr. Siluk, reaches out to a subject seldom brought to light: death. Not in a morbid way, but in a confrontational way, and in commentary and poetic form.