Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose

Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies’ man, is representative of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by rheumatic heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey through poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and financial success can be identified by all Scots and common men the world over.

Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]

Memoirs of a Wasteland’s Rim

It still was light when she paused at the wasteland’s rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frame Her footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around her A drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her figure etched against the wooden frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopes She yielded before the sluggish advance of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a crimson moon hurled a flame across The shadowy clouds, burning throughout the sky The tormented sky above her?

Crossing the valley’s floor her eye gripped it Rocky images, highest points Thrusting herself up boldly from to the ledge The painted morning blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face against the granite stone Massive injuries was taking form, Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go.

The Treasure of Catalina Huanca (In English and Spanish)

Note: written after seeing the little adobe 16th century church San Sebastian, in San Jeronimo, by the mountains of Huancayo, Peru, after being taken there by the Wandering Quechua guide, Enrique (4-13-2005).

The Treasure of Catalina Huanca

Written by Dennis L. Siluk

There, by the lofty mountains fair

Hidden under the earth by Huancayo In San Jerónimo de Tunan-

Is Catalina’s treasure of gold!

Whereupon, the Spaniards killed

Atahualpa, the Inca King–; Hence, Catalina turned around to seek

And found-her new, sacred ground!.

Looking Out the Rear Window

The funeral rite concluded
With the pastor shaking hands,
Offering words of comfort
I didn’t quite understand.

The undertakers came forth
And summoned pallbearers’ four.
They marched beside the coffin
Carrying it steady toward the door.

I didn’t cry or whimper
As I followed right behind.
But deep within I screamed
Don’t leave O Mother of mine.

Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish]

Fair Andes! Thy arms reach high

Of iron-woven solid stone
Thu art a condor to the sky

Of glory hidden in thy heart

So many paths, a maze of art?

In thy old, Mantaro Valley

Where adobes, breathe and tremble
Beyond your rustic shadows

There lays the prettiest of brooks

Is my heart, within its stream!

My image deeply carved, rippled

In its undiluted shallow waters

Waiting, just waiting for me?

As it opens up, opens up my soul

My rippled soul-searching-eyes!.

Tsunami -a Poem Dedicated To Help Aid and Awareness and Encourage Future Harmony. Make Peace Not War

Real Power.

One Tsunami, and all our armies,
Seem belittled by their wars,
What Animals fled, and tribesmen read,
Finally Arrives with crushing roar,
Wholesale slaughter, purely by water,
Makes us seem an irrelevance,
Concepts of power, change by the hour,
Faced with primal elements.
Natures dice, thrown in a trice,
In a grotesque game of craps,
Whose final score, is real shock and awe,
And rewriting global maps.

Antidotes for an Alibi

Amy King’s first full-length collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, insists that we examine the deceptive clarity of our actions and the goals that motivate us. How does one actually get from “A” to “B"-and is there ever really a "B"? What color is the white space between "A" and "B"? Upon closer inspection, surface realities reveal themselves to be porous and fragile, layered with textures and grains that lead the eye on varying pathways.

Three Poems [Lima; Judges and Evils Creation]

1.

Evil’s Creation

Thou knowith evil clings
To tender peace-;
Nor does it heed one’s drowsy
Un-enthralled grief?

But softly it darkens
Twilight’s dunes-;
With sprinkling shadows
Straight from the moon.

O Night! Who giveth birth?
To Evils plight?
As mighty murmurs
Reached my breast?:

"His name has no beginning
And no end?!"

But why?! O why?
Everlasting King,
Have you created?!
Such a thing?

As mighty murmurs
Reached my breast?:
"To see, whom you love
The very best!.

Ode To Quetzalcoatal [Now in Spanish and English]

Ode to Quetzalcóatl

Quetzalcóatl the Great

No one knew his true name, so they Called him Quetzalcóatl-feather Serpent He and his crew of nineteen: faces Strange faces, images of a prince, a lord: King of the Yucatan in the year 986 AD

He was a tall man; long cloths, sandals; White as day, with a long beard, black hair.

Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]

Lima,
City with the Stretched out Wings

It’s an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sight

Just dots of: red, green and white-white lights

As the plane descends, descends, slides down
On the long-drawn-out-spun-out lingering city of lights
Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-

The sleepless city, with its stretched out wings

Stretching from the mountains to the sea-
Winding through the valley’s, forests, and streams
Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlessly

As,

I’m descending, down, over and around 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 baptism in its inky sea

Invisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infinite

Uncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights;
People: walking, talking, sleeping, eating by the dots
People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dots

For tomorrow, tomorrow and another tomorrow

They say-:

you are ruthless, and I know this to be true

And 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 contrary of eight-million-?
I shake my fist and say: ‘?show me! But no one does’

So alive, so brave, with strong 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 Yang

And that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-

Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no more

With this,

I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streets

As well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and soiled air,
And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofs
Sights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parks

And the numerous food carts; — musicians, paper sellers

And with its naked featherless wings, covering all

-My Lima, Peru with its renowned Cathedral:

Golden yellow with towering crowns, and

Within its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.