The Macabre Poems [And other selected poems]
Volume III
Of Dennis L. Siluk
Copyright© Dennis L. Siluk
“The Macabre Poems”
[And Other Selected poems]
Volume III
Of Dennis L. Siluk
Painting by Peruvian Artist:
Aurich ’Chalanes Indios’
Acknowledgements
I want to thank first of all my cute little wife Rosa from Peru, for her support and devotion; for my invaluable mother whom in my formative years allowed me to dream; to my Christendom for a muster-seed of faith, it has made all the difference.
To Jon Mac Williams, for his ongoing support in the publication of my books and to Boyd Pearson, for his show of support in displaying some of my poetry on his ‘Eldritch Dark’ [.com] internet site; a tribute to Clark Ashton Smith: in which several of my Macabre Poems have been featured; and a thanks to Matt James for allowing my Atlanteon poems to be shown on his useless-knowledge.com site. And special thanks to Phillip Ellis, my Australian poet friend, for his advice and support of this edition.
Index
The Macabre Poems
1—Unreal
2—Space Vampire
3—Otherwhere
4—The Waking World
5—The Glass Lyre
6—The Stone Maya
7—Shadow Gables
8—Soul of the Devil
9—The Eldritch Tombs
10—Death and Tears
11—Open
12—Dragon Wings
13—Beauty’s Incarceration
14—The Vanishing Dead
15—A Demon’s Ark
16—The Misbegotten Species
[An Epic Poem]
(The Minds of Saturn)
l7—The Oarsman
18—Rhymester’s Shadow
19—The Executioner of Chan Chan
20—Mercury’s Demise
21—Buried Souls for the Rephaim
22—The Poet Demon
23—The Birds of Genovesa
24—the Devils Rose
25—Hieroglyphs of Doom
26—Mirrors and Marrow
27—The Lotus Demons’ Lair
28—Earshot
29—House of Windows
30—Armageddon’s Hecatomb
31—Armageddon’s Incubus
32—Nightmare
33—Glossary of End time Events
34—Eros Ploy
35—Tagaririm (Belphegor)
36—Dream Maker
37—The Macabre Serpent of Space
38—C.A. Smith
39—The Woods in the Sea I
40—Shadow of Fate II
41—Talons III
42—Wild Stones IV
43—Satan’s Sidekick V
44—The Great Flood of ‘51
Continuation of the Macabre Poems
45—Poe’s Legacy
46—Loving in Limbo
47—Mystery of Mysteries
48—Rosinina Tapi of the Sacred Valley
49—The Ancient Sharra
50—Satan’s Galapagos
51—Fading Worlds
52—Lost Souls
53—The Goat Man’s Fancy
54—The Hoofed Demon
55—Buried Souls
56—The Pale Horse of Rano Raraku
57—Out of the Dust
58—The Black Hand
59—The Long Hemp
Legend’s
79—The Moche of Chan Chan
80—King Arthur’s Sin
81—The Silence of Uruk’s Walls
(Gilgamesh & Shamhat)
82—The Minds Eye
Continuation of Legends:
Atlanteon Poems
83—The Lost Archkingdom Atlantis
84—Xilvaa, The Shepherdess
85—The Love and Dreadful Fountain of Ddath
86—Aon—The Hippokamp-Courageous
87—The Purple Robes of Atlantis
*98—April in Atlantis
[out of sequence]
*99—Haunting of Mesa Verde
How it was in Atlantis
(1 thru lX)
88—Queen Archroyal Lillttis I
Mount Atlantis II
89—The Acropolis III
90—Astrologers of Atlantis IV
91—Atlantis in Winter V
92—Southern Atlantis VI
93—The Atlantis Squib VII
94—The Obelisks of Atlantis VIII
95—The Archkingdom, Atlantis IX
96—The Archnight’s Scroll X
Prose Poetry
60—Eyes of the Pacing Serpent
61—Mistress of Darkness
62—The Foulness of the Imp
63—Slaying the Prowess
Prose: Political Macabre
100—The Great Sow
Poems Inspired and published by the Eldritch Dark [thanks to BOYD PEARSON for his publications of these poems on his site]
Nightmare
Devils Due
The Oarsman
C.A. Smith
The Woods in the Sea
Wild Stones
Satan’s Sidekick [s]
Poe’s Legacy
Out of the Dust
Devils Dice
The Witch Speaketh
The Silence of Uruk’s Walls
The Devils Windless Chamber
Orange Twilight
Blackblood
Selected Poems:
64—The Haunting of Demons
65—Dream Smoke
66—Homeless in the Cosmos
67—Wingless Drunkard
68—Just a moment
69—Longings
70—Devils Dice
71—Blindash
72—Lost Wisdom
73—A Place Remembered
74—Satan’s Tricks
75—A Dream Maker
76—Nikita Khrushchev
77—Loves Hour
78—The Surrogate Devil
War Poems:
101—Sunday: Vietnam [1971]
102—A Gloomful Dusk [1971]
Miscellaneous [Last minute poems added to the book]
114—War and Empty Shells [war poem]
113—The Witch Speaketh [Macabre poem]
112—The Devils Windless Chamber [Macabre poem]
111—Droughts along the Mesa [epic poem/ Mesa Verde]
107—The Vanishing Tortoise
108—Theft in Trujillo
109—Parqueito’s
110—The Mists of Sorrow
104—No Remorse
105—Legend of the Little Ute [Legends]
106—Grandpa’s Tales
115—Ol Henri Sanson
116—Forced Silence
117—Purple Twilight
118—Clap of an Eye
119—Alen Ginsberg
120—Black Blood
121—A Garden with Voices
122—the Mistress Elf
123—Orange twilight
124—Beauty Denied
125—The Death Rattle
126—The Hyena Demigod
127—Love and Butterflies
Prelude: by the Author
Introduction by: Rosa Peñaloza
Afterward by the Author
About the Authors Books
Prelude:
A number of these poems in this book were written while in St. Paul, Minnesota, many more were written on a 28-day journey in South America recently, of which I spent time in Lima and Trujillo, Peru, and Ecuador, in particular, in the Galapagos Islands, as well as the city of Quito; also at the archaeological site called: Chan Chan in Northern Peru, along with a few other places. Some were inspired by The Eldritch Dark.com site, some by a friend, Phillip Ellis (poet), and still others by additional people, to include the beautiful Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado of which I stayed a week inside the park during the summer of 2004. Most of the poems in this book were done in a seven month period. And several were done months prior to that period, under a different heading (possible four of the poems); the last poem being done 10/16/04.
There are a number of sections: Macabre (1-65), Selected Poems (66 -78), and Legends (79-99 ((poem #100 is in a category of its own: a lonely political prose poem)), and two War Poems (Vietnam #101 & 102); along with a Miscellaneous section which has a number of last minute pomes put into it.
Categories of poems again are (in this book) or range from: Macabre Poems, Prose Poetry, Legends (emphases on Atlantis and Gilgamesh), and Selected Poems, along with War Poems, as I previously had mentioned and the miscellaneous section. There is an assortment of poetic style of poetry in this book, to include: prose, lyrical: expressive etc.: odes, epics and tales; along with sonnets, and haiku, etc.
Dennis L. Siluk
Introduction: This is Mr. Siluk’s 27th book, and his third book of poetry; his first book of poetry, “The Other Door,” was published in l981, although well received, it did not sell many. Since then his poetry has been seen in magazines (most recently: The Mango Tree ((out of India)), anthologies, newspapers, books, interwoven into stories, and in the internet magazines such as www.useless-knowledge.com and the www.eldritchdark.com.
He has the three main ingredients for being a writer: the love for words, his perseverance, and has a lot to say. He was trained as a fighter in karate, by the world foremost karate instructor, Gosei Yamaguchi in San Francisco, California in the late 60s. And has lived his poetry, from the banks along the Mississippi, and back streets of St. Paul, Minnesota [a Midwestern boy] to the war in Vietnam (with a total of eleven-years of service), to traveling throughout the world since he’s been seventeen years old [over 650,000-air miles]. Indeed he is worth his salt, as they say. In this book, he is more than daring to take the lead in poetic verse, and it may be just the right time for it; dangerous as it may be to read, it was twice as hard to write it, but Mr. Siluk put it in a nutshell: “If you want to know who you’re dealing with, you got to take a muster-seed of faith with you to the pits of hell; playing it safe will not get you home.” I firmly believe once you have read this book, it will never leave your guts.
Rosa Peñaloza
The Macabre Poems
1) The Unreal
Because you do not see—
Evil says: conscience is dead!
Aye! it is the insight of madness
Penetrating the veils of untruth—
For few are we:
For many are they….
2) Space Vampire
O solar mass, pull back:
black holes far and near—
those vampires—
devour stars like spiders bugs.
Storms that sunder birds,
they, they are the curse
of the universe.
3) Otherwhere
I
Long ago, longer than—
Before a beast or man was born—
He chose for his
The hate whereto old evil clings,
With lusting angels stripped of wings
With Michael’s flaming hatred divine:
The hate whereto old evil clings,
It was thine, it was mine.
II
Have we not known,
O demos, débil O Satán:
The hate that creeps within your soul?
In evil your ally will go, never alone,
For the wingless that must devour
Will be waiting with hearts of stone,
Joy and laughter, and corruption—
And ill bliss, your dark lovers of the feast.
Yea! Lo, your own crimson bells
Ring for Satanic hell.
4) The Waking World
Out of time’s windows
He gazed—into the heavens,
Into planets, unnamed galaxies
—Light-years away,
With sealed vistas
That opened wide
For the macabre-naked eye—to see.
And unto him appeared—
Wild streams of midnight tears
Glittering like unprotected fire:
And so spellbound was he,
With all he had seen,
He crossed into the dream world,
The lost world of the woken:
And was never again seen.
5) The Glass Lyre
They fail to hear the glass lyre,
Its echoes, tarnished strings—
Where shadows ring.
6) The Stone Maya
Owls of the world,
Do not dream like fools—
Life’s delusions are real:
And evil was learned—
(We are but grasshoppers
Carved of stone).
I, for one, in darkness spun
(In deep temples of Tikal)
Echo with oblivion:
Delusions, illusion, fantasies—
Rising shadows no one can see.
7) Shadow-Gables
The young man leered and tittered along
haze-cloaked Riverside Street
with heavy padding feet;
tottering by houses on both sides:
as he passed them, they came alive.
Fresh walls of morbid evil,
shadows on gables,
window-eyes leered and reeked
in a black-wind of blasphemous runes.
House, street, padding feet:
intruding chimes: now! now –
a familiar sign, clutching at him….
8) Soul of the Devil (Ritual of the Macabre)
Subterranean evil
Lurks in the maggoty pale light
Of the sunless waters
Beneath the insidious city,
Where mirrored reflections
And pungent odors reside:
And decay grows;
Where my forefathers lived
With primal rites…and still do.
The lyre, flute—I could hear!—
In the distance, called me….
To its toadless shores,
In this unhallowed earth
Cloaked in throngs.
There I saw the pillar of flame,
Where darkness was on fire:
Casting no shadows, in its
Calmness to death…
The horde—unwinged beings,
Hybrid things, appeared—
Lotus Demons with two limbs,
Scorpion-like tails, thin;
Into the volcanic river they sang,
Enchantments, frightful things.
I wanted to ride the beast—
It tempted me, with wart-filled eyes:
Oozing at my flesh, staggered
To my thighs—then disappeared.
I shuddered restlessly—
Until it was best forgotten.
9) The Eldritch Tombs
Is this hell? Shapes bend, like the wind
Gates lie still, lurk around corners
And foul beings, never seen, never die.
Here, hounding doom fills nameless tombs,
Where esoteric manuscripts
Dare to tell the dread—what lies ahead.
There amid many, strange things I found—
Raving of madmen, curses and clowns:
Black books, stones, legends and frowns.
◊
Out from this path in Witch-Town I crawled—
An ominous name—not to be found—
And in solitude I write this down….
Haunted by monstrous nightmares,
On a monolithic, rampant night:
Drowsy, dreamy, I say good-night.
10) Death and Tears
All the words that wake the dead
Have now been said—
Now you must paint with tears.
11) Open
12) Dragon Wings
Like piled leaves in late autumn,
Dragon wings of crimson gold—
Days are few….
13) Beauty’s Incarceration
The prisoner is beauty,
So they say:
Thus, I have captured her today.
Ecuador, 4/25/04
14) The Vanishing Dead
Come ride with me
(If you dare)—
On wingless angels
(That never cared);
To my doom, to my doom—
While the sunset still is there:
Darkened settings, everywhere.
The gloom of the Moon,
Immortals—dying;
What beauty in obscurity…
I am the falling star,
Expiring; the haunting light,
I will come for you tonight.
St. Paul, Minnesota, 5/5/04
Note: This poem was inspired by the cover art of a book, by the Peruvian Artist [Arvieh].
15) A Demon’s Ark
(The Lotus Demon of Mercury)
Born from the horns
Of a wingless archangel,
With the pulse
Of perpetual night—
Lo, lifts the demonic horizon:
Immortalities’ jagged plight.
16) The Misbegotten Species (The Minds of Saturn
((Demons)) of the Ancient legendaries)
[Note: the Minds—a mere remnant of a low degraded horde of demonic-angelic beings—aborigines, one might say—whom comb the utter darkness of outer space for brute-hood, and thus, found Mercury’s inhabitants by chance, residing within an ancient giant crater. Thus, here is the story of a vanishing race that takes place: of which Zoov ‘al the leader, led seven and twenty ((Saturn-lites)), of his followers into the escalade.]
An Epic (Tale) Poem
[Mercury-lites]
Faded, dried and burnt, bear-rat meat,
Light-white, flowery, solar wine—
Volcanic walls all around them,
Hollow lava caves: occupied ….
*
[Saturn-lites]
Rodent-pelts over their shoulders
(Deemed, by most, most dangerous of all):
Demonic invaders from Saturn—
Well armed and accouterred:
Ropes and chains, knifes and swords:
Hooks and nails, crossbows and boards,
All warriors wore human fleece:
All warriors had studded-saber teeth.
*
All the warriors stood stone-still, silent
On the great volcanic rim of Mercury—
Black lava, eons cold and old,
The zenith: cloudless and frozen.
*
And then the sun rose high overhead,
The ancient legendaries swore
Countless blasphemies to the Godhead:
“Above—below—God is no more!”
Unnecessary: they hurled blocks—
Blocks of disdain inside their chest
(Arousing a battle cry—at best)
Like the flaming furnace in the sky—
The demons waited—with raging eyes.
*
This day, within the crater’s deep,
No hungry voices heard from below—
Hence—the invaders crept with light feet
Upon the sleeping (wine-filled) souls….
Lo!—caves that once were home became
Graves—alas!—by these demonic-beings
As up they crept, unto the sleeping prey
Of Mercury—this, this very day.
*
[The Feast of Saturn’s Henchman]
The vile eating habits of the demon:
Compulsively draining marrow
(Drinking bones: pale-dry, flushed-clean),
Ripping flesh and eyes, ribs and thighs
(Atrocious creatures of Primal Time).
*
[Then]
Black altars were placed upon the sand:
Came, demonic prayers with clasped hands,
Unto the Henchman—of hell—Agaliarept,
And the Ten-winged serpent—they bowed.
*
[Zoov ‘al’s epitaph]
Zoov bellowed with grasping lizard hands
(Heartily) after throwing rocks on skulls—
Clattering loudly his feet, he screamed:
“I am the god of Mercury, the god of all!”
The rim of the volcano trembled
(Mysteriously, unrepentant)
From its stomach came smoke and stone,
Lava, gases and boulders—a tomb.
Then a queer-colored blaze multiplied,
Dropped into veins of mud—
Into volcanic pits, of the dead;
Thus, sealing all, with a lid.
17) The Oarsman
The Oarsman at the oars,
The Arctic winds, the galley,
Captain at the helm,
The ghosts of leprosy,
The dead men from the sea,
No sun, pestilence:
All could see the cliff-tower—
The hour draws near—to trembling
Hissing—from the oarsman’s lips;
Passengers bellow—with Arctic eyes
Oozing the demon with a kiss,
Coming closer to land and mist;
The dead sit up within the boat,
The Polar-demon rows and rows;
Utter cold, no miracles—
Lo, the harbor: the oars stop—
Deadly—deadly—no one talks;
Iceberg-eyeballs—stare and stare;
A tide of intolerable silence
Flows and ebbs, and flows again
For Hell’s henchman: Agaliarept.
Flung to the wide side of the vessel,
“You will serve me well,” he echoes:
The voyage is now final.
Originally in: “The Eldritch Dark,” (March 2004), and Who’s Who in Poetry.
18) Rhymester’s Shadow
With roots and filled-in hollow air,
He writes to you poetic obscurities;
He goes, my friend, where
The homeless dare: where
“Beauty is for the few” and into
The boundless cosmos and tombs;
Into and onto exotic landscapes,
Where poems—like bones—
Have decomposed;
Where darkness comes like all shadows:
To lock you in its tombs….
Dim and gray is his twilight,
As slowly dies his days—
But fate’s poetic obscurities,
Would have it no other way:
For the Rhymester’s shadows—
Never rest.
19) The Executioner of Chan Chan
Writ after visiting Chan Chan, an archeological site in Northern Peru.
Hungry, fearless, in a faceless form,
Likened to a mask, a monster forlorn,
He was the woe, the living dead,
From nightmares he was fed—
The Executioner of Chan Chan.
Bleak was his dawn, cold his heart,
Lulled by those whom would soon die—
Subdued by the temples’ mud-baked
Bricks—he decapitated his lot, sacrificially—
This Moche Warrior of Chan Chan.
April 29 2004 [8:00 PM].
20) Mercury’s Demise
(As Semyas meets Azaz’el)
Part of a story—writ a few hours before a flight from St. Paul to South America.
Mercury! Such awful sight
Planet of darkness, with no eyes,
Ware the Great Asteroids that bite:
The sun no longer gives you light….
A hellish moment: your demise,
Candles blown out, like blinded eyes:
Dust resides in your volcanic skies—
Two souls are left, that want to die.
April 2, 2004
21) Buried Souls from the Rephaim
And there his sarcophagus lay—
Beneath the towering mountains—
Stretching out of the deep, dark sea
(With all its weight, sealing his fate)—
No light, no day, only binding chains.
Lost, forgotten in the sand’s density….
Where no travelers have yet been:
No roads or skies to befriend;
Faceless skeletons, silent voices:
They all embraced in this veil of dark—
Embraced by looks, face to face—
Hungry to fill the emptiness of space.
Note: The Refaim Circle, otherwise known as the ‘Gilgal Refaim,’ is the only megalithic astronomical complex on earth, built 3000 BC, in the area now known as: the Golan Heights; made out of 37,000 tons of stones. It has been said it was constructed y biblical giants; comprising more area than at the Gaza pyramids.
22) The Poet Demon
“There are maggots under my feet,
Incense and madness in my tomb,”
He cries…he sighs, he never dies:
He dances to flutes, tapping feet,
And human fleece, and never knows why.
Oh yes, a tomb—with no spine,
Full of hopelessness, despair…
Sacrificial-gloom everywhere;
A hooded serpent of the deep,
He knows that he will never sleep.
23) The Birds of Genovesa
The beautiful gloom of Genovesa’s
Unfathomable vaults of birds
Peering from white eerie wooden sticks—
Vampires: Atlantean Vampires—
Clinging to trees that look like twigs,
Great idols looming—homelessly—
Your days belong to a primal calendar
I see….
10:30 AM, April 23 2004
Note: Written four hours after leaving the island of Genovesa, in the Galapagos.
24) The Devil’s Rose
Roses of black and orange
From hell’s cryptic doors,
They are scorned—lo,
Like blood in a storm:
Bred by malefic jackals,
Hell-howling Hyenas—
Sealed in coffins by nails,
Incarcerating their evil enchantments;
Guarded by the Demon Ghost, alas—
Should a rose be lost or stolen,
It puts blood—upon the soul!—
Cold, cold—blood.
This is the forbidden rose—
Descended from Satan’s breath,
Made from his waste—puss and piss,
His vomit and sweat, his blasphemy
Inside the scent.
Incantations echo, emitted;
Discharged, from its pores:
Should you pass it to another,
Take it as a gift—
You seal your death.
April 6 2004, Lima, Peru
25) Hieroglyphs of Doom
I’m always surprised
How an artist can make
Ugliness, death, gloom
Decay, demonic-hues—
And Satan himself look…
Lovely.
The tomb and urn, darkness,
Plague, crawling toads, slime:
All vanish into uncharted
Flares of solar fire—
Fires of beautiful light?
I’m always surprised
How the atheist seals,
Locks his tomb—while
Looking, looking for light!
Successfully, we slowly carve
Our hieroglyphs of doom.
3:30 PM, April 14 2004, Lima, Peru
26) Mirrors and Marrow
On this hot and cold, bold,
Windy earth, with its breathless
Tireless twists, and curves,
Is not life a street, a city of
Stone, ink and bread—
Of heart, essence and will?
Where arched-holy steeples
Tower and blink, at moving
Souls?
Where
Poverty is the mirror for all,
Whence you climb, eternally
Wanting the treasure that,
That to only a few befalls;
In sadness, each part—dies,
Wishing they had climbed more walls.
April 11 2004, Lima, Peru
27) The Lotus Demons’ Lair
(The Lotus Demon of Mercury)
Lo, the toiling sun spins
Above the roof of his den,
Above the Great Volcanic Crater
Of Mercury—where
The Lotus Demons live.
With unshadowed images,
Spun in the friendless deep,
As fate would have it, none,
None who enter—escape.
April 13 2004, Lima, Peru
28) Earshot
The FBI was after him
(So he claims)
Fearful of Castro
(If not everything)
No money for taxes
Living in a drunken stupor
Trying to finish a manuscript
(“A Moveable Feast”)
Allusions to suicide
Blood pressure going high
No doctors please
He cried
(The Mayo Clinic nearby)
Suicide scenario
Depression took
His soul and character
He bought death with
Consuming drinks
He even conned himself
(I think)
Violently angry
Pinned in blame
For an insane life
He tried to lead
From Paris to Cuba
To Ketchum he was
Was he an old man lost
Lost at sea
Hemingway
Shotgun in hand with
His big-toe pulled
The trigger very slowly
And off flew his cranium
March, 2004
Note: considered for an award; also, reviewed by Barns and Noble, Poetry Review [competition], Rossville, Minnesota.
29) House without Windows
I am building a house with no windows
And a very small door,
And my friends all ask me why.
Life has been for me full of anxiety—
And I care not to let it in any more;
So you see, I am making a very small door.
And having no windows allows
What is outside not to look in—
Thus freeing my spirit to rest again….
Note: published in the Magazine: The Mango Tree, out of India [August/September, 2004]
30) Armageddon’s Hecatomb
Know ye that His kingdom shall come—
In days hence, thy days shall be gone
(I like former dust: dayless,
Speaking from chambers long gone)—
From Hell to Earth the demons come
(A tinge of gladness in their songs)—
Thou shalt live to see them.
Lo—a great army from the north
Cometh, cometh, in full force;
Soon, sword and flesh shall shortly meet:
On the field of Armageddon.
Quoth the Demon of the Pit, “Alas!”;
For, upon the Throne of Earth,
He whose Horse is White sitteth
And biddeth farewell,
As doth ebb the realm of hell.
31) Armageddon’s Incubus
In Europe, the enchantress sculpts—
From earth to hell—peculiar spells,
Makes a changing world ebb.
From within her sphere’s crystal gaze—
Dark shadows, blood-soaked graves,
Molded steps that lead to nowhere,
Time’s phantoms—
All of whom are tyrannous—
Walk up and down these eldritch stairs,
Waiting to call together iron forces:
The architects of war.
Unremitting silence masks the globe
Of mortal woes and secrets told;
And now that wisdom’s turned about,
Draws forth Abyssal demon-cults
(All mobilized, coming to life).
Funerals, pendulums, brutality:
It’s all part of what must be.
32) Nightmare
He lives within the deep
Where others never sleep—
Monstrous fathoms below,
Where lava rivers flow,
And crowding waters rush.
He is the nightmare demon
With a flat, untraversable form—
Lying in a bottomless tomb,
Undoomed, haply awakened,
Awaiting slumber.
Note: This poem was inspired by the Clark Ashton Smith’s picture,’ Nightmare’, and was written right after the purchase of the original picture from Tom Strausky, who purchased it through G. de la Ree, circa l980; at which time the picture was named.
33) Glossary of End Times
Four
Horses
Running wild
Hoof beats awaken
The hungry and sleeping world
Waiting for the seventh trumpet
Angels are in the winds
Hail and fire and blood
Burning mountains
Falling
Birth pangs
And three woes
The Seventh Trumpets
The Seven Bowls
The Seven Seals
False Prophet
The Dragon
The Beast
Anti-
Christ
Takes the
Place of
Christ
34) Eros Ploy
From her mind to her clitoris,
To her nipples and lips,
Wooed like a bird perched on a stick:
She melted like butter
Until there was no other.
35) Tagaririm (Arch devil Belphegor)
He speaks only in Aramaic, calling up the dead—
For vagary, spells and signs, to hide
The Atziloth scrolls, until the four heavens divide,
Until—until the end of time….
From different worlds, his powers come—
Briah, Yetzirah and Asiah—where immortal veils
Never meet (Neschamah, Ruach and Nephesch);
And questing armies never die.
Lo, Samaul, Evil Spirit of the soul, waits for thee,
Thy signature O Belphegor—
To unroll the scroll,
Bearing the names of angelic beings and demonic foes.
36) Dream Maker
[Part 1 of 5]
Who crafts a dream
Puts us to sleep!
What ear shall hear
Or balance meet—
To wake us up
Upon our feet?
II: Comes the Dream
Comes the dream,
An inkling memory
Sealed tight—clasping
In a darkened room
(In soul-vaults).
III: Ancient Scrolls
Endless mysteries
Of the spirit’s plight
Weave the inner twilight.
Unending suns—gloom!
Ancient dreams and scrolls….
IV: Sleeping Mind
In each sleeping mind,
Light can seldom find
The formless decay,
Of ones dragging worlds
To be left, behind;
For heaven’s melody,
Darkness lurks
As the mind hovers:
The strains seep out—
Lo! Bend the vine:
Let the sunsets in,
Awaken
(All’s forgotten).
V: Lonely, Lost
The Dream-maker shouts:
“I found songs unsung,”
Lonely, lost a while,
Unto and into thy grief,
Thy grief, my grief now sung.
Ah! Death has lost its sting:
And dreams have lost
Their pulse—
“Thou shalt not wake this time,”
The Dream-maker shouts.
37) The Macabre Serpent of Space
With chilling sarcophagus grimace,
The ill-omen serpent appeared
From out of the shadows of space…
Lo! More ancient than man, it thirsts for a name,
A place in unutterable space—
Yet, only blackness—cul-de-sac….
38) C.A. Smith
The cypress blows over my grave:
Oh would I hide from you—
Yet I write…all the same.
Ah! –I am a ghost:
With shadows above me—
And demon ears below.
April 17 2004, Lima, Peru.
Published on the Eldritch Dark website; a favorite of my friend’s, Phillip Ellis.
39) I. The Woods in the Sea
Upon the throne, of the moon,
Across the land, into the sea,
He treads: walks endlessly
For the entire world to see.
The wind is from the north,
The bright stars rest in the west,
The gift of second-sight
Resides within his chest.
He knows he cannot rest—
For unseen shores yet to come
From lands both dim and gray,
Lands of new outcomes.
Published on the Eldritch Dark website 6/04
40) II: Shadow of Fate
If one lives with the god of hate,
High or low be he,
Such is his fate….
41) III: Talons
I will weave the pale shadows
(Time lost, time forgotten—):
All into pallid brows
Onto the stranger’s talons:
While I sink into the board-walk—
Let him tell his tall tales.
42) IV: Wild Stones
Who is the witch, the demon—
The culprit and the ghoul?
I could not tell for the life of me:
So I forgave them, one and all.
And then I slept a long sleep
(Forgiving is quite a chore)—
Then, when I woke to meet the day,
Love had conquered all.
43) V: Satan’s Sidekick’s
The men that chum with Satan—
Their hearts cannot forgive;
They see no more in love,
Than mercy can see to give.
The men that chum with Satan—
Their gods are many and small;
They drift away like white ghosts
Climbing demonic walls.
The men that chum with Satan—
Seldom can they sleep;
And through their nightmare visions,
With flames and smoke they leap.
They walk the earth alone—they do,
Strange, deep with palest eyes.
Always thinking they were cheated:
With footsteps dogged by lies.
And in the halls of Belshazzar—
Their ghostly eons twist and twine;
Always knowing naught of hope,
Beyond the blazing line.
44) VI The Great Flood of ’51
The night is dark, the Mississippi
Lies asleep;
Velvet mists veil the blood-spattered moon
(With hoary strange eyes):
Restless with hazy fear, and slumber
Of her sleep
(White thunder in the skies).
She hears the whisper of the
Ghostly storm (booming far—
Encircling near)
Glide overnight—overhead—ready:
To be born (like a hammer of Thor).
“I shall go forth!” she hears:
And down the scarlet veil, hails
Triumph is in its roar—the storm:
Roads, men, levee and homes—
Cliffs and bridges tossed about:
The untamable god has freed the clouds.
Continuation from the: Macabre Poems
45) Poe’s Legacy
If Poe hadn’t have been born—
There’d have been no rapping or tapping—
(at least for a while—at my door?)
Nor would there had been morbid beauty
with depth and sin…
That circles the globe—nor HPL and CAS.
What a mundane life (it would have been)
without the devil’s pen.
I gripped the legacy: lying on savage ground,
the third-eye of the hunter, filled with wax—
calls for breath, in the silent Valley of Shock;
thus, stung—I remain, by the fruitless trees
of horror—then I hear a whisper:
“Lord, help my poor soul.”
June 4 2004
Inspired by Phillip Ellis.
46) Loving in Limbo
Mother! Mother!
My precious one!
To whose dearest love
Will harmony run?
Oh! Thy will it is
In the winters to cross
Or lay simply still
Like October’s frost;
Now my form is cold—
(As in trance I’m snared)
Keeping heart and soul
With songs threadbare?
June 6 2004
47) Mystery of Mysteries
We’re born alone, as shall we die
Looking at the hour of drifting—
A Mystery of Mysteries!
We are pitifully helpless things….
The Watchman’s guardian eye,
For Him—it is not loneliness;
The drumming of the unguided
Lends allurement—with chanting nearby.
In life and death, two faces pry;
One shall overshadow: they cry
Be it night or day, though face may frown,
Unready for the final dawn
And pandemonium near, throbbing:
Comes the drifting of the hour—
As we’re born, we die: alone—
A Mystery of Mysteries!
48) Rosinina Tapi of the Sacred Valley
It was long, long, so long ago
in the Sacred Valley of Peru,
wherein a maiden lived, no one really knew,
by the name of Rosinina Tapi—
and this maiden lived with no other thought:
than to live out her life within this sacred spot.
I was a Prince and She was to be,
in this kingdom of the Sacred Valley;
we fell in love: ardent and unconditionally,
I and my Princess to be—
with a cherished worship, that only Heaven
could see.
And so it was, that long, long ago
in this kingdom in the Sacred Valley
a ghostly wind blew to and fro
(out of a void no one knew):
after my lovely Rosinina Tapi,
thus inspiring her kinsmen
to take her away from me.
They hence shut her up—in a eerie vault
Within the kingdom of the Valley.
Ah! the devils, the devils, that dwelt in Hell,
Were envying her and I—
Oh yes!—‘twas their quest
(as all knew within the Sacred Valley),
that the ghostly wind that blew to and fro
through the cracks of the earth:
had seized and killed my Rosinina Tapi.
And sad was I, to bury my dreams,
(such memories that had to be):
and under the moonbeams, my beautiful Rosinina Tapi
was buried within the Sacred Valley.
49) The Ancient Sharra
You that rest in utter and gloomful darkness
Who come from the middle of the world—
The Sharra Indians with shrunken heads,
Colored feathers, blow-guns with
Fearful darts,
Along the equator’s rim—that doesn’t spin—
To you I pour forth my autumn nights.
Note: 4/20/04: written during a visit at the Middle of the World at the Ecuador (000)
50) Satan’s Galapagos
By the dark shadows
Vowed to Lucifer,
By his sealed prophets
Foreshown,
By these, by these I claim
Thee—
By trickery, wine and sorcery—
I have tried to bend thy
Footsteps
In the peaceful Galapagos.
April 24 2004; Lima, Peru
Note: written returning from the Galapagos, to Lima, Peru; many strange and disruptive incidents, occurred.
51) Fading Worlds
Behind a great shadow,
A world fades—
This is the price of beauty—
How many stars are lost
This way—
Lost within the oceans,
Fading skies?
So many lost worlds… die….
In memoriam Clark Ashton Smith April 10 2004, Lima, Peru; revised May 5 2004.
52) Lost Souls
Shadows of the lost souls,
If you call on them,
Will never let you go.
April 17 2004, Lima, Peru
53) The Goat man’s Fancy
She heard the coming of the Doom—
In the silence still of the moon—
For, half-enchanted with his stars
In the twilight of his youth,
To the desert he did part.
Now, with the moon unlit,
He left her heart…
As if she was to mutter on
And sing his starry, lonesome song!
Henceforth triumphant
Was the Devil’s rose:
For she poured his devilish poisons, cold—
And muttered on, to a new moon….
54) The Hoofed Demon
He heard me not, nor saw
Knowing my presence as he should:
He whispered.
*Ecuador, Quito, 4/25/04
55) Buried Souls
And there his sarcophagus lay—
Beneath the towering mountains—
Stretching out of the deep, dark sea
(With all its weight, sealing his fate),
No light, no day, only binding chains.
Lost, forgotten in the sand’s density…
Where no travelers have yet been,
No roads or skies to befriend,
Faceless skeletons, silent voices:
They all embraced in this veil of dark—
Embraced by looks: face to face—
Hungry to fill the emptiness of space.
April 1 2004, St. Paul, Minnesota
56) The Pale Horse of Rano Raraku
Jesus said: “Know what is before your face and what is hidden from you will be revealed to you;”
From: ‘the Gospel of Thomas’.
It is to you, to you among the living that I write; for indeed, I may be dead, and am of little concern if so. For the years now that are in the past, the last few in particular, have been years of terror, of intense dread, as circles the world this very moment, to escalate, I do believe—escalate around the globe, and so I write this by inspiration of a story I heard:
Into and onto the Isla de Pascua,
Navel of the world (window to the Pacific)—
Whose Moai Eyes of towering volcanic stones
Look towards the Heavens,
As if their spirits were trapped, bound within,
Afraid, fearful, frightened, to leave their stone abode,
To face their worldly sins—
Thus, rides the Pale Horse of Rano Raraku’s rim
—of Rano Raraku’s rim.
Ah, distinctly, eagerly, pacing,
‘Tis a visitor who comes racing—
Into and onto the whisper of Rano Raraku
To catch the first glimpse,
The very first glimpse, peep, and hint… of Apocalypse—
Deception and pestilence travel with him,
The Pale Horse: Tribulation—
Whence comes hail and fire from above, mixed with blood;
The sun, moon and stars darken.
Henceforth, the Pale Horse comes racing, riding,
From the rim of this wondrous volcanic site.
The seventh trumpet is now ready to be blown,
The woes and vials to be poured:
Within the magic and mystery of this story
Rides the Pale Horse dying, dying, dying—dead,
On the rim of Rano Raraku;
Watching, watching—the stranger, Austrian, grim:
Thus comes the world’s sins;
As he witnesses the pain—the horse’s message:
“The God-King is not dead—
The God-King is coming….”
Inspired by my poet friend, Johannes [2004]
57) Out of the Dust
Part I
Out of cosmic friction and its rift,
Out of havoc and mass,
Man was born
To a primitive class,
On a planet yet unknown.
Part II
Across the galley, winged demons flew,
Ape-like men appeared,
And strange monsters:
All creeping at man’s nature.
58) The Black Hand
His hand a closing veil from hell
Looming to my braw,
To cover it like a canopy.
Behind him the world was upside down
And at his feet stood ancient crumbling hate.
He stood still within this evening bleak,
With weathered limbs and somber sounds
And a waxed face I could barely see;
Then, in silence, his hand went upon my face.
Note: 7/04 #340)
59) The Long Hemp
The night shadows sigh across the grass
And chant through the misty trees;
The night shadows bellow the hemp on high
With the tug of laughing goblins.
And many a song they pipe to the twilight
And the far-off woods of ebony.
July 13 2004 [#338]
A Prose Poem
60) Eyes of the Pacing Serpent
Against a topaz sky, I see a pacing, Green Serpent. He paces on the skyline, moving with the clouds of flaming turquoise. Jade cat-eyes, god of the air, sunk and lost in the cloudy mist, he did not look at me, nor by sign did he speak to me. But his brooding silence tells me—“Ages before you were born, I was. For the race of man fades, fades into forgotten glory; yet I live on.”
Frozen in a dream-vision above the great roof of reality, with undulated silence, his hiss echoes, vibrates the atmosphere— ignites fires blazing in the heavens. A mist lay between me and the clouds, the great dragon paces with a grin, and his mighty bat-like wings, ready to devour with his burning, jet eyes, swallow all in his path.
He looks down, but still he looks not at me, with his eyes of eon-haunting magic, looks down to the satanic frogs he’s sent to a great city, with their, their nostrils ablaze—in purple and scarlet robes. He is preparing a nightmare.
July 13 2004 [#337]
Prose Poem
61) Mistress of Darkness
This is a dream that came to me long ago, not in a haze, but in vivid, daydreaming mode. I stood in a sacred hall of sorts; its tapestry was brilliant, by pillars of glittering marble, and a ceiling of high, gilt leaf. I stood in mid air, somewhere in the center, all of this beneath me, images, dimly shadowed—as a woman walked by with a candle.
Then appeared a goddess in all black, a woman of beauty, strange-eyed with dark, abyssal hair, clutching hands into waves of darkness, as she was cast down into volcanic air; a slender and leaping tigress, a mistress of demigods, I deemed. Deep she echoed, until she no longer could be heard or seen.
7/13/04 #339
Prose Poetry
62) The Foulness of the Imp
Twice I met the imps (in a most peculiar way) who filled the air with a burst of bulky, shifting stench, suspended without a body, their lush corpse odors lingering: bat-lipped imps, bone-spitting imps, barrenness upon their lips—nostrils huffing like dying sows, unclean light circling within its own gloom seeping out of wombs they had saved for this occasion; their breath came thus up from their bowels, to spill on me.
Both times, I was alone, isolated in my car and bathroom: I learned they do not like to be mocked or scorned; yes, the madness of truth that fell upon me, as, by their putrid stench-spell, manifested scorn, triumphant revenge—call it what you will—it drifted back and forth, inch by inch filling each and every once of space in my car, in my room. Not a perfect stench, just revolting enough to be paralyzing.
“Who did you think it was?” boomed a voice, gaunt and ill-willed.
Guilt, I felt guilt; I provoked the misfits, provoked them beyond the point of retreat. Yet the smell continued, nondescript, yet it could desiccate a corpse to dust, should it remain suspended in air long enough. Yes, out of the imp’s mouths come the worms of hell, the infinite smells, pantheist still.
I opened the doors so the enraged pong, its stunning weariness could seep out, and, out like a slave to the lungs, the imps, who would have to chase their urine covered mist, went.
Written 7/10/04
Prose Poem
63) Slaying the Prowess
I stood in line, hands by my side—among a roll of men. A handsome young man walked near, slowly, hesitantly, stopping in front of me. Clad in a short tunic, shoulder bare, mantle of an Athenian figure [l984], a true aristocratic face, his long blond hair, unbound, glittering like gold-dust, his light bronze-banded arms were smoothly muscled; he seemed deadly and passionate.
I wore sandals (within this dream) and a garment that covered half my flesh, yet he lingered closely to my form to turn a moment of beauty into lust. I knew without thinking, as he knew, time was fading.
He said, “You: I choose you”
“Go your way,” said I with wide open eyes, “There are many here who would desire your love.” It was not as if he was destitute, but the love he desired was lust, to wedge a stone between God and me. His face was like a wolf that was tossed a bare bone, with no marrow; he sneered.
Vision took place, l984, written originally on a piece of paper, lost, and now remembered; July 2004, #342)
64) The Haunting of Demons
When I, and I alone, dream,
Alas!—things fade into rain,
Rain, red rose rain.
I know then why I am running—
And where hides the devil’s thorn.
And when these long,
Too long winter nights
Burn bitterly until daylight
Like eldritch vipers, overhead
Whose thorns lurk low
Close to my bed,
These long,
Too long winter nights
Give birth to demonic delights
Outside my mind and eyes.
Deep, in deepest dreams,
Is where I’ll be—
As they roam
From place to place, looking,
Looking and hunting for me:
As they seep,
In my dreams, looking
Looking and hunting for me….
June 26 2004 [No# 317]
65) Dream Smoke
I woke today and realized I,
I had a terrifying dream,
somewhere in-between
smoke and reality—;
What day, what week was it?
I didn’t know, for:
everything was fading, fading,
just fading gray dream smoke.
Everything’s a dream or delirium
or so it seems (I said to myself)
even the birds on the ledges;
the world of reality is,
is in the urine and pungent smells
(I tell myself).
For the sleeping world:
In here the light is on all night;
in here the day looks like night;
in here silence chokes:
week after week after week,
fading into dream smoke.
In the waking world,
tirelessly I count the days.
In here you just don’t know.
Foot steps sound like heart beats.
In here you just don’t know, for
it’s all covered with dream smoke.
Composed 6/26/04 #316
Selected Poems
66) Homeless in the Cosmos
I watched my grandpa get old and gray
And die;
Twenty-nine years later, my mother,
Old and gray, took her place,
And died….
They are no more, nor shall be—not,
Not in all the Cosmos again;
As if two fires were put out—now dead.
They lay dead on infinite ground,
And now it is my turn to die;
And yes, yes yours…
5/2/04 St. Paul, Minnesota, USA
67) Wingless Drunkard
Black prayers, wingless angels sing—
Hastening, they stroll to meet
Drunkards….
April 24 2004 [Quito-Ecuador]
68) Just a Moment
Just a moment, just a moment,
Then the moments pass away,
Then you fade….
6:05 AM May 2 2004, St. Paul,
Minnesota
69) Longings
I long for the unseen;
Curious for the material world,
My delights have been uncountable.
In my dreams of slumber,
Almost strangely I’m withdrawn:
Like a vampire.
12:35 AM, May 2 2004, skies over Peru
70) Devils Dice
At times the fool
Makes his promise—
With fires of Hell
Beneath his feet:
Nearby stands the Devil
With heavy dice.
Ah! When he wakes
Unto his tricks—
Bound he thinks
And bound he feels,
But wise
He flees, like phantoms
In the skies,
And hides like gophers
In the hills
Far, far, far away.
June 2004
71) Blindash
Why is it so hard
For man to look back
At his past?
It is as if Pompeii
Itself
Has covered his eyes
With ash—
Ash and stone
(Blinding toxic gas)
From birth to death—
Yes, O yes—as if,
As if time itself
Was wrapped in it.
May 10 2004, St. Paul, Minnesota
72) Wisdom Lost
Wisdom once gained
Can be lost the same:
By blindness of impiety,
And the obtuseness of sin.
73) A Place Remembered
A place remembered,
A dream once dreamed,
Is never the same?—
When one goes back
For a visit.
If it is of childhood,
Leave it as it is,
Keep dreaming:
You’ll never outlive it.
These two poems were considered by Poetry.com as the very best, and they convey good craftsmanship
74) Satan’s Tricks
Strange as it may seem,
Satan has a scheme:
Have you belief in him,
Obsessively, or not at all;
Or have you lived neurotically
In the past or for the future,
(But never within the present);
Or have you got involved
Compulsively in something
Dissociative—
Like drugs or alcohol,
Gambling or sex: they’re all
His tricks.
May 6 2004, St. Paul, Minnesota
75) A Dream of Mother
I dreamt a dream:
I saw my mother last night,
In old surroundings; when
A strange occurrence befell me
(Beneath the expiring,
Haunting light):
The dead world came alive,
A voice—
A shadow—
Came, engulfed me;
In my sadness she appeared—
In my gloom…
Touched like a falling star!
Quietly, I remembered—
She had died.
April 12 2004, Lima, Peru
76) Nikita Khrushchev
In his backyard, with fading brown grass,
He sat, with his dog by his porcelain side.
The old man was stone still, still sadly alive,
As if in a trance, for once—once,
Not so long ago, he ruled the world.
77) Love’s Hour
Love has had its hour,
As has this rime—
Both are sunk in the seas of time.
April 16 2004, Lima, Peru
For the Eldritch Dark
78) The Surrogate Devil
An old man’s fancy of perfect love
With no emotional clutter,
With a young, fresh girl:
With dreams of erotic desires:
Desires with wished women
In his nightmares, he creates
The strong woman
He no longer wishes to see
He calls them devil girls
Unknowingly: Why? He finds
The surrogate mother, calls her
Perfect love...
But soon that dissolves—
He sees the transformation—
The doomed, doomed love;
Love, yes! that love—
That love that never appeared
Before, before submissiveness
No longer the nurturer,
She doesn't care—
Seldom is the survivor of such
A calamity admired—
Or remembered; therefore
(In this poem anyway)
He dies alone.…
June 23 2004, #315
Legends
79) The Moche of Chan Chan
Sealed by those long ago—
A record held within it shadows,
The Moche died: sunless,
Lost and alone—
Within the fancy gloom of Chan Chan;
Whose gloom is hidden behind:
Unharvestable orchards,
Unretrievable light—
And unto all comes death.
Note: Written about the archeological site in Northern Peru.
80) King Arthur’s Sin
His sword was black
As midnight sin;
His heart a stone
His eyes were blue,
As in Arctic ice,
And his blood
Was made of gloom.
Throughout the isles
He conquered all,
Roman, Saxon, Gaul,
Cutting wings off
Midnight beings
And burying
The grandsire foul.
July 2004 #341
81) Silence Falls on Uruk’s walls: An ode to Uruk
If it had not been for the temple harlot, goddess of Uruk, Shamhat, there would not have been an Epic of Gilgamesh, for she it was that brought back to the Great City of Uruk, the Sumerian Capital, the prize Gilgamesh had been longing for; for she had seduced Enkidu, Gilgamesh’s equal, whom she instructed thereafter on the fineries of civilization, for he was a man-beast in the woods; she brought him a lover, as in time, after the death of Enkidu, Gilgamesh would marry and have a son, and Shamhat would bear a child. The year is 2700 BC. In the poem you are about to read, Huwawa is a giant, who guards the Cedar Forest, Enkidu lives in the forest like a beast.
Silence falls on Uruk’s walls
While a demigod rules the lands;
A raging wind from the Cedar Forest
Comes with the rattling of Huwawa.
And with the harlot Shamhat,
So follows Enkidu, the beast-man.
* * *
Eldritch stars fall on Uruk’s walls
As the red moon’s light fades in;
The granite walls are hinged in gray,
And Gilgamesh’s mind is bent—
He weaves a web to hold his city,
Sumer, king of all Sumerians.
* * *
Shamhat laced her web
By baring her pulsing loins;
Her beauty glimmered in the woods
To the one by the shadowy pond.
The beast-man Enkidu, now doomed,
As she woos….
* * *
The city is joyous with star-dust,
For Gilgamesh has found his equal;
No more boys, virgins or wives,
No more rages like flying equals,
No more building tower-steeples,
Peace and harmony is now at hand.
* * *
Silence falls on Uruk’s walls
For Enkidu killed Huwawa:
Gilgamesh killed the Bull from Heaven,
And the netherworld cursed the land;
Shamhat died when the temples fell,
And Gilgamesh died in bed.
82) The Mind’s Eye
Life: it is fact, it is written,
It is part dream and part reality?
I never woke up
And I never went to sleep.
I wasn’t scarred by bullets;
And I didn’t write my dreams.
I never looked for reality within them,
I can take or leave them.
In them I roamed aimlessly,
In all seasons of the year—
I can dream all this or live it;
Beyond my mind’s sight.
Inspired by Yuli Daniel, June 27 2004 [#320]
Atlantean Poems
[Poems 83 to 98]
The Archnight’s Scrolls: Codex Atlanteanus
Standing upon Terceira’s soil
Rising above the Atlantic,
I muse on Atlantean glory:
A time past, no longer to be.
For, in those distant days of old
Sunken now, in the depthless seas,
Reside the Grand Archnight’s scrolls—
Now remnants, of slime and sodden ashes
At the bottom of a tireless sea.
Within these gardens of Poseidon
The poet Anases’ spirit roams,
Looking for ‘la Tour d’yvoire.’
And, should he find the crown scrolls,
What shall happen to legends told?
Note: An Atlanteon poem, 6/27/04; #319
The Princess Ais and the Poet-Hippokamp
As the great ship sailed the eastern expanse,
Princess Ais, looking westward to Atlantis,
Sang—farewell, farewell, thrice farewell,
To Yllipha, in northern Iffrikonn.
Then, listening to the moon-foamed stories of Aon,
Of the river Amphus, and its delta,
She dreamt of its grand and famous Archkingdom,
Of its strange, spellbound, and renowned obelisks,
Of Atlantis’ metropolitan streets.
Aon—poetic eyes of green, shoaling seas,
A mane of mystic, sea-bright hair;
Ais, eyes of blue and night-black hair:
With Atlantean lyre and harp, strings of silver,
The Hippokamp seduced the princess Ais.
Iffrikonn an island country; Aon, the Hippokamp: seahorse
Aon, the Hippokamp
The sound of the lyre came, sweet and clear,
Ferrying poetic notes of the Hippokamp,
In the far, dark waters of Atlantis—
Archkingdom of every land and sea.
With dying breath, and horse-like chest,
To death, and oblivion that sneer—
His last breath he took, with nothing of tears,
And died in splendor, amongst his peers.
#323
The Purple Robes of Atlantis
Now resting on the ocean floor,
Atlantis’ kings in ocean graves
Could neither keep nor save her.
Thus will be no glittering sun,
No hands to open ancient vaults
Or treasures stars once guarded,
Treasures stars will guard no more.
O gentlest bard, sing sweet, sing sweet,
For the poets lost in ancient times…
II
The king, the king, I saw you crowned
With jewels and gems, hemmed within,
Within your murex-dyed and gilded robes…
While the world paced and stored your glory,
And the god-king sat, deep his eyes
Looking at gold and cyclopean stone,
With a lion’s face, upon his throne,
Deep within the starless sea,
Patiently he waits, he waits.
Note: in a vision in l983, I saw one of the kings of Atlantis, in his purple robs.
The Lovely and Dreadful Fountain of Ddath
16,501 BC: on the island of Atlantis, the hymn of the maiden from Noom of At-Tho-Then (brother and sister) is played out in the following poem.
“Lailis, O Lailis—my love, my love,”
(sings and plays the minstrel Ampara)
“I love you so much, even in dust,
Of Poaphus, in fair Atlantis.”
(And loves were lost for many years.)
Both were sundered by duty and lyre
(and loves were lost for many years).
But it came to pass Atlas Naorthris
Had Ampara sing within his court;
Whereupon both Lailis and Ampara
Rediscovered their long-lost love—
At which the wandering minstrel
And goddess ran off, ran off,
To the far shores of the sea,
To the seaport of Allodium—
To the fountain of Ddath:
And drank death away.…
[#327; 6/30/04]
Xilvaa, The Shepherdess
(13,500 BC)
Within the heartland of Atlantis,
Resides the Eiphlox Mountains,
And a mountain vale called Quloyx,
Where shepherds with warm hearts
Gaze with blue eyes into the skies:
Thus, lovers met in the midst of delight.
Who was this stranger who took her heart?
The one his father made to part;
Whose love was proven beyond all doubt?
Thus the two lovers grieved, apart,
And turned to salt the mountain lakes,
Until the Archking fixed all things,
Naming his son Lailliquis—
Worthy of Xilvaa, for man and wife.
[#330-6/30/04]
Ψ
How it was in Atlantis
[Parts 1 thru IX]
I: Queen Lillttis (15001 BC)
By the Great Citadel of Poseidon
Rests Queen Consort Lillttis,
Who battled two personalities
Inside her royal chest,
Until she was dead
[#326--6/29/04]
II: Mount Atlantis
Close to the ocean
Resides her great harbor
The Acropolis of Atlantis.
[#328-6/29/04]
III: The Acropolis
O great stones of marble,
Soaring fifteen-hundred feet high—
Your life, art, culture touched the skies.
[#329—6/29/04]
IV: Astrologers of Atlantis
High upon Mount Atlantis
Resides an observatory,
And once a year upon the dark
During the autumnal equinox,
The astrologer Pharanos
Allows the stars to study him.
#331-6/30/04
V: Atlantis in Winter
And to her north, endless twilight,
Countless fantasies in winter’s snow;
Where lad and lass and unicorn—
Play, in ice and snow,
With autumn leaves of old:
Orange, red and gold.
#335-7/01/04
VI: Southern Atlantis
Marble steps along her shores,
With a tropical glow from the sun,
Antarctic breezes to cool the skin,
And help those off shore, sailing.
Gigantic flowers are everywhere,
Deep in the Southern Archkingdom.
#332-7/1/04
VII: The Atlantic Squid
Ebbing in the semi-tropic seas,
The giant squids reside within,
Within the volcanoes sub-marine,
Together with the flowers and bees,
So many arch-mysteries to see.
#334—7/01/04
VIII: The Obelisks of Atlantis
Her nine-sided ivory tower obelisks,
Atlantis’ thrones for kings and gods,
Are topped with trident crowns.
#325, 6/29-30/04
IX: The Lost Archkingdom Atlantis
Your towers, temples, and turrets,
Your tapestries and treasures of fur,
Fountains, pools and waterfalls,
Your gardens, lilies and poppies,
Your sculptures, palaces, observatories,
Your giant pearls of Yndessoss,
Corals red and white from Mu,
Lemuria’s vast urns and vases—
Give glory to you, Archkingdom Atlantis.
[#324, 6/29-30/04]
Atlantis
98) April in Atlantis
[Written by the King of Atlantis, while in Hell]
It is April in Atlantis—the bridges are chilled, the vessels and wines are distilled. And down the canal in The Gardens of Poseidon, the pigeons harvest corn; the bronze horses stare; still distant (above waters of peril) rest temple grounds, and uncouth, uncrowned, the lyrist sounds. Yes! Atlantis in April is toxic, with time, with its islands of stone and grandeur’s signs.
Bye, my esteemed friend, Atlantis, this April morning day, with narrow, crowed streets to guided my way, and arches with imprinted golden-carved tales. Good-bye, my spoiled Atlantis, I am bound in Hell.
#342, 7/04
End of the Atlanteon Poems
Part of Legends:
99) The Haunting of Mesa Verde
The Spirit of Mesa Verde: “They know I am coming,” I said, “I will tell the story as you wish.” “So you say,” the voice said, “tell it as you may; come into my grave (I am waiting).” “ What shall I call you,” I asked; “You’ve written it already, ancestor!” he remarked, “You come from a long way to see me, feel me, sense me—let it be said I guard the dead….” [30 AD].
I am the haunting Anasazi
Of the Cliff Dwellings of Mesa Verde
And the legends told
With their winds and dearth bones.
I am the enemy’s ancestor
Of this Lost World
Haunted by shadows and cliffs
By me and eagles.
I guard the last kivas
Of Colorado
Whose people through me find rest
The others moved before reckoning.
I am the warrior
Of Mesa Verde
That tried to find reprief
Who found only darkness and stillness.
July 30 2004 #343/Reviesed August
End of the Atlanteon poems
And Legends
Political Macabre
Political Prose Poem
100) The Great Sow
I
It is a funny thing, the huge sow— each year, at the State Fair, they put a prize ribbon on the biggest, ugliest, and fattest sow humanity can breed—
As the public stares, no-one questions what it ate, how much it ate, how it became so fat and ugly; it’s just glorified as is: pig-flesh, layers of pig-flesh.
Need I say more about this unforgettable sight, which is like the United Nations and its ongoing role with Israel? Where only the United States, the fifteenth member, stood up for Israel?
“Yes,” says someone in the back, one of the fifteen members of the International Court, who condemned the building of the Great Wall of Israel.
“Yes, yes indeed,” he repeats to himself.
II
It is a funny thing to see, at the State Fair, this vast bulk of animal flesh lounge its belly—as does the United Nations International Court lounge its belly, review its International Issues—its eyes grooved in fat, set on a vision of a Blue Ribbon (as is the Court set on the destruction of Israel).
This ancient sow has been around a very long time, it just changes its name when it becomes too obvious.
The farmer whistled, but the barrel of fat is taking a nap; yet it grunts, grunts like Whoopi Goldberg on stage for John Kerry, with her dirty jokes. I ask myself: “What does the grunt mean?” Some one says: “Constraint: it wants to eat more, but is being held back.”
III
The sow has a brain, small as it is, maybe—yes, I know for a fact it is thinking, and I know what it is thinking, and I am willing to share it with you: it is like old grease caked on a frying pan, a skillet or whatever, melting away; its tongue tastes displeasure— it’s a Jew, the tongue says. Vanity and empty pride, but this is disregarded, triumph and pride prevail. The Jew is still the nigger of years past, the one they hung, the many they hung down in the south.
Now the sow looks at the empty dishes on the table and says: “Bless my soul, nothing left for the Jew,” and gives a glowing smile to the PLO, and gets a big thank you from the sow feeder, Yassir Arafat
The sow now goes back to sleep, snoring. Anyone willing to look down at the sow down through the wooden gates will see a face innocent, peaceful and assured. But try to get into the pen, the beast will sit up abruptly, and the pen cracking beneath him will terrify you….
*Published on the site: useless-knowledge, June, 2004
War Poems
101) Sunday: Vietnam
[l971]
The bugle doesn’t’ blow over here,
no bands or disheveled hymns,
we stand side by side, in groups, pairs,
each to his own—to worship Him.
With dirty faces, hair long, a disgrace,
half-naked with the scorching heat
we stand by our hutches and pray;
life crawls in a war zone, a snails pace.
And across the bay rockets are released
you can hear the whistling sound they make:
coming closer, closer, closer—bang!
I move down, over, up around them.
I yearn for my busy Sunday’s home,
Grandpa making—pork-rib stew;
the newspaper: comics, headlines;
a long, calm sleep: with pleasant dreams.
I yearn for lazy-clear afternoons,
with an intelligent book to read;
voices of my mother, brother, grandpa;
the simple things like the birds singing.
[1971]
102) A Gloomful Dusk: South Vietnam
Many nights I see the shadows of the moon,
I never sleep with two eyes shut
In my hutch, on my bed, in the gloom
The gloomful dusk, with death sounds
Morbid sounds of rockets in my sleep;
I hear a cry, ‘rise, rise,’ to your feet—
And I grab my helmet and M16
Prepared to meet the enemy,
In the mountains and across the bay.
I look, and look, wait and breathe;
Breathe these nights away, like night and day.
Deadly insect’s swarm in my way
Tomorrow white clouds I pray.
Shrapnel flying like burning glass
Across my face—I breathe and wait.
Note: both poems taken from Journal, l971, revised 8/04 into poetry “Sunday: Vietnam” [#344] and “A Gloomful Dusk: South Vietnam” [#345].
Miscellaneous
104) No Remorse
When asked—in future time
What should I say on Judgment day?
For then it will be too late,
Too late to pray [so I hear].
What will we all say—on this day,
With cold remorseless brains?
Like shifting sands
Upon the plains.
What shall we all say this day?
With sour tears in ecstasy;
When he says:
“I’ve been listening!”
8/23/04 #347
105) Legend of the Little Ute
[Ancient Mesa Verde]
She came from the 3rd world into the 4th
Through a tunnel it’s been said,
And died in the drought;
The drought that lasted twenty-four years,
In the 11th Century AD, she was a Ute.
Bundled, mummified, in the cliff dwellings
The dwellings of Long House, by a window,
Bundled with a turkey;
A turkey to keep her calm, and company,
On her long, long, very long journey.
Written while at Mesa Verde, #346/8/6/04
106) Grandpa’s Tales
Old Grandpa was a jolly-man,
With tales he told of younger days,
To all the kids around our house
Through heated summer days.
Old grandpa was a liar of course,
So all the grown-up would say;
‘But what the heck, go and listen:
And tell us later—anyway!’
He was a hero of the Great War,
A prize fighter in Japan;
He traveled the seven seas he said—
And could out swear any man.
It may be that his tales were true,
Or possible he could have lied;
However, I wrote them down for you,
The day before he died.
6/23/04 #348
107) The Vanishing Giant Tortoise
Sunset ebbing, upon the Isla of Santa Cruz—
With the immortal breathing skies of blue,
Of the Galapagos—
Sets on the resting tortoises; upon
Their towering glazed shells: some born
During the time of the Civil War—
April 23 2004 #350
108) Theft in Trujillo, Peru
So long, so long, so long;
What tears you children bring
For an unsung victim who
Put your father in jail—for stealing.
Yes, stealing, stealing—my money…
Cry a tear, a simple tear, another tear:
Simply, I see what you see—
You are sorry for being caught.
April 25 2004, Trujillo, Peru
109) Parqueito’s
The sun is blooming, bright and high
As I rest outdoors in this Café
(El Parquetie, in Lima, Perú):
The park is green and flowery;
Streets are full of cars, horns, smog;
People, people, people, all about,
On lazing boulevards (hereabouts).
Here, in slumberous Mirafloras,
On lazing boulevards (all about).
April 7 2004, Lima Peru
110) The Mists of Sorrow
Flee the mists of sorrow,
Find your wings and fly away.
Born is just today, not tomorrow—
Sunken sunsets only fade.
April 11 2004, Lima, Peru #349
111) Droughts along the Mesa
[Mesa Verde: 1200-1300 AD]
By Dennis L. Siluk
Written after visiting Mesa Verde [8/04], and walking among its renowned cliff dwellings in its 53,000-achers National Park; the author was captivated by its legacy. The cliff dwellings were only occupied for some 75-years before the inhabitants moved south due to the 24-years of droughts they had to endure.
And God called the dry land earth.—Genesis
Sorrow on sorrow the droughts brought
So many deaths it had gulped, gulped up;
The blood, flesh, the bones and the marrow
Shapeless, final, incinerating—
It could not digest all in a day,
And so it took 24-years, and stayed.
Death faces, scorched lands and trees,
—spirit ancestors, along the mesa,
Their macabre shadows laced with light
Within the cliff dwelling of silent nights.
(Living on forgotten memories.)
Cries the ancient ones, the Anasazi
(of days past):
“A thousand lungs rooted to hearts—
A thousand tombs, and empty guts;”
Murmured a bowel-empty: ‘Why must I die?’
*
Brains starved to death for lack of water;
Eyes weakened by battling the droughts;
A thousand faces ten-thousand ribs:
A thousand tombs and empty guts—
Strangled for the lack of wind.
A thousand cliff dwellings now tombs,
Along the mesas and valleys of stones:
Cry, cry, like dead crows that lay—
Lay over the once young breasts, now dead.
(That once laughed instead.)
[The drought— the drought:]
Over men and women’s bodies,—deafness,
Deafness of the drought; burst ear drums—
Ear drums that shouted, for hunger and thirst;
Now these bodies are empty without souls.
(Like dead flowers without stems.)
Expired now, they knew the drought
The drought would outlast them….
The drought, gaping, and gulping with greed:
The ancestors wept upon their knees,
“Keep your fingers moving, deadliness ahead.”
And the worms kept creeping deeper in,
And up and through the eye sockets;
The whole earth was its tunnels, as they coiled,
Through the pores and blood-dark doors,
Open-rusted veins never seen before.
*
“Move, move on to other lands,” cried,
Cried and screeched the Ute and Anasazi!
(To the living of Mesa Verde)
And the streets closed forever
And the cliff dwellings closed forever
And the dead lay where the’re buried
And living abandoned forever the dead.
(Forever—Mesa Verde.)
August 6, 2004, #351/published on the internet sight useless-knowledge.com
112) The Devils
Windless Chamber
For the devil there is no wind—
There is no breath, only a chamber
Where the blood between the thighs,
Awaits—awaits the day: the day
Long life—chains him
Like an eagle clinging, clinging—
To mason walls, faceless stone walls:
Walls collapsing with brittle bones,
Earless, eyeless, walls of stone.
Here speechless worms appalled—
Watch and wait, with pulsating claws,
Murderous claws that want to reach him:
To eat his marrow, and suck his salty blood.
*
His hands tremble, and his heart pounds.
Something grabs his arm, his throat—.
His horny head, his egg-shell eyes,
His shark-teeth—all scream, yet chains remain.
He beats his chest and cracks his face;
With scorpion legs, he kicks his belly.
He snatches from the wall dirt to eat.
He stands covered in brackish blood;
Worms watching and waiting—waiting.
He drops his head, like a sword tossed
Like a sword tossed to the ground—.
“From dust to dust,” he murmurs,
“Let me die like a god!”
*
The devil clapped his beak, scratched it,
He looked for a sip of water—
And cried to heaven—
But no one noticed, not anymore.
Yet, yet still he could hear his heart pound,
As a strange silence came about,
And the dribble from the worms, longed.
8/24/04—#352: written on the The day Pompeii died
113) The Witch Speaketh:
Once witches danced to plenilunal magic,
With weak souls to molest—;
And ah, yes, way back then,
Sin, boldly robed men—of virtue,
And witches, robed—their piousness.
8/26/04 #355/Publushed on the Eldritch Dark site
114) War and Empty Shells
The life that was once in these
Young and vibrant bodies,
Are now like hollow shells—
Gone are the once, beautiful-self’s;
Where once a heart-beat dwelt!
From nothing, to nothing,—
They came and left;
Perhaps—: perhaps it was best,
For inside of war—we’re but living shells,
Obedient to heart-beats, if you will.
Now, all but empty, deserted shells—
Left on the battle fields.
*Poem #357, 9/2/2004 [part of the story, “Yesterday was a better day,” a short story of Vietnam]
115) Ol Henri Sanson
Ol Charlie-Henri Sanson
With just one swing—
With a sword could bring,
The condemned head off:
Quicker than an ax and block.
Note: The Charls Soason family, held the title in Paris of executioner from 1688 to 1840: the official title being: ‘exeuteur des hautes oeuvres de poris,’ #368 10/10/04
116) Forced Silence
The scold bridle, the gagging strap;
Scorned by women, long ago,
Was cruel….
#367, 10/10/04
117) Purple Twilight
(In tune with her mood.)
Lit with sad stars
was a dreamlike, melancholy
purple twilight
that bred subconscious fears.
Then, hidden under her pillow
in an open book
(she was slow to admit
she found life disappointing—)
she found a slip
of an old manuscript,
it read: ‘I shall never know
but only doubt, if life is
hidden behind the clouds?’
#366 10/10/04
118) Clap of the Eye
Again she walked
Eyeing the passing faces
With nervous-distrust
Her stages of life—
Recurring to her
One after another
She boarded a bus
And was carried away
From the crowd and glitter
Of the world she knew
To a narrow, dingy street
With glasshouses of windows
Inside it grew hotter and hotter
She became anxious
The conductor said [shouted]:
“This is your stop!”
The bus slowed down
She got dizzily to her feet
In a moment, on the pavement
She found herself alone
Her pilgrimage straight ahead
Everything sooty-glass
Balconies with burning fire
(So it seemed)
A vast horde of cries echoed
(Peeled her skin like the wind)
Humanity was not present
Without purpose it seemed
And without hope
She ran as if the devil was near
Stood panting, stomach sinking
She squeezed her hand
Denying her misery
Where was she in this?
In this evil labyrinth—
She wanted to faint, weep
She perceived one consolation:
She’d never marry again:
Not for money or adoration….
10/8/04 #366
119) Allen Ginsberg
[The poet’s game]
He leaps, and leaps, upon his knees—
A little messy if you please:
The phantom –boys, he so adores,
He masturbates: for hours more.
The Poet-man—says so:
He thinks they are, playful toys—
Obliged, obliged he cries: by name,
Fuc…ing their ass, and pubic manes;
To molest—their growing pains.
Allen Ginsberg’s, poetic game.
120) Blackblood: The Beast
[Sub-sonnets I]
The beast that eats me in the eyes of all,
This hate, this craving, this insensible thing,
That has bled me dry as the snow flakes fall,
Will puke, will vomit, and fade by summer.
My wounds will heal, my fate will abate,
The entwined anger will subside in the beast;
He will forget within hells summer heat
My look that is today his feat and breathe.
Unharmed, somewhat, from a scorn so deep
Though I should hate him I cannot do:
Revenge is deadly: blackblood in the soul,
Sharp like an arrow, with burning red coal;
Blood from his attack a double edged sword
Will never heal between beast and Lord.
#359/9-18-04
Blackblood: Strange and Fatal
[Sub-sonnet II]
Nay, wicked dictator, with fire worm flesh
“Sweet country, my loves have pity!” he cried.
Lo, the evil, the blackblood in his flesh
That rips the red-hearts out, all now dead.
An’ you, who didn’t think in human terms,
Filling dungeons and graves with piteous woe;
Upon your throne, dreaming or awake,
With an empty heart and Hell for a grave;
Your mortal breath, ministers only death.
Now, now you thirst confessor of no sin,
Yet should you be free, free to call my name
You’d surely summon me to be slain.
But that I would not boast, if I were you—
Upon your dubious veins resides evil.
Blackblood: The Window
[Sub-sonnet III]
Disdainful dust, comes within an hours rush
You will be weight and brought to bed with him.
When you are dead, no more storm-filled eyes:
When your blood will roar and roar, yet be rust
This moment, plainly visible like green grass
The world will sing in delight of your past.
Your body’s heat and sweat desirous
A shameful kiss, obscure—from Satan’s mist;
Wherewith you, you will remain powerless—
To evoke, choke yourself from the whims of court.
Your bewildered dead heart will have no peace
Fluttering at the ravished winds of time:
Cry, cry as you may, cry will not let you go
For you are the fluttering beat by the window.
#360 and #361/9-2004/ Published in October on the Eldritch Dark Internet Magazine site
121) A Garden with Voices
I hear them in the garden—
I feel them from my door,
A flower is a face to me,
With eyes that have no scorn.
The Dandelions are white today
Blossom-balled they seem;
The Calla Lily stems are tall:
Sensuous—with youthful green.
I wonder if it hurts to live—
I mean, like you and I?
Enlightened by the centuries,
I wonder if they cry.
Death is once, and comes to all—:
The reason, I know not why;
But jealousy, I see is nil,
Within the garden’s eyes.
Crickets, bees and butterflies,
And honey bears to boot—
All prefer the garden, like me:
To walk on top of roots.
So whether it be runes or rimes,
Piercing comforts or divine—
Leave me in the garden walk
To listen to the garden talk.
(I leave this world to thee.)
#358 9/13/04 dedicated to VM
122) The Mistress elf
Down the stairs with prancing feet
The Mistress Elf walks up the street;
And by and by she walks her pace
From fall to winter to early spring.
And hiding in her secret place
The Mistress Elf grins at fate;
An eerie kiss she carries with thee
And—curses the wheeze, within the trees.
O! cool dim, and frolic child—
With waxen ears and shielded mind,
Your stars are chained to your heart,
Stop and think before you start.
A soulless earth, with vanities:
Her first true love, I can see—.
Love for time, space and things,
Is but a childish dream.
The light in the eyes is greater than thee
She does not want to die—I see;
To live here and now in piety,
To live and die in mystery.
Why then—not a cup of wine!
Bitter-sweet, with lure repine;
‘Ts all that’s thy, Mistress—Elf.
*Inspired by Alyce Ornella/and the Yam Yam Elf’s [#365]
By Dennis L. Siluk/9/30/04
123) Orange Twilight
Snow on earth falls gently, gently falling,
Where more dark days lie
Eerie is the voice that calls all, eerie calling,
At orange twilight.
Hate, I hear thee
How gentle, how eerie his voice is now calling,
Never answered, and the dark snow keeps falling,
Now—and then.
Light to our hearts, O hate, shall die in the cold
As his eerie heart is slain
Under the thorny twilight, his heart decays
In the grumbling white-rain.
#361/ 9/25/04—Published by the Eldritch Dark Site
124) Beauty Denied
Beauty is beauty:
different or prepared,
accepted or denied,
irritating or stimulating.
When was it —
not beautiful?
If you can remember,
then it was always
beautiful—: thus, this
was beauty denied,
now accepted….
#362 9/26/04
125) The Death Rattle
‘Thou will not return
The dead await ye!’
The earth replied,
With a leap—
Form of a shadow
Trampling my bones
All the way down—down
To the House of Darkness—
Home of the damned:
No doors, no bolts,
Men like wild animals.
—The earth opened its legs wide,
Said, ‘There is no cure for this,
One’s fate is settled!’
#369 10/13/04
126) The Hyena Demigod
Head of the Hyena
[Part I]
The long night
The first glow of dawn
The Jackal, lion, wild bull
Mourned the death
Of the Hyena.
They cried:
“He is dead, he is dead!
How can we bear this sorrow?”
(like a woman with birth pains)
The wild deer, leopard
Ragging in the wilderness—
(gnawing at their bellies, restless).
But the god’s of the underworld
Would not hear—
For they wanted his head
Like a scorpion prizes his tail.
Journey of the Hyena
[Part II]
Darkness was inside the tunnel
Inside the tunnel it was deep
Deep darkness that lead to the gates;
Nothing could be seen: behind,
Along side, in front of the Hyena;
No breeze, no light, emerged.
The gate keeper appeared—
Agaliarept, the Henchman was near,
The Hyena looked up, saw them standing
He shouted (face burnt like coal),
Maggots crawling from head to toe,
As he leaped from the dark—
The demon severed his head,
Placing it upon Agaliarept;
As his lower body turned into clay.
The Prized—Hyena
[Part III]
His head was now hollow
His cheeks were ravaged,
His eyes frozen, burnt black
His crooked teeth, yellow
His facial muscles pained
With anguish—
Agaliarept had many heads:
The bear, lion and leopard;
But the hyena was the prize.
“The god’s of Hell envy me,”
He cried—(unsleeping-undying
Demigods, shadow-gods).
“This is the way of the underworld,
Death drags all away,” he whispered,
Whispered to the pile of clay.
#369/10-16-04
∆
Afterward by the Author: “We find in history new and current trends in most everything we do/or what is done, being done: art, the style of singing, or dancing, movie making, and poetry is no different. I’d say James Joyce was a better poet than a novelist, as was Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas, Clark A. Smith, Robert Howard [of the Conan Series], to mention a few writers. I would say that with respect, not to devalue their other works—for truths sake, for as Howard had stressed: he would have starved to death had he strictly wrote poetry which was in his heart, and which he had over fifty-books in his home, and Smith who wrote for “Weird Tales,” magazine, wrote over 700-poems also would have starved. But they were great poets who could take a part of their life—and mold it into a poem (every poem is a story in itself if you look for it). There are very few poets left in the world today worth their salt; Phillip Ellis is a natural poet [Australian], born to be one, and worth his salt. Pablo Neruda, whose house I visited in Santiago, Chile I visited was worth his salt. To me, all poetry must have its own intrinsic logic, and a handle to grab it with; be it free-verse, or Epic, or near-rhyme, new ways or old ways. In essence, you must create its form with the poem: that is, as if the poem itself was the second-self in participation, if that makes sense. In this new book of poetry I have tried to favor more of the modern style poetry, with old style guts—if that makes sense, on the dark side of the moon.”
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]
She fought a good battle,
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where at once 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.
Dlsiluk 7/03
Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com You can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers
About the Author’s Books
A new and different book on the menu: “After Eve,” will be published soon; if not already. Says the author: “This story will bring you deep into it: make you live it…” it transcends Evolution and Creationism to form a unique relationship with humanity. Beyond the myths of this world, resides pieces of truth, thus, forming this story, where boundaries are marked by no one. The author conjures up a gallant saga—science-fiction: where the ‘Garden of Eve,’ is in decay, and the inhabitants of the world are forming a New World Order.
[From the book, ‘Death on Demand,’ by Mr. Siluk]: says author E.J. Soltermann—Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War, “The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” In a like manner, “After Eve,” holds the same truths.
Mr. Siluk, being a world traveler, a lover of the mysteries around the world, has visited many World Heritage Sites; recently, he visited the most remote island in the world, ‘Easter Island,’ where Kevin Costner made his movie: “Rapa Nui,” there he stands, the author, with Charlie Love, Geologist, Archeologist; and Grant McColl, Anthropologist, June, 2002. The author felt this would be a most befitting picture for such an intriguing story.
Tales of the Tiamat: This is a trilogy, consisting of “The Tiamat, Mother of Demon,” the second book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat,” and the third, “Revenge of the Tiamat”. All three are full of adventures and travels by Sinned, the main character of the three novels, as is the Tiamat involved, yet we see many other antagonists along side of her. The series takes you to Malta, Easter Island, ancient England, and Avalon, where the Tor is being built, Asia Minor, where Yort is, Sinned’s home, and a half dozen other places. In addition to the main story of each of these three books, which is being put into one, in the “Tales of the Tiamat,” a fourth book was added, called “The Tiamat and the King,” on which is the “Short book,” added into the series, it is really the conclusion to the trilogy never put into the book. It was, for the most part, written during the same period of time the three were, and revised recently. It will be put into both the “Tales of the Tiamat,” if this book ever comes out, and has been put into the book, “Death by Desire,” again, if that book is ever published.
The Chick Evens Sketches: In this trilogy, we have sketches of life that incorporate the late 60’s to the early 70’s; the hippie generation, the new era, the awakening of Aquarius, the peace era, it has been called many things. In his first book, his sketches, take you on a romance of a city and era, the book being called: “Romancing San Francisco” [l968-69], he introduces us to karate’s famous Yamaguchi family, to include Gosei, and his father Gogen “The Cat”; along with the famous Adolph Shuman, the once owner of the line of Lilli Ann cloths, along with other sketches. In the other two books, “A Romance in Augsburg,” and “Where the Birds don’t Sing,” the sketches start where the first book left off, from l969 to l970 and to Vietnam in l971. Here you go to Europe for a Romance with a Jewish German girl, and on to Vietnam where there is a war going on. Mr. Evens will also end up in Sydney, for one week of some great adventures, what the Army called back then R&R; Mr. Siluk spent 11-years in the Army, being a Staff Sergeant when he was discharged, and has lived all three books.
Short Story Collection [s]: these two books, of which [Volume one and two] are similar, being out Suspense beyond its normal doors: to the thriller platform: “Death on Demand,” of which there are seven stories, and “Dracula’s Ghost” of which are nine stories.
Spiritual: The Author has some strong religious and spiritual views. Having studied and done graduate work in theology, and missionary work in the mountains of Haiti, and being at an earlier age an Ordained Minister, his two books, “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,” being his first book in this genre, talks about experiences of the early eighties, where he had visions concerning end time events that are coming to pass right this very moment. In his second book, “Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib,” he talks about the ongoing subject of terrorism on America, and the world as a whole, but in a different manner; instead of trying to figure out the mind of the Islamic-Arab, he looks at this god, enmeshed with Islam today.
Addiction: As of this writing [August, 2003], Mr. Siluk is still a licensed Counselor in good standing with the State of Minnesota. He has also held international licenses in Drug’s and Alcohol, and has worked for hospitals and clinics in dual disorder facilities. In his book, “A Path to Sobriety, the Inside Passage,” which is a common sense book on understanding alcoholism and addiction, the book is an ultimate guide to substance abuse, a powerhouse for preventing relapse and curing the disease. This book, out of 7,683 Addiction book at Barnes and Nobel, was #28, on 13 October, 2003. The book you are now holding in your hands called “Prevention…” is his follow up book [companion] to his “Path to Sobriety…” on addictions. Which he was not going to release depending on the need for it; but after the death of his mother, who helped him during his early stages of recovery, has chosen to finish it, and now release it. As in everything in life, school, the Army, training etc, you need a book to learn from, and one to practice with. This is the practice book, the hands on book you might call it, “A Path to Relapse Prevention.” He is also, half way done with a book on “Aftercare…” which if published, would be his final book in the Chemical Dependency area, and series.
Travels: Mr. Siluk has travel, or has been traveling I should say for some 37-years out of his 55 ½ years of his life to this date. He has traveled 24 ½ times around the world. And in most of his books you can see, and feel and almost taste this [to be more exact, he has 613,000-air miles, not to include ground miles]. In his book, “Chasing the Sun,” he takes you to a variety of places, by showing you some forty-pictures, --giving you an overall view of his story on how he got started. Each picture has its own caption, and is read for ‘a want to be traveler’, or one who would like to reminisce.
The Beast Books: I wasn’t sure what to call these three next separated books, so I named them, the “The Beast Books”. For in their own way, they all have their own beast. The first book being, “Mantic ore: Day of the Beasts,” which is the author’s favorite of the three, you step into the demonic underworld. A lot of him is in this book it seems. A touch of Vietnam, a touch of his home town, St. Paul, Minnesota, and the invisible shadows that change shapes into animals and human forms; visions upon visions. In the second book, the “The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury, 1199 AD,” which is also in a revised version, in the book “Death by Demand,” you are involved with a suspenseful story of revenge, and at the end of the book is a nice surprise, another story. And for the third beastly book, “Angelic renegades & Rephaim Giants,” you get just that, no more, no less. It is a book on the ancient dictators of the world, the ones who have cursed God, to have man worship them; for the most part is it sketches, impressions, and glimpses of this world.
Out of Print book: For the curious reader; although they are out of print, the author has a few left in storage. “The Other Door,” was his first book published, in l981, a book on poetry. It is a Volume one, of which he is working on volume two, yes, 22-years in the making. This book is so scarce that only 25-copies are left, at a price you most likely you would not want to pay. Second, is the authors 2nd book, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” which got much attention in the year, l982, although it did not get a Pulitzer Prize, it was an entry, and considered. At present the author is considering a 4th printing, and revised edition. He does have a number of copies available for interested people [a limited number]. And the book “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life,” that is more of a chap book that came out in l984 as a trial run. Only 100-copies were ever printed, of which one of the stories were printed in the, “Little Peoples Press,” and then the book was pulled back for personal reasons, and off the market by the author. This very limited book of which there are possible 30-copies left can also be acquired, but again, this overview is more for the inquisitive than for selling these very rare and hard to find books.
