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Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door Blind DesignsBorn today, gone tomorrow Like a butterfly with no stomach Born n the morning, dead by night Oh-let me whisper Oh-let me cry What man has not learned? What man will not learn! In his pomposity, his rhetoric With his abstract concepts With his intellect With his creativeness He has become enslaved By-them? By them all, he will fall. Ah! Yes-abstract concepts Bombast and rhetoric His intellect His cleverness This he leaves behind To his decedents!. Thank You To Our Soldiers And A Tribute To Old Glory And A Prayer For Peace Thank youDedicated to soldiers and their loved onesFor those who have laid in fox holes,carried guns,marched for hours.For those who have had cold sleepless nights,endless days of discomfort. Stone Beds [A Poem and an Advance] Stone Beds [Pompeii's surge]Advance: after the great eruption of Pompeii's nearby volcano, Vesuvius, some two-thousand years ago in the heyday of the Roman Empire, what was left of the city were mostly ashes of stone from an unleashing furnace; it is hard to imagine what the people went through (none, not one person survived). I can only guess from the looks of the city today, and in its early excavations, its people were baked alive or asleep, like pottery. Eds Poem Ed Gallagher Dec. 11, 1907 - Sept. Poetry in Turbulence To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind. Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems] Grandpa's House [The ole Real House]The house needed painting Sun-blistered and flaking Grandpa started to have us Boys-Mike and I- start Doing some scraping-While he, pealed off the ole Paint, and started painting?Just a humble wooden house With several rooms, but Strong enough to keep the Winds and winter snows out, How he loved that ole house!.. I Shall Wait... I Shall Wait.. The Gaul of La Laguna de Paca Part OneI tell you a legend of long ago Of the sunken city of La Laguna de Paca, (Where I had met a lingering ghost) Within this region of Huancayo--Peru; Truth lies, but only the soul knows.Part TwoSo the legend goes, of long ago: During the rising of the full moon The Mermaid of La Laguna de Paca, appears And to the nearby towns folks, she echoes. Since Youve Been Gone... My life has changedin so so many waysIt seems to always bein a state of disarray.. The Merchant of Copan [In English and Spanish] English VersionThe Merchant of Copan [480 AD]Advance: The ballgame at the Honduras courtyard in Copan, the year was 480 AD, Copan's 3rd ruler, Mat Head, whom succeeded Quetzal Macaw, whom was the founder of the city is now the new ruler. Mat Head, was a female, the spouse of Quetzal Macaw, and here is where the story begins. The Power of Eating Disorders I want to get closeI am afraid.Afraid of what you might see. Anne Bradstreet, To My Dear and Loving Husband, A Discussion "To My Dear and Loving Husband" was written by America's first female poet, the Puritan, Anne Bradstreet. In fact, Anne Bradstreet is one of only a handful of female American poets during the first 200 years of America's history. Tale of the Brick Maker, of San Jeronimo, Peru [In English and Spanish] Tale of the Brick Maker, Of San Jernimo, Peru [A Cup of Sorrow]-1In the Andean mountains, within theMantaro Valley region of Peru, Isolated, secluded, tranquil, is the littlevillage of San Jernimo. Near the village, here lay the fertile valleywith bent-grass, and huge Mountains stretching northbound,And heading towards the ocean's coast. Lamenting Poetic Moods [six Poems] Advance: in Mr. Siluk's poetry one finds symbolist values, sensuous impressions; verbal magic and even childish jingles; at times the popular 8-syllable verse (ballad metre). Spell of the Andes: (in English and Spanish) Note: written 4-15-05, while driving through the Andes of Peru, from Huancayo to Lima. I sensed I was but an ant, among the mass of stone, earth and foliage of this enchanting, and enduring landscape. Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English] Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt 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. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting against life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her slender body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, thinking with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead before her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was unafraid of falling. Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish] English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you, Because everything dead has twoSides; A sound is one arm of the quiet, Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating you To begin life again And never to stop hating you: That is why I do not hate you yet. Why I enjoy Writing? During interviews and general conversations with the public,one of the most difficult questions for me to answer(timely and thoroughly) is,"Why do you enjoy writing"?So due to the challenge manifested in such a question,I pondered on creating an answer. Many reasons came to mind,but after digesting much"time for thought",I managed to condense my response to three items. Little Girl from Huancayo [a poem/in English and Spanish] Little girl from HuancayoDo you really, really know? Just how fast those feet will grow,On the streets of Huancayo.Little girl with jumping jacksOn the street, looking back; Back to see whose watching her,A little boy with a bird. Three Poems and Paradise Lost [One for Hell, One for Heaven one for an Inca King] The Torrents of HellHell's furnace- Likened to a chimney Vomits her torrents Of flames- Into the air Through earths crust And the earth's trembles-!Agitated, she projects A thick curtain of smoke To heat the feet of those Who provoke her every wish. Like molten iron She waits for the soul(the moment) Then molds, into her enclosure Human serpents? Out of savage flesh!No storm, no struggle No eruption, no typhoon, Just a terrible phenomenon, Hell is capable of producing; And upon death, Back into the Abyss They melt!.
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