HOME | POLITICS | SPORTS | LIFE | SCI/TECH | OPEDS | HELPFUL TIPS
|
Mar. 31, 2005 Advance: The following two poems deal with real life [published in a recent magazine]; one that came by way of a dream, the other by way of a situation...as in most poetry, it comes from some source; thus, it is wise to cultivate such resources, to insure you are alert to them, that is where poetry resides, where you can gather it like eggs, I do believe; lest you forget the experience, and end up with nil. Cross-wind [One woman too many] There was a man, and he was wise; unhappily Wise was he; He was old, but not too old, yet his years all told Were sixty? And he knew by heart, from end to start, the Pain of love, and tragedy. And though he knew he loved her so and set Her on love’s throne; And ‘tis not shrewd to love two women, and this all Women knew. Lest you be left (as many have) wounded with woe And alone. Unloved he felt, unloved he died, unpitied, and Not satisfied; For life was not the thing he thought, nor the The thing we plan; And women in a harsh world must do—do the best They can— Thus, destiny has written a calamity; its name is ‘Love not meant to be;’ The theatre, is the House of Love, where women play The stinting part; and The Devil plays the Human Heart, while sitting in The Curer’s box!... The Potato Patch [A Poetic Dream] My Grandfather, an Old Stern Russian Helped my mother raise, my brother and I We all grew up together—back then In the Midwest, where the sky is high We had a third of an archer for a backyard With flowers, trees, pushes—grapevines! Grandpa would care for them dearly, —as if, if they were so precious, divine—; Well, he’s been dead now, some thirty-years And I still get dreams as if he was here —still get dreams—: there, in the backyard. Still think about them formative years. Last night I had noticed he was watering— Excessively watering the backyard With a Grandiose irrigation system That only a dream could produce; I walked out of the front screened-in door To take a look, check it out; He didn’t look at me much, nor even speak A word: he seldom in real life… —thus, my dream was no different. He had no time—for nurturing people But somehow he allowed us three Under his winds, with all his insensitivity. I walked up the inclining hill, in my dream Checking out his irrigation system The fancy one he had built it seems It led back too my potato patch… Way back by the garden’s fence… Which seldom water got to; The trees blocking the sun and rain And the wind—not able to seep in But here, the irrigation system went Right into my potato patch As I looked about its creativeness, I broke a supporting dam… Hence, like a spout, water gushed out: About to drown, my potato patch, Drown them completely out— But I quickly mended it… I got to thinking, after this dream Perhaps, He built it purposely this way— Thinking of those little potatoes Down under the ground—and perhaps Me, how I’d be, if they drowned. ------------ About the author: Mr. Siluk is a world traveler, a lover of the mysteries around the world, and has visit many World Heritage Sites, his most recent being Easter Island, the Galapagos and Mesa Verde. His books can be seen on/at Barns and Noble.com, Amazon.com, Wal-Mart, Abe.com Alibis, Boarders and several other sites and book stores. Many of his books can be purchased through the English Bookdealers. He spends his time between Lima, Peru and St. Paul, Minnesota, and has just finished working on two new books: "The Macabre Poems,” and “Perhaps it’s Love,” and continues to work on "Curse of the Abyss Worm,” a suspenseful mystery, and “Cold Kindness,” a tragic love affair. Visit http://dennissiluk.tripod.com Email: dlsiluk@msn.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
