Five Poems

Poems have different cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for certain figurative languageheart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not necessarily know what Poetry is per se, but I do know what the greatness of Poetry has, and great Poetry is close to an illusionit carries an echo I do believefigurative yes, at best, an d questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've recently wrote, all with a different core, focus and style.

1) The Beehive [Poetic cut-ups

[Paper USA Today, 75 cents, March 18, 20, 2005: it was acceptable in the l980sas a cup of coffeewhat I will not do is participate...to be clear, I have never taken illegal drugsIn my 19 years in the big leagueAround the World in 8, days.McGuire said repeatedlyrecent spat of vehicle accidents in IraqRice Reaches OutQuest for FameJules Verne 100th anniversaryPeterson to San QuentinJacksons young guestsStun guns

[Sound In the background of the caf-bookstore, I hear the music of Nat King Cole: we are not too young to know Now I hear trousers hitting legsDishes in the dishwasher [caf a laugh, I think its Erica behind the caf countersquealing of galoshesa cough in the background .

[Sight Three girls went to the counterlady beside me writingMichelle came up to my table, talking about her boyfriendMar k waved goodbye for the day, just left his music arealady in the front of me whisperinglarge woman with a thin sport jacket on at the front ordering food, talking to the servers (some food to go I think) .

[Dreams Voices that let you roam at your will, but to receive the voices one must stop all the echoes, shadows, aggravationsfind silence. The subconscious can hear ever operation going on. I am like all warm blooded mammals: we all dream: bats, bears and beastslike humankind. Dreams are the keys to keeping the heart beat, beating; stop the dreaming, you stop everything. Last night I dreamed of writing this poem.

[Epilogue The mind, the mind, the mind: papers, sounds, sights and dreamscome in and out from all sides of me: day and night, and night and night and day, every which way. From all sides of me, like a movie; computer, filing, filing them all away, for what you say?

2) Old Charlie Edwards

Old Charlie Edwards had an office About o ne and a half miles from town Most cars that came by youd know why He owned all the real estate In town He never smoked cigarettes Nor drank alcohol He never gambled with his money From what, most folks can recall, during his formative years And until his High School Prom Hed play Monopoly year round And whip everyone Fine, as you may foretell He made his money just that way It was like playing chess, hed say And hed never rest, play all day And owned half the town Well, Old Charlie Edwards Office Was always in the white Until the towns committee Voted to build an interstate Just to spite Old Charlie and his ways Yes, Charlie had to move From that old spot As you may have guessed And thereafter, Charlie sold all His real estate After that, all the towns folks Ran to his office to look around As if he may have left some treasure Laying about But Old Charlie Edwards Simply moved out of town Laughing and Giggling Buying more real estate in St. Paul!

3)

The Last Second

Angels come (sometimes) within arms reach but dare not touch the hearts beat; beyond its sacred melody for your sake!...

4)

Sid M. [l966

Long forgotten is my friend Forty-year ago this spring He died when he was twenty, And I was but nineteen.

I see us in our High School Halls, With boyish hopes and dreams; His face was always high-brow But he never looked down on me.

To him who died so very young, And now, so very long ago In memory, unsought, I say: I have never forgotten you!

5)

The Scent of Paris

Calm as a Parisrivers afternoon Warm in the month of June And filled with spirits, crimson people, Pervaded with a scent that could lead Ones illusional dreamsto be!

A ghouls cologne haunts my hands As I glimpse the bridges: land to land As I touch the hidden flutes of memory The scent of Pariscomes back to me.

About the author: Mr. Siluk is a world traveler, a lover of the mysteri es 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 its Love, and continues to work on Curse of the Abyss Worm, a suspenseful mystery, and Cold Kindness, a tragic love affair.

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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