Monday, April 30, 2012

In Praise of 'If'

Have you ever read the inspirational, Motivational poem written by Nobel Laureate Rudyard Kipling?

Do you want to know who can be called as a Leader, a Man? At the time of depression, do you want to know how to react to the events ? After spending quite a number of years, with all your energy, suddenly a failure occurs, for no fault of yours. You may be a victim of the circumstances. How the entire world evaluate you at that particular moment? Where are your friends at that fateful moment?

Who ever shared your wealth, are they supporting you at your adversity? What to do, then? Do you know what you should do at the time of failure? For many more such questions, you may find the right answers in If If you have not read the beautiful poem, for your ready reference, it is given bel ow:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word abou t your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: Hold on;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling turned down many honours offered to him including a knighthood, Poet Laureate and the Order of Merit, but in 1907 he accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature. And he is ever remembered for his poem If.

Now contemplate on the mottos of your life. You can carry a copy of the poem in your wallet or you can copy it in the first page of your person al diary so that whenever you are depressed you can read it. More so whenever you have leisure time you can read and memorize it.

A boy fell on the ground while he was playing. He looked at his mom painfully. She cheerfully said to his son, Rise my boy, with a handful of sand. Gain something whenever you fall! The boy understood the lesson.

Failure is not a failure till you accept it and quit the ground. Every fall is to rise again with some gain!

S.Nagarajan is a vehicle body engineer by profession. He has written more than 1300 articles in 16 magazines and published 18 books so far. He is revealing Eastern Secret Wisdom through T.V.Programmes, magazine articles, seminars, courses. His email address is : snagarajans@gmail.com


Author:: Santhanam Nagarajan
Keywords:: Rudyard Kipling, poem If, Motivational, failure is not final, every fall , to rise again with a gain
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How To Write Poetry

If you want to know how to write Poetry, the first thing you have to do is write some. It doesn't matter how it turns out. Your own mistakes will become your teachers. Your own writing will motivate you to greater creativity. Now, once you start the process, how do you improve it? Here are three tips.

1. Use nouns and verbs more than adjectives. Which is stronger: She was as beautiful as a flower... or Roses wilted in shame as she passed by...? He looked at the depressing clouds... or He watched as dark clouds moved in, covering his sky...?

2. Don't tell the reader how to feel. Let the words elicit the emotions directly, without explaining. The tragedy touched them all, is more touching to the reader as Men and women, doctor and workman... thirteen people looked upon the scene... with tears in their eyes.

3. Use dramatic and emotional words. Not all words are equal in their ability to grab a reader or elicit emotion. Fell, take, and love, will probably be weaker than plunged, siezed, and worship.

Look at the following lines, written two ways. The second way applies the three rules above. (From the poem Gratitude.)

1.

The mountains and lakes were beautiful

I looked at them, heard them and smelled them

And I felt in awe

2.

Mountains stand against the sky

My little lake at their feet

And in the middle of this creation

Which I see with my eyes

Hear with my ears

Smell and taste...

Words fail, as they should

I hope you agree that the second version is better. Again, if you want to know how to write Poetry, you have to start writing. Use these and other rules to help you, but remember that all rules in Poetry need to be broken at times. Read your Poems aloud to yourself and others as a final test.

Steve Gillman has been playing with Poetry for thirty years. He and his wife Ana created the game Deal-A-Poem, which can be accessed for free at: http://www.dealapoem.com


Author:: Steven Gillman
Keywords:: how to write Poetry,Poetry,Poems
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The Ass Poem & Bums from Another Planet

When Dennis showed me this poem at the Cafe bookstore, I couldn't stop laughing, I think everyone in the place were looking at me. It is very funny. The Planet poem is also got a little funnyness to it. Rosa

The Ass Poem
[For mature people only, over thirty

The name of this poem I know
is a little disgusting
but men have this thing
and we all know about it,
and its an international past time,
thing!! called ass watching.

One could say, the eyes of men
and a womans ass, are very
good friends: yes indeed
(I wonder if women know this?)

anyhow, the way it works is
something like this: there isnt
really anything the women have to
do out of the ordinary, except,
put it on display, and walk;
she neednt even talk;
can even look stupid
if she wants (to).

The eyes of the men will do all
the work, perhaps
you will even capture.
It is a fun sport, that young and
old alike can do, and if the woman
doesnt like it, or wishes to avert
such ugly attention, she need only
put back on the skirt.

#1220 2/18/06 Dedicated to all those curves out there.

Bums from another Planet

You know the earth is a fresh new planet
so why worry about anything!
Ah! yes, so true I said, bemused.

I wondered then who had lived on those old
Dusty, washed out planets in the un-mended
Universe (of long ago),
If they hadlike meholes in their socks, some
Left over scotch and knobby knees!

#1223 2/18/06

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Miss Lucy

We lived in Kalispell, Montana when
I was a young child. We were poor dirt farmers.
Daddy built us a house in the field behind
my Grammys ranch. It seemed we were rootless,
Daddy taking us somewhere, getting
disillusioned and taking us someplace else.
One day in town, at the Piggly Wiggly, I saw a man
with a humped back. My Mama meted out lessons with
a hand to the back of the head.
I wasnt staring, Mama, I tried to placate.
The man came over and introduced himself as
Buzz Walters. He offered me a penny for
candy and said to my Mama, Maam, she was just
curious, and Im well used to that.
Hate to think you punished her on my account.
Seems like a nice little girl.
My Daddy walked up just then shone his hate
filled eyes on Buzz. Daddy was the jealous type.
The men shook hands and Buzz got my daddy to
talking. Told him to come by the shop anytime.
The shop was a second-hand store
on mai n street, which was the only street we had.
As he was wont to do, Daddy grew restless living
seven miles from the town. Buzz bought our house
for a bit of cash and a line of credit at the shop.
I Loved the shop. It had dark corners, bicycles on
the wall and high in the rafters were birds nests
and the mansions of spiders. Buzz moved our house
into town and squatted it on some empty land behind
his house. Now we rented what we had owned.
A few feet from the back door, ran a creek that ran
for miles. I trapped frogs to live in a box
next to my pallet in the earthen cellar.
Buzz and his mother, Miss Lucy,
lived in a tall, angled house with a crooked roof,
just up the road from us. Miss Lucy was tetched.
She nearly burned the house down three or fou r times.
She threw her soiled drawers out the second story window.
Once she gave me two beautiful, gauzy dresses so I could
play dress-up.
The town wondered why Buzz kept the difficult old woman
in his home. I knew why. From my cellar window I could
see the screened-in back porch of their house. Every night
they sat together, and Miss Lucy stroked her sons
humped back and kissed his work-worn cheeks.

Sherry Asbury worked in geriatrics for many years. Now she draws on her own Aging for stories that explain basic facts in a human way.


Author:: Sherry Asbury
Keywords:: Aging, Acceptance, Differences, Love
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The Undescribable Sensation

An indescribable Sensation
streaming through my body
a Sensation of pain
a Sensation of sadness,
It is a mix of many emotions
It is causing great commotion

It is become chaotic
It is like a tornado
Or something fierce
It is an indescribable Sensation

The Sensation is strong
Like fireworks in my mind,
causing crackling in my mind
the explosion almost more
intense than I can handle

It is like a Fearsome mouth of fire is in me
A monstrous being
Trapped in my very body

This creature is in me
In the very thing that keeps me alive
in my very own body
This thing this, is intimidating

With such drama accruing
My mind has begun to have sudden convulsions,
The Trauma will be permanent
It is causing me to be antagonized buy anxiety

I ask myself is this possible
Is this really happening
Can it be true
Am I dreaming

I have an indescribable Sensation
The Sensation of longing
The Sensation of need
The Sensation that should not be
The Sensation that only causes more pain

I feel I have been framed
Framed of a horrendous crime
Something unforgivable
Something that I am not able to handle
There for causing this Traumatic Sensation

An Undescribable Sensation
one that is not meant for any human to experience
one that was never meant to be felt or known of
I can not take it on I am no match for it
it shale termanate me

This indescribable Sensation,
shall certainly terminate me
and all that shall be left is silence,
silence and darkness

I am big on philosophy and I am a big fan of Nietzsches work. I also fins that Marilyn Manson (Brian Werner) has some very good philosophys (although controversal and he is not thecnically a philosopher but of course neither am I) I also enjoy many other philosophers and I am considering a carrer with something to do with philosophy and or writeing. I am a very dramatic person and like anything to do with drama, including theater. I also like photography!


Author:: Andrew Randazzo
Keywords:: Poem, Poetry, Hate, Fear, Misery, Undescribable, Sensation, Trauma, Poet
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Sunday, April 29, 2012

Ghandi the Great Liberator

Ghandi the great
Inferiority found no place in you
By passive resistance
Non-cooperation
Civil disobedience
Holding to the higher law
The sanctity of human life
The dignity of the individual
Honoring the teachings of Jesus
Truth and Firmness
Inward strength
Outward humility
Overthrowing the cast system
Respecting each persons dignity
Fighting for equality
Obtaining governmental concessions
For Indians in South Africa
You gained recognition
Abolishing the poll tax
Perseveringly never regressing
Continually pressing
Arranging demonstrations
Opposing colonial masters
Controlling your country
Indians in public office governmentally
Resigned and boycotted
Children were removed
From British run school s
Indians sat and blocked the streets
Not cowering
To the beatings of British police
Soon Ghandi from prison was released
The revolutionary and leader
Would not be appeased
Peaceably resisting
Without violence
Though the British massacred Indians
At Amritsar, Punjab mercilessly
You continued fearlessly
Bringing reforms throughout society
Independence economically
Self-rulership a necessity
To lift your people
Out of poverty
The international symbol
Of a free India
Ghandi the beloved liberator
You remained ever so humble
Dressing in the lowliest Indian garments
Surviving on vegetables, fruit, and milk
Your didnt require costly silk
Revered by your people as a saint
Mahatma (great-souled) Ghandi
You enlightened the world to see
That we can truly live peaceably
Refrain from hostility
Advocate our causes passionately
Always embrace purity
Love all mankind w holeheartedly
Such a life of serving humanity
Brought you executive authority
To promote righteousness
Throughout your beloved country
Propagating communal unity
Concern and charity
Denying yourself when need be
To display public disapproval
That freedom might come to the oppressed
Undertaking a fast unto death
As your heart burned for justice
To improve the status of the Untouchables
You dedicated yourself to eradicate
The injustices of the caste system
Primarily untouchability
Your fasts forced reforms
Modified autocratic rules
Intervened politically repeatedly
Putting all on hold
Until your approval was told
Rejecting compromises
You did not sell your soul
Settling not for partial victories
You sought the whole
Complete liberation
Independence of your homeland
Ghandi youre a brave man
Sincere and strong
Steadfastly opposing
The partitioning of India
Pursuing internal peace
Between Muslims and Hindus
A religious fanatic
Preferring war
Foolishly killed you
Obviously unaware
Of what your death would do
Bringing peace betwee
India and Pakistan
Nevertheless your death Ghandi
Was an international catastrophe
Yet a platform it prepared for thee
To inspire nonviolent movements
And peaceful activism globally
Therefore let the Truth
March on peacefully!

Paul is a popular worldwide keynote speaker, mediator, peace-maker conquering conflicts, creative consultant, minister, liberator and dream-maker.

Paul's compassion for people & passion to travel has taken him to over 50 countries of the world where he has had a tremendous impact. Paul has served in many war-torn, impoverished and tsunami stricken regions of the earth.

Paul has traveled throughout India, having visited the country 5 times and lived there 9 months. His organization Dream-Maker Inc. is b uilding dreams, breaking limitations and reviving nations. Paul's teachings touch, transcend barriers that divide and transform individuals and organizations.

Paul's Breakthrough Seminars inspire, revive, awaken, impregnate with purpose, impart the fire of desire, catapult people into a new level of self-awareness, facilitate destiny discovery and dream fulfillment.

Contact Paul to minister, speak at your event or for life coaching: RevivingNations@yahoo.com 407-284-1705, 407-967-7553.

For additional info: http://www.DreamMakerMinistries.com, http://www.CreativeCommunications.TV


Author:: Paul Davis
Keywords:: Ghandi the Great Liberator,peaceful activism,nonviolent resistance,civil disobedience,Truth,Firmness
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The Dream Date

The first day i met you Your smile hit me like a whirlwind And left me breathless Your eyes were wet with passionate compassion Full of love, care and concern I was transfixed and enchanted by it Never had i seen so much tenderness When you spoke, the words came tumbling Out of slightly parted lips; The words were sonorous, like a musical note Or an orchestrated tone I took in your pulchritude and well endowed body Slowly making sure i did not miss the smallest detail Of God's wonderful creation

That did the magic I was thrown into a fantasy A dream of having you close; Of staring into your eyes and Tracing your lips with my finger Of whispering sweet words into your ears Telling you how much i need you The feeling grew intense with each passing day Until The fantasy became a nightmare A wonderful nightmare that lives with me Went everywhere with me and Refused to go away no matter how hard i tried

As i write I do so because i cannot Keep the feeling to myself alone I need to share it with you And with everyone who cares to listen Maybe this will help make my fantasy A reality A reality capped with beautiful scenes of love Your image will always haunt me Just like your charm has weakened my will-power And made me a prisoner of circumstance My shackles would only be broken if you become mine Because you will forever live in my heart of hearts

I am a Nigerian and an avid reader who also take great pleasure in putting pen to paper. I believe that with the right expression of words written with my pen people could change for the better and correct or curb some ills eating deep into our system of government or life in general. Poverty and corruption have always being Africa's most dreaded diseases and Nigeria is no exception. I write fiction and non-fiction and also write Articles on any subject, especially that concerning the well-being of the poor masses. I wish to be an acclaimed writer and author and a motivatio nal speaker.


Author:: Kevin Madu
Keywords:: article submission, Articles, Writers, Writing, Publishing, Ezine, Email marketing, Email newsletter, Email
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The Spirits de Copan

Part one

I see them in the skies
I hear them in their hells
They whisper and they moan

And never are alone The Spirits and the Ghouls
The Spirits de Copan!

They are shadows in my world
Echoes in my dreams
A mystery and a force
To a cosmic happening!
The Spirits and the Ghouls
The Spirits de Copan!...

Part Two
(Hiding Spirits)

These spirits hide in ancient stones
With glaring eyes:
Of humans and animals;

In ebbing shadows
Passing the moon;
By treesand passing clouds
Of macabre gloom
In the winds
Outside windows!

They are no mans friend
The spirits and the Ghouls
The Spirits de Copan!...

Part Three

The spirits de Copan (have):
Long ears, with rabbit feet
Jaguar arms secrets.

These were the kings
The Maya kings, (now)
The Spirits of Copan!...

Part Four
(Maya Kings)

Smoke Rabbit
18-Rabbit
Smoke Shell< br> Dawn
Mo!
All carved on Stelaes
Hieroglyphic stones
For legends now told
Of Maya kings who ruled.

Part Five
(My Moment)

In the Great Plaza
By the Acropolis of Copan,

A spirit, let known (In its trembling vacuum):
Leave us in peace!
Leave us along!
Weve been here
For two-thousand years
In the Valley of Copan!

As I looked towards

The imposing palaces
I replied
(Listening to the nearby
Birds chipperknowing
All that was left is peace
And a hopeful redemption)
Let there be no more
Resistancelet peace be
As you please!...

And I walked away
Out of the Copan Valley!....

Note: written while visiting the Copan Valley, and site, in Honduras, Written between 4-24/25-2005, #630.

Author Dennis Siluk, is traveling presently in Honduras, and just left the Copan Valley, and is in San Pedro de Sula, on his way back to Lima, Peru. He was much inspired by the Copan area. Rosa Pealoza


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Poetry Contests

A simple expression or communication may convey the required message, but may not make lasting impressions or bring us closer to people. We pass through many situations in our life where we find it necessary to honor, acknowledge and pay tribute to our near and dear ones. A brief note of greeting would be short lived and may not make expressions memorable. To make one feel the power of human bond in a relational sense, we need to change literary style of our articulation. Poetry is the ideal way to do so. But, again, not every human is bestowed with this talent.

Great people lived on this earth and are remembered for their excellent contributions to the varied fields of studies pertaining to mankind. These include mathematicians, scientists, economists, sociologists, philosophers, writers, and many more. Poetry remains one area that held a very few in the past as well as in the present. It is one of the difficult arts to master. It may not be exaggerating to say that poets are born, not made.

In the changing times, where day-to-day communication is getting more simplified, shortened and systematized, efforts to inculcate interest in classic literature or poetry is tedious. Contests on poetry would help locate the talent, bring forth the eloquent pieces, and categorically group them into meaningful collections. Later, these workings can be accessed and used by many in special occasions. The talented would also get the recognition through submission of their relics and get rewards.

Poetry is linguistic creativity, produced for inspiration. Like any other artifacts, it has to be brought into the public. Otherwise, it has no significance.

Contests provides detailed information on Contests, Poetry Contests, Writing Contests, Photo Contests and more. Contests is affiliated with Cash Sweepstakes.


Author:: Jennifer Bailey
Keywords:: Contests, Poetry Contests, Writing Contests, Photo Contests
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Leigh Hunt Friend of Keats Byron and Shelley and Author of "Jenny Kissed Me"

James Henry Leigh Hunt was a 19th century essayist, critic, Poet, and publisher. Many English Poets and writers were contemporaries of Leigh Hunt, including John Keats, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Samuel Coleridge, William Wordsworth, Charles Dickens, Thomas Carlyle, Jeremy Bentham, and Charles Darwin. Keats, Byron, and Shelley were personal friends who benefited from Hunts graciousness. Such great company has given Leigh Hunt a distinguished status.

During Hunts lifetime England engaged in the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 with America, and the 23 year period of the Napoleonic Wars with France. During Hunts lifetime the French Revolution occurred and Napoleon became Emperor of France. Later in his lifetime, steam engines created an industrial revolution, and Darwin sailed to the Galapagos Islands and reported his findings. During a three year period Hunts friends and supporters, Keats, Shelley, and Byron all died at young ages.

Young Leigh Hunt

Leigh Hunt was born into a poor family near London in 1784 and attended school in London at Christs Hospital, a school founded 240 years earlier for the education of poor children. Following his schooling, Hunt took a job as a clerk in the war office.

In 1805 Hunt partnered with his older brother, John, a printer, to establish a newspaper called The News. Three years later the brothers abandoned the newspaper and created a political weekly that established their liberal reputation called the Examiner. Among other topics, the Examiner called for many reforms in Parliament, criticized King George III, and supported the abolition of slavery.

The power of journalism came of age during this period of English history with the publishing of numerous critical newspapers which collectively became known as the radical press. Consequently, the government became very busy, though mostly unsuccessfully, prosecuting the radical press for seditious libel.

I n 1812 the Hunts wrote an article in the Examiner that called the Prince Regent, the future King George IV, a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps. As a result, John and Leigh Hunt were convicted by a jury of libel and sentenced to two years in prison.

Though he continued to write for the Examiner while in prison, Leigh Hunts misery during his separation from his family convinced him to turn away from political writing and to focus on literary writing.

Shelley and Keats

Shortly after being released from prison, Leigh Hunt moved into what would become his favorite house in Hampstead where he was able to spend precious time with his wife and three children and with his literary friends. Among those friends who stayed with Hunt for periods of time in his Hampstead house were Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats.

Hunt had earlier introduced the world to the w ritings of Keats and Shelley in the pages of the Examiner. His section on Young Poets gave Keats and Shelley access to valuable space where some of their first works were published.

Keats welcomed Hunts tutelage for about a year. He broke away from Hunt when a critic labeled Hunt and Keats as members of The Cockney School of Poetry.

In 1818 Shelley and his family decided to move to Italy for health and financial reasons. His friend, Lord Byron, was living in Italy at the time and the two corresponded for several years while each lived in different parts of Italy.

In 1821, when Shelley and Byron were both living in Pisa, Shelley envisioned a new magazine called The Liberal, which Shelley, Byron, and friend, Leigh Hunt, would publish in Italy. Shelley sent money and an invitation to Hunt and promised to provide a house and income for Hunt and his large family.

Hunt liked the prospect of joining Shelley and Byron in Italy and took his family to Genoa and then to Leghorn to meet Shelley. After their meeting Hunt and his family went to Pisa to join Byron, and Shelley set sail in his boat, the Don Juan, for his home up the coast at Casa Magni.

Shelleys boat was caught in a thunderstorm and sank. Shelleys body and his crew washed ashore in Corsica a few days later. Local health laws prohibited the moving of the bodies to Rome or Pisa, so a month later Hunt, Byron, and family members attended a cremation of Shelleys body. After the cremation Hunt ended up in possession of Shelleys heart, which he eventually returned to Shelleys wife, Mary.

Thereafter, Lord Byron lost interest in The Liberal and soon left Italy to take a commanding interest in the civil war unfolding in Greece. Byron died in Greece of respiratory disease and fever in 1824.

Back to England

Hunt and his family were left in Italy without their friends and without an income. Hunt published a few editions of The Liberal, but it lacked heart and soul and failed. Hunt received an advance for literary works and took his family, which now included seven children, back to England.

Shortly after returning from Italy, Hunt moved to Chelsea in London and became neighbor to Poet and author, Thomas Carlyle, at his suggestion. The two became close friends and Hunts Chelsea home, as his Hampstead home had been, was always open to his circle of friends, of which there were many.

One winter Hunt was sick with influenza and absent for so long that when he finally recovered and went to visit the Carlyles, Jane jumped up and kissed him as soon as he appeared at the door. Two days later one of the Hunt servants delivered a note, addressed, From Mr. Hunt to Mrs. Carlyle. It contained the Poem, Jenny Kissed Me.

Hunt was impoverished most of his life. Charles Dickens was instrumental in agitating the government for the grant of a pension to be paid to Englands needy authors. In 1847 Hunt began receivi ng the pension which eased, but did not eliminate, his financial constraints.

The publication of Dickens novel, Bleak House, considered by some critics to be his finest work, though certainly not his most popular, included a character said to be modeled after Leigh Hunt. The book caused a rift to develop between Dickens and Hunt.

The Bleak House character, Harold Skimpole, was described as airy, improvident and objectionable. Skimpole claimed to be a child when it came to finances and managed to have everyone else pay his way through life.

Though Dickens denied that this was a characterization of Hunt and offered apologies, Hunt and his literary friends were offended.

Leigh Hunt died in 1859 at age 75, well-remembered by his many friends. William Hazlitt, the painter and writer, said that in conversation he is all life and animation, combining the vivacity of the school-boy with the resources of the wit and the taste of the scholar.

********* ***********
Garry Gamber is a public school teacher and entrepreneur. He writes articles about politics, real estate, health and nutrition, and internet dating services. He is the owner of http://www.Anchorage-Homes.com and http://www.TheDatingAdvisor.com.


Author:: Garry Gamber
Keywords:: Jenny Kissed Me, Leigh Hunt, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Dickens, Hunt, Poem, Poet, Hunts, Hunt's
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Saturday, April 28, 2012

Out of a Ghouls Hive (A Poetic Tale)

Out of a Ghouls Hive

They dread redThe King said, As was on every pillar in the kingdom; thus, A certain amount of red appeared (so he said) red, red is where Death occurs.

One pillar she noticed had a light shade Another dark; one pillar was covered With red, the next, very sparse.

Said BrandySome houses are red Yes, ascended the King, And inside of these houses is death (and there were many).

Replied BrandyGhouls of the murdered? Replied the King, And some murderers.

As they talkedthey moved from Shaft to shaft; she never looked Behind her back; she never noticed The Ghouls, where they were at

All hidden in corners like rats, Waiting for a moment to attack; Thus, they paced and combed the floor Talking together they halted at the door A dozen of them awaited her

Brandy could not guess all this No sound or dismal greetings Just red, red: pillars, doors and floors.

The ghouls slashed their way through The pillars and floors, reddened dark

Brandy approached, she was curious As she opened the door, slowly, Intimidation came instantly

A ghouls foot appeared and, and They seized her, yanked her violently Through the reddish room, now Surrounded by menacing ghouls

They would have slain her on the spot But did not: Azazel, demonic creature From above, fell in love (the sloth) For his gratification, she lay Beneath his wings, no hop remained.

Part Two: Colored Stones

Now set into colored stones, And looking like a priceless gem She become ornaments for the wicked And the leader Azazel

They wore her upon their chests Examined her in the halls of foolishness Spoils of warso it was said

Her being was cut up into red pieces Of personal adornments, Many now wore her as a solid Red gem, she waswas

In a veritable hive Of Ghoulish murderers almost But not quite, not quite dad: yet.

Thus,

they loitered around this lot, Around the Kingdom like corpses: With yellowish grinding teeth, Spears in hand

Claw like fingernails; wings, like bats; Wings mounted on their backs; Barbwire Necks, long like chickens.

What was the secret, the secret? Beyond the death of red, to avoid it? Brandy needed to know, but no one Spoke of it

Hence,

smeared with blood, the girl Appeared from concealment (no longer in the gems) The avenger, he whispered: Now indeed will you die? I should have died, she replied Alone in the Red Room!

I know the way, replied the girl. Eyes wide opened, now wise.

Part Three: The Mind

Dark it was, as she jumped into the river A sudden inspiration, a bold leap A scheme within in her mind.

I am not afraid, said the girl (not sure who she was talking to); There was no more fear, of danger Or of safety, she had paid her dues.

Ah!

at the end of the city the King did wait Come, he whispered to himself, Come, I wait!

The Kings room paralleled the riv er: And so covered with the foliage of green She was not seen

When she thought she was opposite The point, where the king stood She sought, and found a doorway

And here she prayed! A faint light From above revealed Serrel, And angel of light

Stooping, he lifted her up to him As a rat leaped on by Poor devil, she cried.

#935 11/23/05

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetic Tale
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Revival

07/01/2004
Her Sunflower colored, Caftan blew gently in the Breeze.
Her long golden Hair almost glittered in the warm Sun.
Summer had turned the Landscape into a warm pallet of Colors,
All yellows, and ambers, and burnt Umber Colors,
And she blended right in, with her honey colored Skin.
Her blue eyes, almost matched the Summer sky.
She walked silently, slowly, looking and searching
Her sandals crunching the soft dried grasses beneath her feet.
Her mind was searching, for what she should be looking for
This time of year was a little hard to find those precious organics,
Which she took home to turn into her hand crafted dye.
But she cherished this solitude, when it felt like time stopped running.
She loved the smell of the earth and its seasons.
She never thought of problems or people, or concerns, out here.
She took in the wonder of the world and let it wash over her,
And all of her senses, taking it all in, and feeling revived by it all.
The citrus orchards always smelled so sweet as she passed them by.
And the fruit trees that blossomed made her feel bittersweet inside.
Green, green, grasses made her feel hopeful and inspired.
The birds that flew overhead, reminded her of her own freedom.
Water had its own smell, its own motion and so many types of reflections.
Gray skies reminded her, that everything that happens, will pass.
The hot Colors of flowers spoke to heart of the passions in the world,
And the cool Colors reminded of the strength found in being calm.
And the thistle, reminded her that not every pretty thing, welcomes touching
These walks of hers were never a task, they were a Revival to her simple soul.

Deborah Coss, has been writting since 8 years old, getting published off and on since 15, and finally realized her child hood dream, of carrying press credentials, working for womanmotorist.com. A diverse writer, publishnig several business type sites, she now publishes her own site, 1kindthing.com, creates some fine arts, and loves photography, commenting she is a social portraiture photographer and prefers the medium of black and white. In art, she has a very constructionist attitude, and enjoys making masks, and other 3 dimensional objects. On a personal side, she survived an extremly violent childhood, some serious trauma, including being crushed by a car at age 3 and half. Thus, her site 1kindthing.com, tells of overcoming hardships, in her many styles of writing. She is a baby boomer, raised in Southern California, bi-lingual in Spanish, descened from French, German, English and American Indian bloodlines. Coss finds words fun, and communication an art


Author:: Deborah Coss
Keywords:: Deborah Coss, Revival, Sunflower, Caftan, Breeze, Hair, Sun, Landscape, Umber, Colors, Skin, Summer
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Riddle of a Dream (a prose poem)

Advance: What am I missing, I asked myself, perhaps nothing, I answered my second self. Then I said, let the actions about to happen, happen! Who besides God, knows what is missing in ones life anyhow? a rhetorical question at best.

Perhaps it is the path I am looking for, I ask myself; the one that very few find. Perchance I should worry about bridges falling, instead of trucks coming to save me. O yes, you are not aware of the riddle of the dream yet, not yet anyway, and then you will understand what I am saying here.

Dreams are like clouds, some grow heavy inside of you; some have thunder and go away; still some are like rain that drives you here or there. Some wipe out boundaries, others bring you a great harvest. But there are also shadows and riddles in dreams; windows that quicklyafterwardsdisappear into thin air, but nonetheless they are there (were there), for a moment or two: like seashells, with an incoming tide: in a moments time, the outgoing tid e will wash them away, back into the sea where they came from, some will be left on the shore, some I say, part of the riddle I would guess.

We are really but a guest inside our own bodies on earth, and conceivably, in the next world. Like guests I say, like those seashells we were talking about: thus, for a moments time, on the shores of your dreams we can be left likewiseId guess; rising and falling with the tide (fantasy has its own face, like salvation and ghosts, death, all with a satisfied desires, a truths, secrets lingering).

But lets leave for the country where the dreams are born, and the riddles live. There the skies are always bright or dark, not much in-between, and the moon rides on a silly donkey, and the world on a fat shelled turtle. Here, poems are made to touch the secrets of the mind, as the mind hurls out dreams when it wants to tell youin a less harmful waythose secrets. Maybe you can dream a little when you read this, so the riddle sugge sts.

The Poems:

I had been driving on this highway, in my car, I must had gotten tired When I awoke, I found myself stalled was on its curb (somewhat);

I had slept the night away (or so, that was my best guess). Thus, onward I went, straight ahead, leaving behind, whatever was. Where I was going besides straight ahead, I m not sure of, just going. Then I found myself on this transverse (crossroads) of sorts; again I found myself crossing them, and heading (it would seem) north. I went under these bridges, and the farther I went, the deeper the mud

until that is, until the car could not move: hence, I abandoned the car. I looked about, I looked forward to continue my journey but it was not

to be, the mud was too thick, for man or car to move about in it

freely!

I looked back; I had gone too far to return, Id not make it, too exacting

and I was too exhausted. I looked at where I was at: hereit was not possible for me to remain

and survive that is (plus where was I? I didnt know). There were truck tracks all about, several feet thick, and the road

several lanes wide. What can I do? I said, bridges over head, What truck could ever drive

through this?

All this I was facing, a dilemma if not a riddleI tried to escape this dream-

vision, but it would not fadego away. So I had little choice, but to stay where I was at, and somehow the riddle

told me to wait, be patient, but action is what I was used to. The riddle said: Remain where you are (for man does not live on bread

alone)) does he?)) Then it occurred to me, beyond my realm of reasonthere is less

limitations, And so in my mind I created a multi dimensional truck, one that could

pass through all this damn mud, one that could reach Beyond the tops of the bridges without damaging a thing (possibilities).

Im still waiting under that bridge, perhaps when I wake up and write this

out, more possibilities will surface;

Perchance, just by waking up, is a possibility, and solves the riddle.

Perhaps the only way to find out the secrets, are in ones sleep. Maybe we are the seashells waiting to be pulled back into the sea, the

Universe, where we came frommore possibilities. Whatever, or is it wherever the answer lies, we are in the middle I do

believe, and the riddle has told me: there are more possibilities.

#1286 3/20/2006 from a dream [from: Lima, Peru

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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The Cat

Truth is stranger than fiction according to many people who have seen what happens around me and to them, on many occasions. Sometimes I have had others affect me in the same way. This is part of the story told in my article The Man who Loved Jail.

The Cat:

the cat meowed and moved slowly out of his way

he knew it wanted something

but it didn't come to his outstretched hand

so he meowed

she winked

he felt

they parted friends

perhaps never to meet again

the Earth was pliant under foot

the trees engulfed his heart

and took his mind to the tree tops

so his soul could feel, forever

the timeless beauty and purpose of life

~ the relative unimportance of his human fears

and frailty

she stood next to him

in a place far away from the cat and the trees

in a town where spirituality is raised to a new low

he felt the cat's friendship and wisdom

he knew how unim portant his worries were, and the roots

of the tree...

seemed to tie their feet

entwined; lovingly

with certainty and timelessness

he awaits the mountain top with excited anticipation

still fearful, he might fall

~yet fully confident

in its rightness

Author and activist for Ecumenicism and egalitarian creative potential.


Author:: Robert Baird
Keywords:: Enneagrams, Celestine Prophecy, ESP
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Two Poems and an Analysis 'Witness' & 'An Old Love'

Two Poems and an Analysis [Witness, & An Old Love

Witness

My face belongs to whoever sees it
Everything has a meaning but life
Even the bugs strive for existence
God saved man, from God
Ghosts have lonely sins
Her bones are stones
Up and down the hill
Gardens blossom
Spotless skies
Dramatists
August
I can not
rest!...

#708 6/3/05

An Old Love

Around the world from me
are the many lands Ive seen
I, who have longed all his life,
that never shut his eyes
but to look up for his next flight

for things Ive yet to see
wait, wait, wait, wait where
echoes from poets write,
wait, for far off destinies.

And where my thoughts are
I must go, for there too is my
. soul; thus, best to poke the
fire again!...

6/3/05 #707

Analysis: I was asked the other day to do a verbal and quick analysis for a poem. It can be a terrifying experienced, especiall y if the person is a friend. What do you say? Like it or not, it is a worthwhile thing to do, and have done. And Ive had a few hundred of my poems analyzed, poked at, chewed up; thus, when asked to analyze a poem, I do it with great care. But I do realize I am not going to contribute to anything other than my own attentive response. Well this poem baffled me and that was not good, but I studied the poem well after he left, I could only give him a few pieces of my thoughts prior to his leaving. I did afterwards mark phrases that caught my attention, good and bad, things that were striking or difficult, and where the focus was lost. I do trust my intuition, so that is one good thing.

There are three things I try to look at 1) the purpose of the poem, as I understand it to be 2) the central emphasis (problems and concerns, etc), and 3) imagery, tone, meter and so forth, while at the same time trying not to diminish the poetic effect the poem is trying to give. B ut then, I do not do analysis but on a few special occasions other persons Poetry, for I have a hard enough time doing my Poetry. But I thought a few comments might be worth mentioning. I guess, if I like the poem, I just like it, period. The Author

Here are two more poems, both different in their focus, poetic emphasis; both short poems, but enough to give a distinctive effect. The tone is of special importance. An analysis comes along with the two poems, not on Mr. Siluk's poems, for that is for someone else to do, but on how he looks at times on other poems, recognizing the combination of different elements. --Rosa Penaloza

Poet/Author Dennis Siluk http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Friday, April 27, 2012

Haiku A Short Poem About a Present Moment

There are many definitions about what Haiku Poetry is or isn't. One definition I think we can all agree upon is that Haiku is a short (very short) poem about something taking place in the now. And, as this present moment is described, we come away with what I like to call a residue of feeling. For instance, look at this Haiku from the author's bird Haiku:

Summer rain --
a blackbird sings
sporadically

This Haiku takes place in the present. Action is communicated by the present tense verb sings. And by using this kind of descriptive phrase, we get a sense of standing above it all. Of looking at the scene as an impartial observer. We know that something is taking place yet we seem removed from the action. And it is this stepping back so to speak that gives Haiku a very unique sensibility. The Japanese have a term for this - wabi/sabi. It's a detached reverence for nature and how nature affects us. Sometimes sad, sometimes happy, but always there - waiting.

The reason Haiku have been so popular through the centuries is that it does describe a present moment so well. But it's not just the descriptive phrase that makes this possible. It's the juxtaposition between the fragment and the phrase. For example, in this Haiku we have the sentence fragment summer rain. This is followed by the phrase a blackbird sings sporadically. The words summer rain set the scene. It gives us the time of year and the weather conditions outside. The phrase completes this scene and hones in on the action so to speak. We get a sense of macro/micro - of a narrowing from a general ambiance to a specific scene. It is this juxtaposing that gives Haiku its real power!

When read as a whole, Haiku give the reader a snapshot or picture. Not all the detail can or should be explained here. Just one small detail of something happening in the present moment.

Edward Weiss is a poet, author, and publisher of Wisteria Press. He has been helping students learn how to write Haiku for many years and has just released his second book Bird Haiku! Sign up for our free Haiku newsletter the Wisteria Gazette! It comes to your inbox every monday offering tips on how to write Haiku! Visit http://wisteriapress.com for Haiku books, lessons, articles, and more!


Author:: Edward A. Weiss
Keywords:: Haiku,Haiku Poetry,Haiku Poems,Poems,Poetry
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Poetry Connecting With Your Readers

When I first started Writing Poetry, I had no idea about all the different forms. I had no idea about imagery, nor did I know that the different sections of my poems were called stanzas. I wrote Poetry because I enjoyed it and because it was an emotional outlet. Pouring my thoughts and feelings into verse proved to be therapeutic. I didn't write with readers in mind. Indeed, I never thought I would ever share these pieces with the rest of the world.

This changed when I joined a major Writing site. Suddenly I had an audience, and it was quite terrifying that someone out there, possibly on the other side of the world, would be reading something so personal. Sharing Poetry sometimes can be like sharing a piece of your soul, laying it bare, vulnerable to criticism. But when I started to receive positive and helpful feedback, it was a wonderful feeling. There were others out there who could relate, and who somehow connected with what I had to say! I knew, then, that I wan ted to learn and grow as a poet, and improve this connection.

When you write for a contest with specific guidelines, it is obvious what is expected of you. You write for a very select audience the judges of the contest, and you probably have checked out the type of poems that have won in the past, to get an idea of what they are looking for. It is different with the wider audience because just as poets differ, so do the people who might read your poems.

On a single item posted online I've received feedback from those who were truly touched, down to those who wrote to me that they didn't get it. This happens, and it just goes to show that there is beauty in variety and that it is wonderful that we don't all like the same things. The world would be a dull place if we did.

What we can do is improve our Writing overall analyse the weak spots in our items (personally, I am still struggling with my imagery I am more of a straightforward poet) and work on those through practice. It can make our items more accessible to our readers. This is where feedback comes in handy. Though, as said, not everyone will get your poem, if several reviewers tell you that your rhyme is a bit off, it probably is and it's worth looking into.

Working to improve your Poetry does not mean you should strictly write with others in mind. Poetry is personal, and if we worry too much about feedback, it can impair the development of our own style and own poetic voice, which can lead to the dreaded writer's block. I know this from experience. If something feels right to you, go for it. Try it out, experiment and don't be afraid to go for what might be seen as unconventional.

Don't be shy to just sit down and go back to basics either, and write something just for yourself. If the reasons you started Writing Poetry become overshadowed and possibly even suffocated by all the new things you've learned and feel you should use, you may stop enjoying Writi ng altogether. That shouldn't ever happen.

Connecting with your readers is very encouraging, but above all, Writing should be fun. If you truely enjoy what you do, in all likelihood others will, too.

Kit Marsters is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry.


Author:: Kit Marsters
Keywords:: Poetry, Writing, Reviewing
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Mother's Bedroom a poem

In my mothers bedroom:
Thin bottles for perfume,
Powder on the little desk,
Colorerful ribbons on her bed,
Snow-white curtains,
A pink nightgown,
Indian moccasins with colorful beads.
The wooden-varnished floor
Has a rustic neatness.

The ceiling light is bright,
A white glass shade:
Still it harbors some insects.
You can see the bible
Resting along side her bed,
Its warped in brown covered leather
Flyleafs hanging out.

#1375 6/24/2006

Note: certain things trigger certain things, my mothers bedroom, rather plain compared to some I suppose, had its peculiarity, its own personality, or was it my mothers personality in that setup in her bedroom. But when I think of her, and the bedroom, which I had to cross through to get upstairs to the attic bedroommy brother and I slept init is hard not to remember her personality intertwined into that house, that bedroom. Autobiographical sketches in Poetry can be hard at times to depict, especially in poems, which call for them to be condensed, thus, one must create the imagery and construction, and insure the mood is nostalgic; with my mothers death being three years come July 1, it is nostalgic indeed to write this new poem: to tell as much about the state of our exchangeable lives as I can.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Living Free

I wish I knew
I wish I was strong
I wish I was proud
I wish I was never wrong
Found my way
Discovered voice
Have the right friends
Know where to find my choice

This is my Life
No worry, no strife
Land that lets me be Free
How do we find me

This is my space
Made my mark
Found my place
This land of Free
Who is me

Dont have to be wife
Will I be mother
Why covet my Life
Ive filled my bank
Made people smile
Taught them well
Took their shoes, walked a mile

This is my Life
No struggle nor strife
Land of Free
Just let me be

Who are we
Chose to be
Chose to chose
Land that makes you afraid to lose

Find your way
Learn to pray
Say what you mean
Remember what youve seen
Open your eyes
No more lies
We is me
Be me Living Free

Respectfully,
Learning is not hard. Knowing which Lesson to choose is the difficulty. The moment you know which Lesson to Learn is the moment you know exhilaration.

Not realizing a Learned moment is one of the few atrocities of Life. Never be afraid to ask questions and if they don't give you the answer, ask someone else. If they laugh, laugh with them, then ask some one else.

Listening and changing first brings the greatest glory for you and those you wish would change, even if they dont realize it. This is always the best approach, no matter the intended Lesson.

We all Teach.
We all Learn.
We are all better than we think.
We can all be better than we think we need to be.

A former computer professor turned Internet writer, I have combined elements of the film,music,and publishing industries to create a new genre exclusive to the Internet- Digi-Tome's. From losing everything, through discovering a different way of Learning and beautiful way of Living, I created the world's first digi-tome, Life. Entertainment for your mind. A rebirth for your soul. What in Life will you hear?

Copyright 2006 Patti Pacifico
http://www.pattipacifico.com http://www.respectfully-pattipacifico.com


Author:: Patti Pacifico
Keywords:: Living,Free,be Free,Freedom,land of the Free,Teach,Lesson,Learn,Self-help,self help, be better,Life
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His Mommy Died Today Poem

(Please Answer Your Cell Phone Mommy)

His heart is crying, he is so very young,
He doesn't know what a dagger looks like
yet he feels one deep inside his stomach
He cries, his mommy died today,
please answer your cell phone mommy.
His breaths are taken between heaving sobs
He has never seen a raging fire,
yet he feels one consuming his spirit
Please answer your cell phone mommy
He is her baby, he needs to hear her everyday
He keeps calling her cell phone number
for that promise made in her voice,
the voice he needs to hear,
Believing the truth as spoken,
that she's just stepped out for a minute,
and she'll call right back
If he could trade all eleven of his birthday wishes for one
he would ask that just this call be answered,
so he could hear,Hi son, love ya so much sweetie,
I'll be home shortly,but his mommy died today,
So he goes to bed tonight, g rasping her cell phone,
as it rests,as she did, on his pillow,
he gazes at the voice trapped inside
knowing it to be the last hug his mommy will give him
Her precious little boy curls up and cries out for her,
only her.

Wishing you Well, Barb
Find your peace and find your place in this world
Smile even when it hurts
Complete your life plan
See the beauty around you, it's plentiful
You'll find it in the smallest things
and always remember, you are loved
http://www.drageda.com/song
http://www.drageda.com


Author:: Barbara Cipak
Keywords:: death poem,mothers death poem,death of mother,death of mother poem,death Poetry,sad Poetry,
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Thursday, April 26, 2012

Ballade of an Inca King

Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and land

Says the Inca King;
In Spain, they leave the bustling streets,
For sail to Peruvian shores;

The murmur of the gold is sweet,

It glows and glistens like the sun
A mountain of gold, or the grave
Awaits the human, Inca-god!

Spaniards sing their songs of victory

Where breaks the green Peruvian sea;
Who now, worships the Inca King (?)
Guarded behind prisons doors?

They chatter about his golden rings

They watch the winds cross the shores
They count the days that idle by,
For gold they worship and will die.

Envoy.

Another spring will never pass,

Swallowed up by death, and death
The Spanish voices combine:
Will kill the Inca-King in time;

Before the gold arrives I fear

It all will be hidden low, low
In the hollow of the earth, in the
Moonlit tunnels of Peru!

#731 6/13/2005

Just a Note: Ricardo Palma has been some of my inspiration to a high degree on the traditions of Peru; as I have tried to put some into poetic verse. The Inca in general has been an ongoing theme I seem to like within my Peruvian Poetry, and several characters surrounding them, and locations, such as the Andes, Cuzco, Huancayo, Lima: all in Peru of course; with such names as: Francisco Pizarro, and Bolivar, Atahualpa [Inca King; Titu-Atauchi, his brother. Dona Veronica Aristizabal.

Poet/Dennis Siluk
http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)

Footprints to Mantaro Valley
(English version)

In what retreat art hid?

Where falling mountains groan In shadow and among

The rapids of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?

Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?

I can hear your voice in echoes

I can hear thy voice, divinely low. I do but know thy by a glance

As the clouds above me know . Ah! Gone like that, but lovelove!

Hath found my naked soul!

4-20-05(#627) Note: written after seeing the Mantaro Valley, beyond the Andes.

Huellas al Valle del Mantaro Por Dennis Siluk Traducido por Rosa Pealoza

En que retiro el arte se esconde?

Donde Montaas decrecientes gimen En la sombra y entre

Los rpidos del ro? No es tu nombre Valle del Mantaro

Ms all de las huellas de los Andes?

Puedo or tu voz en ecos

Puedo or tu voz, divinamente bajo. Pero te conozco por una mirada

Como las nubes arriba conocen... . Ah! ido as, pero am oramor!

Encontraron mi desnuda alma!

The Butcher of Lima (Dedicated to: Mario Poggi)

English Version

Prologue: I do not wish to judge anyone, lest I be judged, and God forbid should I be judged by anyone but He. Thus, I write this following poem with a word of discretion to the reader likewise, that all is not as it seems, is it. Having said that, it has been said the Psychologist Mario Poggiwhom I met on three occasions and purchased a sculpture from, and received one from him as a gifthas learned the hard waythat is, the curse of revenge has long wings; hence, revenge is for the Lord. Why? Because both the avenger and the victim are cursed thereafter (one does not have time to make amends if that is indeed his wish; the other, loses his life slowly as he lives on). Thus, The Butcher of Lima, is really a picture of the sculpture Mr. Poggi calls, The Face of Anguish; or at least it is to me. During our three meetings, I did not find in his ey es guilt for his murderous deed, for he rid a city of a maniac who was cutting up bodies and burying them,and perhaps saved a few lives, did he not? But rather a sadness that he did not close his eyes during the process of his slaying of man called The Butcher, and now the sculptures he has molded with his hands are the eyes of his soul.

The Poem
The Butcher of Lima

The Psychologist, he killed

The Butcher of Lima, So it has been said

With a belt around his neck He strangled him to death!

As he sucked in his breath-- Head carved like a fish!

Poetic Justice!

He died a purple death

The Butcher of Lima. And no one wept.

And the media cried the name: Poggi! Poggi!youre insane!

It is as fate would have it

Motionless and forgotten Are the cold blades of redemption. #628 (4-21-05)

Spanish Version

El Descuartizador de Lima

Por Dennis L. Siluk
Traducido por Rosa Pealoza

El psiclogo, l mato al

Descuartizador de Lima, O eso es lo que dicen ...

Con una correa alrededor de su cuello

Lo estrangul hasta matarlo! Mientras l se asfixiaba

Cabeza cortada como un pescado!...

Obra de justicia

El muri asfixiado

El Descuartizador de Lima... Y nadie llor

Y la media gritaba el nombre:

Poggi! Poggi! ...eres un enfermo!

Es este como el destino lo tendra Insensitivo y olvidado

Son las espadas fras de redencin.

Two Poems by the Author and Poet, Dennis Siluk, while traveling in Peru and Central America, April, 2005. Said the Author,The Mantaro Valley was captivating.... as it led him out of the Andes, and through the valley itself, into Huancayo, Peru. For more information on this poem, or on the second poem, The Butcher of Lima, you may want to review the article by Marissa Cardenas,Columnist-Correo Newspaper Cultural page, dated 23 April, 2005. Rosa P.


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Hallmark Cards Can't Touch This!

Hallmark cards can't touch this

By my rhymes

I bring bliss

Bringing heaven down

To the earth to kiss

Beyond commercialism

Which I dismiss

Though personal prosperity

Is a personal wish

However above and beyond

This Word

Must be heard

I'm not merely

An intellectual nerd

I'm a fiery prophet

With a message from above

Gently bringing to humanity

The Creator's love

No need to push and shove

Cause you want it already

Deep within

Inherently you know it

There's no need for spin

Let newness of life therefore

Now begin!

Victory in Calvary

Through Christ we win!

Total fitness

Transcending your local gym

Strengthening spirit, soul and body

Giving ears to hear

And eyes to see

Uplifting humanity

Imparting divine identity

Confidence, poise and certainty

Taking you out of obscurity

Now lift up your head

Look unto the author and finisher

Of your faith

This gospel of the kingdom

Now embrace!

It will mightily empower you

To run and finish the race

As you go through life

Doing lots of things

The Holy Spirit within

Will surely make you sing

Giving untold revelation

Divine inspiration

Birthing within you

A new creation

Supernatural sensations

Intervention and orchestrations

Along with alleviation

Of all that is wrong

Of all that impedes

Of all that bruises

Causing you to bleed

Your Father in heaven

Wants to meet your need

Talents and gifts come

From the Father of lights

Who graciously and amazingly

Makes all wrongs right

Love, lift and celebrate one another

Cherish every sister and brother

Give a helping hand

Whenever you can

Help a stranger

Whenever they're in danger

Remember baby Jesus

Lying in a manger

There was no room for Him

At the Holiday Inn

Nevertheless the inn keeper

By going the extra mile

Made the world to smile

As Christ the Savior

Brought salvation

To a world that was vile

God did it in style

Bringing heaven to earth

Through a child

Ever so meek and mild

The devil's plan

God did trump

Turning tragedy

Into triumph!

Paul Davis is a traveling minister and author of several books including Breakthrough for a Broken Heart; Stop Lusting & Start Living; and Holy Ghost Fire.

Paul is a life coach (relational & professional), popular worldwide keynote speaker, creative consultant, humor being, adventurer, explorer, mediator, minister, liberator and dream-maker.

Paul's compassion for people & passion to travel has taken him to over 50 countries of the world where he has had a tremendous impact. Paul ha s also brought revival to many in war-torn, impoverished and tsunami stricken regions of the earth. His Dream-Maker Ministries is building dreams, breaking limitations and reviving nations!

Paul's Breakthrough Seminars inspire, revive, awaken, impregnate with purpose, impart the fire of desire, catapult people into a new level of self-awareness, facilitate destiny discovery and dream fulfillment.

Contact Paul to minister, speak at your event or for life coaching: RevivingNations@yahoo.com 407-967-7553.

For additional info: http://www.DreamMakerMinistries.com, http://www.CreativeCommunications.TV


Author:: Paul Davis
Keywords:: Hallmark Cards,Greeting Cards,Writing,Birthday,Anniversary,Funeral,any occasion cards,poetry by Paul
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Top 20 Poetry Quotations

Explore the Meaning of Poetry and the motivation of Poets with this special collection of evocative quotations...

  • A Poet is someone who is astonished by everything.
    -- Anonymous

  • Reality only reveals itself when it is illuminated by a ray of Poetry.
    -- Georges Brague

  • The Poet doesn't invent. He listens.
    --Jean Cocteau

  • In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in Poetry, it's the exact opposite.
    -- Paul Dirac

  • Genuine Poetry can communicate before it is understood.
    -- T. S. Eliot

  • The adventitious beauty of Poetry may be felt in the greater delight with a verse given in a happy quotation than in the Poem.
    -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

  • There is not a particle of life wh ich does not bear Poetry within it.
    -- Gustave Flaubert

  • A Poem begins with a lump in the throat.
    --Robert Frost

  • Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement.
    -- Christopher Fry

  • There's no money in Poetry, but there's no Poetry in money, either.
    -- Robert Ranke Graves

  • Poetry is to hold judgment on your soul.
    -- Henrik Ibsen

  • When power narrows the areas of man's concern, Poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, Poetry cleanses.
    -- John F. Kennedy

  • Perhaps no person can be a Poet, or can even enjoy Poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind.
    --Thomas Babington Macaulay

  • The Poem is the point at which our strength gave out.
    --Richard Rosen

  • Science is for those who learn; Poetry, for those who know.
    -- Joseph Roux

  • Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
    --Percy Byshe Shelley

  • Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this Poem into a blanket.
    --Charles Simic

  • A Poem is never finished, only abandoned.
    --Paul Valry

  • Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls.
    -- Voltaire

  • Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge.
    -- William Wordsworth

    Resource Box - Danielle Hollister (2004) is the Publisher of BellaOnline Quotations Zine - A free newsletter for quote lovers featuring more than 10,000 quotations in dozens of categories like - love, friendship, children, inspiration, success, wisdom, family, life, and many more. Read it online at - http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art8364.asp


    Author:: Danielle Hollister
    Keywords:: Poetry,Poets,Poet,Poem,Poems,Writers,Writing,write Poetry,Rhyme,Poetry quotations,Poem quotes,Meanin
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  • Love Poetry and Its Countless Faces

    There are many interpretations and expressions of Love. When Love appears as an emotion, people experience a strong magnetic Force pulling them to their beLoved.

    Most Lovers complain that they cannot properly express the way they feel. For Lovers who are also Poets, however, the situation is different, because Poetry has the Power to hint at, explain, or lay bare what is unexplainable and what is intense.

    This intensity of emotion comes to Life in a Love Poem through wit, passion, eloquent phrases, imagery, symbolism, and other Tools of Poetry such as alliteration, assonance, Rhythm, anaphora, metaphors, similes and the like.

    Many types of Love Poetry exist in literature. The Love Poem of the instant addresses the falling in or out of Love in one single Moment. Dante Alighieri put together a Love-at-first-sight Poem expressing a Lover's Feeling of being reborn.

    La Vita Nuova

    In that book which is
    My memory . . .
    On the first pa ge
    That is the chapter when
    I first met you
    Appear the Words . . .
    Here begins a new Life

    Another type of a Love Poetry carrying immediacy and impulsivity seizes the Moment without caring what happens afterwards. William Shakespeare says in O Mistress Mine:
    What is Love? 'Tis not hereafter;
    Present mirth hath present laughter;
    What's to come is still unsure:
    In delay there lies not plenty;
    Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
    Youth's a stuff will not endure.

    Most commonly written Love Poetry, by professionals and amateurs alike, is the Love tribute. Here is a good example by Oscar Wilde:

    To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

    I can write no stately proem
    As a prelude to my lay; From a Poet to a Poem
    I would dare to say.

    For if of these fallen petals
    One to you seem fair,
    Love will waft it till it settles
    On your hair.

    And when wind and winter harden< br> All the Loveless land,
    It will whisper of the garden,
    You will understand.

    Another kind of a Love Poem puts forth a proposal to the beLoved as Pablo Neruda does in Love Sonnet VII:
    I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,
    and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth
    or the blood that rose into silence.
    O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!

    Then, there are those Poets who treat Love philosophically. One such Poet is William Blake.

    The Clod and the Pebble

    Love seeketh not Itself to please,
    Nor for itself hath any care;
    But for another gives its ease,
    And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

    So sang a little Clod of Clay,
    Trodden with the cattle's feet;
    But a Pebble of the brook,
    Warbled out these metres meet.

    Love seeketh only Self to please,
    To bind another to Its delight:
    Joys in anothers loss of ease,
    And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.

    At times, Love is one-sided. Worse yet, the beLoved may not have any inkling of the Lover's Feelings. Walt Whitman Voices that in To a Stranger by Writing:
    Passing stranger! you do not know
    How longingly I look upon you,
    You must be he I was seeking,
    Or she I was seeking
    (It comes to me as a dream)

    Sometimes, Lovers have to overcome a few obstacles. Matthew Arnold says in Dover Beach:
    Ah, Love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor Love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

    Every so often, the beLoved leaves the Lover, and then, the Poetry sings sadly of remembrance or regret. Thus, from centuries ago, Sappho echoes:
    I have not had one Word from her
    Frankly I wish I were dead
    When she left she wept
    a great deal; she said to me This parting must be
    endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly.
    I said Go, and be happy
    but remember (you know
    well) whom you leave shackled by Love

    If the Lover is lucky, the beLoved will leave a token when he departs. Here is one such Poem from Emily Dickinson.

    I Held a Jewel

    I held a jewel in my fingers
    And went to sleep
    The day was warm, and winds were prosy
    I said, Twill keep

    I woke - and chide my honest fingers,
    The Gem was gone
    And now, an Amethyst remembrance
    Is all I own

    The many faces of Love has been playing peek-a-boo with the Poetry Lover from millenniums ago in ancient History when Solomon sang The Rose of Sharon to Emerson who urged us to Give all to Love to our present day when modern day Poets describe Moments of epiphany and Feelings of Love in fragments, in concrete images, and in sound combinations obliquely, and at the same time, clearly.

    Whenever we take a fleeting look, like any great art, Love Poetry turns out to be the most admired type of Poetry that takes a human emotion and transforms it into something sacred, correct, and spiritual. I remember reading Love Poetry when I was in my teens. Some of those Poems stick in the memory after many years and their magic still remains.

    Joy Cagil is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Love Poetry. Joy Cagil's education is in foreign languages and linguistics. She is a Poetry enthusiast.


    Author:: Joy Cagil
    KeyWords:: Love,Poem,Poet,Poetry,Feeling,Tool,Force,Moment,History,Romance,Power,Word,Writing,Rhythm,Life,Voice
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    Wednesday, April 25, 2012

    Biography of Charlotte Bronte

    Charlotte Bronte (1816 1855) Novelist and Poet.

    Charlotte was the daughter of the Rev. Patrick Bronte,with her sisters Emily and Anne, Charlotte was brought up in a small parsonage in the Yorkshire village of Haworth. Whilst still in her childhood the Bronte sisters lost their mother and as the eldest Charlotte took up the a role of looking out for her sisters Emily and Anne. Charlotte was described as: the motherly friend and guardian of her younger sisters,

    The sisters had an unusual upringing in that their house overlooked the village graveyard. To escape from these surroundings and the loss of their mother they would often spend time creating stories of fantasy lands. These fantasy stories were often based on the soldiers of their strict, religious aunt, Elisabeth Branwell. Later in a poem Charlotte wrote:

    We wove a web in childhood, / A web of sunny air.

    After various efforts as schoolmistresses and governesses, the sisters took to literature a nd published a volume of poems under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Unfortunately these early publications were a commercial failure. However this did not deter Charlotte and she continued with her novels such as The Professor and Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre proved to be tremendously popular with the public when it appeared in 1854. The novel has gained status as one of the classics of English literature for its originality and strength of writing.

    Charlotte was married to her father's curate, the Rev. A. Nicholls, but after a short though happy married life she died in childbirth in 1855.

    Quote by Charlotte Bronte

    Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.

    Poem by Charlotte Bronte - LIFE

    Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain F oretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall ?

    Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly !

    What though Death at times steps in And calls our Best away ? What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway ? Yet hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell; Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well. Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair !

    Written for http://www.poetseers.org

    For More Female Poets http://www.poetseers.org/thegreatpoets/femalepoets/

    Written by Richard Pettinger

    http://www.richardpettinger.com/


    Author:: Richard Pettinger
    Keywords:: Charlotte bronte Poetry
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    Commitment: I Shall Never Leave Nor Forsake You

    I shall never leave
    Nor forsake you
    Though dishonorable men and circumstances
    May try to take you
    Emotional turmoil
    Try to shake you
    Karla, this promise
    I make to you
    That I shall never leave
    Nor forsake you.

    Though at times for me
    It may be hard
    Things we both
    Say and do
    I realize I
    May also hurt you too
    Nevertheless
    Through fluctuating feelings
    I shall remain true
    Forever endeared
    Karla I am to you.

    For true love endures
    It endures all things
    True love does not leave
    It does always cleave
    Though within
    One may bleed
    This God kind of love
    Covers misdeeds
    Continually sowing
    Loving, life-giving seeds
    Of eternal hope
    Lifting hearts and souls
    So all may cope
    It ties us together
    Like an anchors rope.

    Forsake you I cannot
    For such a love
    Never had I before got
    Your love is true
    Me it has brought
    Brought from afar
    And drawn me near
    Therefore I
    Can overcome all fear
    Your words believe and hear
    And stay with you my darling
    Whether Im rejoicing in song
    Or crying with a tear
    For you alone my love
    Bring my heart delight and cheer
    Therefore I commit to be yours
    Every day, week and year!

    Paul Davis is Author of Breakthrough for a Broken Heart a book telling us how to Overcome disappointments and blossom into your dreams! He is a Minister, life coach (relational & professional), fitness trainer, worldwide professional keynote speaker, creative consultant, humor being, adventure capitalist, explorer, mediator, liberator and dream-maker.

    Paul's compassion for people & passion to travel has taken him to over 50 countries of the world where he has had a tremendous impact. Paul has also brought revival to many in war-torn, impoverished and tsunami stricken regions of the earth. His nonprofit organization Dream-Maker Ministries is building dreams and breaking limitations.

    Paul's Breakthrough Seminars inspire, revive, awaken, impregnate with purpose, impart the fire of desire, catapult people into a new level of self-awareness, facilitate destiny discovery and dream fulfillment.

    Paul can be contacted at: RevivingNations@yahoo.com 407-967-7553 or 407-282-1745 http://www.DreamMakerMinistries.com http://www.CreativeCommunications.TV http://www.PaulnKarla.com


    Author:: Paul Davis
    Keywords:: Poet,Prophet,Preacher,life coach,professional speaker,keynote speaker,Minister,Author,Paul Davis,Sex
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    Where There Is a Metaphor

    A Metaphor is a figure of Speech that describes one thing, Concept, or action in terms of another one. A Metaphor interacts with Language intimately, creating relationships between things and Ideas not recognized before. When a Metaphor is the exact opposite of what it describes, it is called a collusion or a collision.

    Although a Metaphor is quite like a Simile, it does not use words of resemblance such as like or as when it describes something.

    Metaphors are either Plain or implied. A whirlwind of Ideas is a Plain Metaphor. The numbers rained on him, His smile sinned when he looked at her, and Jane knifed my wound are implied Metaphors. Implied Metaphors are cherished by Poets and writers more than the Plain ones. Since they are usually made with Verbs, they bring Life and excitement to an Expression. Yet, Plain or implied, all Metaphors can be overused or abused like other good things.

    At the beginning, when I tried to write Poetry, I had a run-in with Metaphors, only because I loved Metaphors a lot. I thought they worked wonders, and since I believed Metaphors were my strength, I used them too often and too indiscriminately.

    Imagine a Christmas tree with decorations building up to a single shining star, which has a beautiful meaning in its fundamental nature. Well, my Christmas tree had many stars all around it with all of them fighting with that star on top for brightness, so much so that my Poems became disorientated in a traffic jam of Metaphors.

    I stopped my romp with Metaphors when a wonderful teacher pointed out to me, ever so gently, what I had been doing. I will forever be grateful to her as long as I use Metaphors. She told me to use one master Metaphor, and if I felt like adding extras, I should make the additional Metaphors wo rk under that one master.

    Now, I go with her formula especially in a short Poems; one central Metaphor with all the other less significant ones building up to it. In other words, for each Christmas tree there needs be only one very bright star on top.

    With a Metaphor one can express an Idea more pointedly and more delicately than one can express by using a roomful of adjectives and adVerbs. For example, an amateur could be saying this:

    When he moved the position of his cap, it was visible that his head was covered by white hair, which was holy, sacred, saintly, distinct, untainted, not dirtied, much adored, spiritually aristocratic, and shining brightly with a circular light.

    Here is how a great Poet has said it with a Metaphor so eloquently.

    And white the unpigmented
    Halo of his hair
    When he shifted his cap:
    from Night Game by Robert Pinsky

    Let us look at the word Metaphor. Meta means across, phor means Carry somethi ng like a Ferry. So, a Metaphor must Carry across a meaning by using a physical image which stands for an abstract thought.

    The Poet Jane Yolen--in an interview--said:

    In Greece the word metafora is a kind of moving van and so as you drive around, you see trucks with METAFORA on the side. They are shifting a lot of stuff under the watchful eye of the stone-draped ladies of the Parthenon. There's a Poem there.

    Jane Yolen was so right. Where there is a good Metaphor that is wisely used, there is a Poem there.

    Joy Cagil is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry. Her portfolio can be found at http://www.Writing.Com/authors/joycag


    Author:: Joy Cagil
    Keywords:: Poem,Poet,Poetry,Metaphor,Simile,Speech,Idea,Concept,Plain,Life,Expression,Carry,Ferry,Verb,Lan guage
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    The Mad Planet (Yillum the Great ((The Cadaverous Planets))

    The Mad Planet (Yillum the Great))The Cadaverous Planets))

    Chapter One The Grotto City

    All of Moiromma (a frozen planet beyond earths solar system), was in rage. The mad planet and its several horde kings had fought a great and last battle in the Northlands, of the planet. There were rummors concerning this most trying occurance, this last battle, and its new king. All the peoples form far and near come to one spot called Old Bishops Valley it was where the Bishop of Burgge had lived and died some years pass, eaten up by the giant worms of the Northlands of the planet. These great ice worms lived in the north and grew to immense weights, and had ferocious appetites. Thus, the new king had yet to appear to his people, and the crowd, conquered and conquerors, awaited his appearance in the many ice castles built in the area to hold the 9000-citizens and soldiers, not counting the 1000-whom would not surrender or give their allegance to the new world order.

    < p>No man had seen this new king, who had fought off all the cellkings of Moiromma, no one accepat his army of soldiers, and the citizens that followed him from battle to battle. In addition to the ice castles built on top of the surface of this area, and upon the 400-foot thick, glacier, that paralled the valley, they dug deep into the bowels of the planet, to old tunnels built centures before, when the land was not all ice, and there they created a underground city: the Grotto City. And here is where the king had intentions to find the 1000-rebels, and execute them.

    There had been mumblings within and around the newly created region, called the The Bishops Valley. Who was this new king? Everyone wondered, a mysterious figure it was said, from another planet, far off in another galexy. In time it was said he was from a moon that circled a planet called SSARG, and was looking for a lost love, a woman called Siren the Great. General Rice, a moirommalite, had joined forc es with the new king, and thus helped conquer the planet of Moiromma. They had all dressed up like beggars, and became spies for the king, thus, it was easy to know when and where to attack, and henceforward, he became king within a short period of time. In this process of spying and conquering, he never stopped looking for Siren, he wanted to give her the whole planet as a gift, or perhaps even take her back to his planetoid, his moon kingdom where he was prince. And so, the General had every cell group within the Southern area of the planet check for her, now the north. And no one had seen her. So it would be the Great Serrias, of the Northlands left to check. The new kings army, the army he had arrived with when he came to Moiromma, was only 100-soldiers total, but with wit and having the Moirommalites work against their own people for riches and wants, he conquered the whole planet except for the Great Serrias.

    Chapter Two Yillum the Great

    Not many folks could remember the old Bishop of Burgges, he had come from the planet Earth, and was facinated with the life and culture of Moiromma, but the planet became too much for him, it was too maddening, to cruel for him to live among the cell groups of the south, and thus, moved to the north, which was cold year round, whereas, the south was cold, but had a summer where it was above freezing, and when it got cold in the winter, it never got as hazardous as the north country; therefore he felt safer living a hermits life, in his wooden, only wooden house in the north, and one of the few in the south. Anyone who could boast a wooden house was rich, and if he could keep it he was most witty at that. Thus, the old timers had a vague memor of the Bishop, who had changed his name in the cold north, but it is not worth telling much more of this person, lest we get lost in old memories, and now we are among a plagued king, once young and a prince, but now middle aged, and a great king to a new world, King Yillum. He was tyronical and corrupt in his own way, not like he used to be when he had first met this woman called Siren. He was throwing every Moirommolite who defied him into the cold dunges of the earth, to rot and die a miserable death. What good he had once, seemed to be lost. And the people of the planet had prayed to the many gods they knew of, for Siren to appear and marry this mad king, who had turned their planet into a mad planet.

    Chapter Three Siren the Great, and the Bear-men

    The General had checked the Sirrias for several months, looking for the kings lost love; now the General being the Minister of War, in addition to his other titles of General, and Advisor to the King. And in his long and trying search, he found a cell within the mountains, 16,000-feet up, and the General attacked what was called the bear-men, they were those who would bring down the mountains magical ice, place it in their abodes, and when they needed a mag ic, thus, they would drink it and sometimes could disapear to fight their enemies. And this is exactly what happened, the General came with 100-soldiers and found the bear-men drinking the ice, then they attacked, but it was shadows they were fighting. When the battle was over, there were only twenty five of the kings soldiers left, and the general. Then the ten bear-men appeared, and frightened the Genearl and his soldiers almost to death, and there, was Siren, standing behind the bear-men, being protected.

    I tell you Siren, said the General, If I do not bring you back to our Mad King, Yillum, he will kill the whole population, and me. This matter will not be settled until you settle it with the king.

    Siren knew the king, but it was her mother whom he had fallen in love with, not her, and she was residue in her brain, and only on his planetoid could she materalize into a full being, and only a ghost type being at that. Her conclusion was that, the king wanted her because, her mother was inside of her, and she was physical, and thus, could have a relationship with her mother through her. Yillum would take whatever he could. Sirens mother had chosen Siren in place of the once Prince of SSARGs moon, and that has always bothered him.

    Yes, said Siren, I will return with you to the new king of Moiromma, but only because you have suggested it, perhaps he will regret my appearance, and perhaps he should get his coffin built before hand. Go tell him, I am coming, and it would be wise of you to tell your soldiers to not do a thing if I plan on battling it with the king. You have seen what the bear-men can do, and you have heard what I can do, and my mother is still within my brain.

    Upon the Generals return, he informed Yillum of the great battle that took place, but he modifed it, saying:

    Your majesty, we won a great battle over Siren, and to keep peace, I allowed her to live, and she said shed return to see you in a day.

    Said the king, with venom in his voice: Should she not return, I myself will kill you for allowing her this freedom. The general said not a word.

    It was but a day and Siren the Great did show up, in the Bishops Valley, and stood in front of the new king. The General with fifty guards around him, at his command. But most were Moirommolits, for there were only fifteen of the Kings original 100-soldiers left.

    I demand you marry me, and give me access to your mother. Said the king.

    She doesnt want to speak to you, for you are a wicked king, and must be killed, and you have made this planet into a mad planet, and I am here to kill you and set them free. The king knew if he killed Siren, he also killed her mother, his old lover; but now he was full of pride and power, and said, harshly,

    If I can not have you with your mother, then it is better for you both to be dead, and then the king looked at the General, said, Kill her, he yelled and comm anded, but no one moved, the General said not a word. When one of the original 100-men came out to stick a sword into Sirens heart, a ghost of a wind cut the soldiers head off. The king was amazed, looked at Siren, and in fright: Kill her General, I command you right now! But the general said not a word, gave no such command, and when the king went to kill the General, Siren grabbed his sword, and cut his legs off, so all the soldiers could see how helpless he was. Then the king tried to throw the sword at the general, but he caught it, and cut his right hand off. And his blood spurted all about, and the bear-men appeared before Siren, and the General.

    The General was given Command of the people by Siren, to judge, lead and should he be like Yillum, to be judged by the people, should she return and find him in such a position. And she returned to the Sirreas, with the bear-men.

    Note: written 30-minutes after an earthquake in Lima, Peru, October, 2005, and r evised in Huancayo, Peru about two weeks later.

    See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


    Author:: Dennis Siluk
    Keywords:: Short Story
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