The House of Forever & The Poet's House (7Poems)

1The Muttering Souls

I awoke from a dream, dark and somber
(I was back in the arctic again)
profound it was, to find out a single

arctic door, with a cryptic murmur

(muttering souls)
stubbornly opened upall filled with pillars
and ice cold floors: adorned me evermore.
Layer, upon layer: laid, stood, and paced,
were the dead!...

(With folded arms and sunken in chests.)
Half frozen in the halls of hell; and thus, I

feared the wisdom of each silent shape!
(For I knew my life was complacency.)

#1084 1/18/2006

2O Quiet Dust

And so we changed at last!
Ah! From changeless years

we seemed to have had

noisy with life, we grew old).
O quiet dust, have you settled yet?
Life gnawed at heart and soul,
And you bore the pain (if so).
Are we not all a mystery?
Here comes the: day, hour, minute
Ah! who will meet me at the
Pathless gate?

#1084 1/18/2006

3 The Land of Forever More

[Dedicated to the aging with dignity group

Wholesome snowflakes of winter blow

And squirrels hide avoid the snow,

In this city I roamed as a boy,
Carefree and many years ago.

Strange even to myself, am I!

For the lads that roamed with me,

(Years ago); are changed I see
Like megray and some are dead.

And now as I look out, from my porch

Memories haunt the hollow past,

And yes, I still hear voices, echoes,
Old dreams, old friends vibrating back.

I wait now for the path and sunrise.

I who will journey, beyond the stars;

I notice the light is not so very far:
I see it now, in a land calledforever more!

#1083 1/18/06

The Poets House

1A Lone Poet

A poet is a gift from God

(I heard said once);
listen to him said Jeffers
(back in 63); but for the sake
of God, let him bedo not
kill his art, his play, like you
did to Keats and Hemmingway.
A poet is one who has learned
and whispers back what
Faulkner dare not say! And thus,
lost his way.

#1083 1/18/2006 [Inspired by Robinson Jeffers

2The Basalt Hunchback

Death, the black basalt hunchback
(The Poet of Volcanic realism):
Strolls through the countryside,

City pathways: servant to no man,
Avoided by all men who want to live?
You sits and watches us laborvictors

go home, while others stay.
No one but death knows their fate:
Except Christ!

#1083 1/19/2006

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

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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