Poems have different cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for certain figurative language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not necessarily know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the greatness of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've recently wrote, all with a different core, focus and style.
1) The Beehive [Poetic cut-ups]
[Paper] "USA Today," 75 cents, March 18, 20, 2005: '?it was acceptable in the l980's?as a cup of coffee?what I will not do is participate...to be clear, I have never taken illegal drugs?In my 19 years in the big league?Around the World in 8, days?.McGuire said repeatedly?recent spat of vehicle accidents in Iraq?Rice Reaches Out?Quest for Fame?Jules Verne 100th anniversary?Peterson to San Quentin?Jackson's young guests?Stun guns?'
[Sound] In the background of the café-bookstore, I hear the music of Nat King Cole: '?we are not too young to know?' Now I hear trousers hitting legs?Dishes in the dishwasher [café] ?a laugh, I think its Erica behind the café counter?squealing of galoshes?a cough in the background? .
[Sight] Three girls went to the counter?lady beside me writing?Michelle came up to my table, talking about her boyfriend?Mark waved goodbye for the day, just left his music area?lady in the front of me whispering?large woman with a thin sport jacket on at the front ordering food, talking to the servers (some food to go I think)? .
[Dreams] Voices that let you roam at your will, but to receive the voices one must stop all the echoes, shadows, aggravations-find silence. The subconscious can hear ever operation going on. I am like all warm blooded mammals: we all dream: bats, bears and beasts-like humankind. Dreams are the keys to keeping the heart beat, beating; stop the dreaming, you stop everything. Last night I dreamed of writing this poem.
[Epilogue] The mind, the mind, the mind: papers, sounds, sights and dreams-come in and out from all sides of me: day and night, and night and night and day, every which way. From all sides of me, like a movie; computer, filing, filing them all away, "?for what you say?"
2) Old Charlie Edwards
Old Charlie Edwards had an office About one and a half miles from town Most cars that came by you'd know why He owned all the real estate In town He never smoked cigarettes Nor drank alcohol He never gambled with his money From what, most folks can recall, during his formative years And until his High School Prom He'd play Monopoly year round And whip everyone Fine, as you may foretell He made his money just that way It was like playing chess, he'd say And he'd never rest, play all day And owned half the town Well, Old Charlie Edwards' Office Was always in the white Until the town's committee Voted to build an interstate Just to spite Old Charlie and his ways Yes, Charlie had to move From that old spot As you may have guessed And thereafter, Charlie sold all His real estate After that, all the towns folks Ran to his office to look around As if he may have left some treasure Laying about But Old Charlie Edwards Simply moved out of town Laughing and Giggling Buying more real estate in St. Paul!?
The Last Second
Angels come (sometimes) within arms reach but dare not touch the heart's beat; beyond its sacred melody? for your sake!...
Sid M. [l966]
Long forgotten is my friend Forty-year ago this spring- He died when he was twenty, And I was but nineteen.
I see us in our High School Halls, With boyish hopes and dreams; His face was always high-brow But he never looked down on me.
To him who died so very young, And now, so very long ago? In memory, unsought, I say: I have never forgotten you!
The Scent of Paris
Calm as a Paris?river's afternoon Warm in the month of June And filled with spirits, crimson people, Pervaded with a scent that could lead One's illusional dreams-to be!
A ghoul's cologne haunts my hands As I glimpse the bridges: land to land As I touch the hidden flutes of memory The scent of Paris-comes back to me.
About the author: Mr. Siluk is a world traveler, a lover of the mysteries around the world, and has visit many World Heritage Sites, his most recent being Easter Island, the Galapagos and Mesa Verde. His books can be seen on/at Barns and Noble.com, Amazon.com, Wal-Mart, Abe.com Alibis, Boarders and several other sites and book stores. Many of his books can be purchased through the English Bookdealers. He spends his time between Lima, Peru and St. Paul, Minnesota, and has just finished working on two new books: "The Macabre Poems," and "Perhaps it's Love," and continues to work on "Curse of the Abyss Worm," a suspenseful mystery, and "Cold Kindness," a tragic love affair.
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