Minnesota Poems [in English & Spanish] By Dennis L. Siluk

Here are a few dozen poems, all centered on Minnesota, Dennis' original place of origin. see site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Minnesota Siluk History

Minnesota Siluk History

1) Anton Siluk: came to America in 1916, from Russia, his brother went to South America, his father died falling off roof, and mother moved to Warsaw. His wife, Ella, died at 33-years old, in 1933. Anton was Born 1891, died 1974, a painter and restaurant owner; participated in WWI; Children: Ann (living, 90-years old), Elsie (1920 to 2003) deceased, worked for Swifts Meats for 22-years, and was a seamstress thereafter; Rose (deceased) 2007; Betty, presently living, in St. Paul, 80-years old; Wally (POW, WWII, deceased, was 85-years old when he died 2007) and Caroline Siluk, lives in Wisconsin at present; Frank Siluk, died in 1945, Italy, WWII, buried in Florence, Italy.

2) Mike E. Siluk (Freelance Photographer) and Dennis Lee Siluk (both brothers); Mike Edward Siluk, born October 8, 1945, still living in Minnesota, as does his daughter Sharla. Cheryl the younger of the two lives in Missouri. Attended Como Park Junior High School, and Washing High School, in St. Paul, Minnesota; along with his brother Dennis.

3) Dennis L. Siluk, Born October 7, 1947: attended several universities: The University of Maryland, in West Germany, Troy State University, in Alabama. The University of Minnesota, and others, receiving a License in Counselling, and a Doctorate in Education. Spent eight years active, and three reserves in the United States Army (at the rank of Staff Sergeant), and one tour in Vietnam, during the war, in 1971, receiving an Army Accommodation Medal (in total three). Dennis also received an Art award, as 2nd place, St. Paul, from the JC’s, in 1965. Wrote 38-books, reserving several awards in Peru for his Cultural Poetry. Has travelled to sixty-countries, and throughout the United States; lives in Minnesota and Peru at present. Have no children or grandchildren at present. Dennis was close friends with the renowned karate family, the Yamaguchi’s, whom he met and took instructions from in San Francisco, 1968-69.
Additional Information: Mr. Siluk is a recovering Alcoholic (23-years); married to Rosa Penaloza de Siluk for eight-years. In 1993, Mr. Siluk became an Ordained Minister in good standing. He worked on his Masters Degree at Liberty University for several months, in Theology, Eschatology, Old and New Testament studies. He wrote his first poems at the age of 12-years old.


Saturday, April 26, 2008

The Reflection ((Vietnam War, 1971) (poetic prose))

I walked into a bar on 1st Avenue in Minneapolis I remember, it was 1982, and I sat down at the bar, looked into the picture across from me, drank a beer down, asked for a second, smoked a cigarette, several of them, looked into the picture deeper, its glass reflected me.
“You ok, it looks like you’re trying to find yourself in that picture and it bothers you?” said the bartender to me, kindly.
There was a horrifying feature in that picture, it was me, and I replied to his question:
“Mister, according to the patriotic principles we are suppose to have had here in the United States—in war time, as in going to fight in the Vietnam War, I felt all men should have gone, consequently all men by law did not have to go, equality was measured differently, if you were in college, or married, or had money, you need not have gone—you were dispensable; therefore, I have a right to look deep into your glass that has a picture beyond it, with contentment or discontentment, for it concerns my sense of right and wrong.”
The picture was that of tranquil setting, with large stretched out bushy green trees, folks going on a picnic walking between them, children, wives, gentlemen dressed prim and proper. As a person with common sense, I undoubtedly felt, I did not bring home anything that had to do with that scene for my country, my point of view was, the battles I fought in 1971, killed people over, was it over nothing?

Poetic Prose #2361 4-26-2008 ((a Minnesota poem)(written about 11:00 PM, Lima, Peru, at home))


Monday, October 22, 2007

Five Complimentary Poems ((Selected by D.L. Siluk, Poet Laureate)(Minnesota to Peru))

Five Complimentary Poems
Selected by Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk, Dr.h.c.

Here are five poems Dennis Siluk calls “Complimentary Poems,” three from other writers he feels are very worthy poems, and two written him, for other people. These poems will be in Dennis’ forth coming book, “Silence over a Restless Valley,” due to be published in July of 2008.
The poem: "In the Nick of Time," by Cindy White, is a Minnesota Poem.

By Apolinario Fermín Mayta Inga

Ni el eco de las montañas
Ni la luz que sale de tus lágrimas
Ni el río que en sus orillas herido va sólo.
Ni la sombra que el ala de los pájaros deja
Ni los vientos de los trigales
Ni la tristeza de las nubes.
Ni un cielo de palomas
Ni los sueños de la yerba
Ni las piedras con su angustia.
Ni el color de la mañana.

English Version


By Apolinario Fermin Mayta Inga
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Edited by Dennis L. Siluk

Not the echo of the mountains
Not the light that comes out of one’s tears
Neither the river with its banks, that goes alone

Not the shade of the wings that the birds leave
Not the winds from the wheat fields
Neither the sadness of the clouds.

Not the sky full of doves
Not the dreams from the grass
Neither the stones in its anguish.

Not even the color of the morning.

By Cesar Gamarra Berrocal

Qué hacer cuando el tiempo
se acumula en mis ojos.
Higuera e historias
y voy atravesando calles
sin ningún sentido:
perdí mi libreta de apuntes
y me viene cualquier nombre
y empiezo a escribir:
“Cuando viajo adquiero cierta capacidad de
con mi mundo”
y no abro Udana.
Buda detrás del mostrador
y no sé qué es el tiempo
sólo hay
el viento / el polvo y una plaza.

English Version


By Cesar Gamarra Berrocal
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Edited by Dennis L. Siluk

What to do when the time
accumulates in my eyes.
Fig-tree and stories
and I go through the streets
without any direction:
I lost my note book
and it come to me any name
and I start writing:
“When I travel I acquire some capacity of
with my world”
and I do not open Udana.
Buda behind the counter
and I do not know what is the time
there is only
the wind / the dust and a plaza.

Qué hacer cuando el tiempo
se acumula en mis ojos.
Higuera e historias
y voy atravesando calles
sin ningún sentido:
perdí mi libreta de apuntes
y me viene cualquier nombre
y empiezo a escribir:
“Cuando viajo adquiero cierta capacidad de
con mi mundo”
y no abro Udana.
Buda detrás del mostrador
y no sé qué es el tiempo
sólo hay
el viento / el polvo y una plaza.

“In the Nick of Time”
By Cindy White (in Part and English Only)

I met Dennis at B&N
Café—a decent place towrite and draw. To
set one’s creative juices
among the crowd. Among
the roar of the blender that
would wind up words for
a poet—any poet.

Dennis is an inspiration,
for this lowly poet, as
I sit in the same B/N
café without him, thinking
of his new life in Peru.
Thinking I might catch
his spirit, his muse and
sprout my words.

It was an honor; still
Is an honor to sit
in this space, where
one poet met another poet
in the nick of time.

The Grand
Papa Oso Hamagsa of Huancayo

By Dennis L. Siluk

Now fill my hands with one…
deep walled is its shape.
Find a cloak to cover me:
so I can sink my teeth into the meat!
Restlessly I wait—
wait I say!
For the Grand Papa Oso-hamagsa
that will soon cover my plate!

Dedicated to…No: 2024 Written 10-20-2007 by Dennis L. Siluk,
in Huancayo, Peru

A day,
Along the River Mantaro

And so, down the River’s mouth
(weighed with rays of the morning’s sun)
until I reached its bridge, rustic red,
flat was the water before me,
a stillness, with boat rowing by
(a holiday weekend, with friends…).

The light from the sun, now shown
on the embankment, between me
and the river—boats drawn
without sound; I watched splashes
from their oars—; rocks green to gray
in the far!...
A cool breeze smooth across my face,
the boy leaps up through the brush
…a flower in hand for me.
It was all part of one day (revived)
along the River Mantaro,
in the Spring of 2006.

No. 2015, written in Huancayo, Peru, 10-11-2007, to be published in the forth coming book, “Silence over a Restless Valley,” in July, of 2008.

Dedicated to the boy and his father (Kike and Jose Arrieta)

Rock me to Sleep
(A poem on Suicide)

Suicide is an invitation for death, there are many reasons for it, a fatalistic attitude is good enough for suicide, or rejection of life per se, claiming death is nothing more than a charming quietness thereafter (therefore, a wishful desire; how foolish you may say. On the other hand fear of death can be an awful thing, death in this way of thinking, is a way for lives that are preoccupied with fear, and filled with attempts to win God’s favor and avoid His anger: this way of thinking paralyzes one with fear of death, just the opposite). In any case, many people lean towards the tendency to go to the opposite extreme and find death, wake it up. So I shall give you a poem, one with a poignant final word for, or on death, one that a suicide would use, called ‘Rock me to Sleep’.

We need not give heed to boldness, denial or fear, one need only find Christ, for death is certain, and will come sooner or later anyhow, but during the interim, we may simple remember as death is certain, so is heaven, and there we can bath in our victory, for there in heaven are no powers that can separate us from the love of Christ. And now here is the sad, but true thinking poem, a suicide might ponder on:

Death of death, please rock me to sleep
Where the quiet realm rests, for people like me.
No worries, no evils, no fear or to rise
Out of my breast!…
Lower the coffin, ring the Chapel Bells
Let them tell, of my sorry life
And my scornful quest.
And if death shall not come
I shall wake it up…to take my life.
For there is no other remedy,
There is no happy light.
So death, death, please rock me to sleep,
Where the quiet realm rests, for people like me.

Three Poems form:
Jauja (Peru)

Note (and small summery of the poems): For me these following three poems are interrelated simply because they are all from Jauja, although two are from a town-let called Chongos, the other one from the ancient hillside capital of the Wanka world (700 to 1450 AD), Tunanmarca (all within the Jauja area). Here is where the Inca Empire (from Cuzco) came and subdued the Wanka Capital in the half of the 15th Century. Some 15,000-inhabidents lived on this mountaintop city that is being renovated as I write these three poems, called Tunanmarca. Access to the city is a bit difficult; it is about 12,500- feet above sea level, and there are two defense walls to its summit, but it is worth the hike up the hill. The Cani Cruz (otherwise known as the ‘The Cross of Pain,’ is in the small town of Chongos, the cross dating back to 1601 AD, and the Old Shepard Lady of Chongos, I met by the oldest Church in the Mantaro Valley, 1556 AD with her heard of sheep, perhaps in her 80s, as often these old folks of the Valley are, and continue their daily chores as everyone else does.

The Old Shepard
Lady of Chongos

“It is late, quite late.
And I, I am one of few, awake!
What I love is by my side.
I spent all morning talking,
as I bend and rise
under the moving sun—!
They speak to me—, the sheep,
clear as the eyes of chickens!”

No: 2009 10-5-2007

Visiting Tunanmarca
(700 to 1450 AD)

Oh, on this early afternoon I think
I shall live forever!
I am bound in my carefree flesh;
wrapped in these old Wanka ruins.

Two Poems on Life

Surprised by Morning

There is an unknown dilemma that is by us…;
day has come, and evening has arrived on time.
As for the evening, shades of darkness fell,
so I noticed looking through the glass windows.

I sat quietly back in my white plastic chair
on the Platform, and wrote this poem,
thinking and looking:
“How did it all come about?”
“How will morning be?”

At last I found myself in bed,
the waters of my mind, rose and fell;
then I wakeup, surprised, somewhat,
morning had arrived (it was here).

Note: No: 2008, October 2, 2007, written on the Platform, in Huancayo, Peru, 2.55 PM

“Upon His Death”
(An Elegy, before Death)

Now close his eyes—please, for all his breath has gone.
For, they will not open up here, on Earth again!

For years, life has fed upon his ivory bones
That with his breath gave in (to death) all at once.

Deep inside our minds, we decay, suffer on…!
Until our minds, bodies and souls say: it’s enough.

Now let him be, and his body let us bless
That came to earth, at birth, and goes to heaven to rest.

Short Commentary: Death comes sometimes slowly, or so it seems— (or can be) for us folks watching this happen to our loved ones; perhaps it is harder on us doing the watching, than those doing the dying (?)
We often try to get the last photographs, our facts in order; tell and listen to the last jokes, stories and simple conversations we will forever share, and preserve them deep into our memories. Yes, all these gathered images we truly loved of that individual—and we wait; and until we die like them we simply endure. It’s all called life!... No: 2004 (9-28-2007)

A Chapter in Life and Death
The Mystery of Tomorrow!

Old Dog Ways
(The ways of an old Peruvian Chow Chow)

When dogs grow old—(like Jason)
they seem to want to be left alone
(not completely, but some).
They want to chew their bones
alone…in peace—; they want
to lay down with a gentle-warm wind
(and fall to sleep).
They want to get patted on the head,
now and then; drift along
in a grassy backyard—, check out
the food bin! And like many
people, prefer to be left alone,
with a few—select, good friends!

No: 1998 (9-21-2007); written in Huancayo, Peru on the platform. “Today, Friday, watching old Jason (perhaps seventy), he paces in the back yard, chews his bone, goes to the food bin, by all appearances he has a pretty good life, and he knows it.”

Silence in War (Iraq)

No one sees the bombs and bullets come
anymore, pieces of metal fly by, —
yet voices are crying in silence, as things
fall (bombs, debris and bodies).
One arm left behind, along the roadside,
as the body keeps walking; some
eyes part the face, what direction, the
soldier can’t see. Smells of death,
death that seep out everywhere.
The medic nails a list of the dead,
onto the back of a chair (this is war
at its best, in Iraq).

No: 1992 (9-19-2007). Written in Huancayo, Peru, on the Platform.

“Hill Burning…!”

“The hill is burning!
The hill is burning!”
It frightened all the ants
and bugs…in the
underbrush— (I suppose);
and the butterflies hurled back
their manes, it seemed.
As six-years old, life is simply
watching everything!

Note: when I was six-years old, I vaguely remember, but I do recall lightly, the hill or embankment we had in our backyard, in St. Paul, Minnesota, I let on fire; let me explain: I was somehow captivated with a book of matches I had in hand, playing on that steep hillside, can’t remember how I got them, and I lit the dry yellow tall weeds and grass on fire, thinking I could contain it in a little circle, but of course I could not, and when it got out of control—and it’s blaze grew hot and high I ran a hundred-yards to the back of our house went inside the screened door and told my mother (my mother, aunts, brother, grandfather and neighbors came running out towards the hill, after someone started yelling ‘fire,’ after I had mentioned it of course): thus, I had said only twice, almost exhausted to my mother: “The Hill is burning…” then my mother and brother, two years older than I, and the several other people (in the summer of 1953) grabbed buckets of water, running back and forth, throwing it on the fire. After all was under control, my mother asked me, “Did you light the fire?” I hesitated, but said “…yes.” And for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened afterwards, but I never played with matches again. No: 1995 (9-20-2007). Written on the Platform, Thursday, 4:00 PM, the rain clouds just covered up the sun).

Poems on Death
Part II (9-2007)

Ode to Age

The old man, I watched him
trying in vain—to get into his apartment,
to open the door with his hands and key—which
summoned his brain, in vain;
not working with his eyes, at eighty-seven.

And there, there, in the yard next to him
a boy of ten, his grandson, playing with his dog:
two lives changing, like summer and winter,
rain and snow; one watching the other grow old,
ready to die; the other, youthful, hip to thigh,
loosed hair, waiting for another year to pass
so he can grow up fast.

Note: No. 1994, Daniel and Papa Augusto, and the dog Jason, in the backyard, while the author sits on the platform watching. The clouds in the sky, darkening, it is Wednesday, about 4:30 PM, 9-19-2007, Huancayo, Peru.

Death by Suicide
(…and a long needle)

Suicide is like a long needle in the heart—;
one trying to escape the slum of earth’s dark.
Not seeing the high elm above their heads
(and spring being not far off);
thus, they think to conquer life and death
in just one breath!
So many ways to die, so many coffins under
the sky;
dark shadows everywhere…so many pits
and flash floods in a normal life—
but after winter, there’s always spring:
too bad they can’t see it, from where they stand.

Note: No: 1994 (9-19-2007)


We are human-trees, born from the roots of others—;
with branches for legs and arms…,
we lose days in our lives like trees lose leaves
off their branches.
Water is born within us—.
Like bark from trees, we shed our skin—
and watch the weeds grow around us,
I call them bad-seeds—yet like trees
we must all live our lives out…!

No: 1993 (9-19-2007)

War Poem
No Three

((A poem on the Times, and war) (21st Century doom))

Step down please
and love somebody—,
so much to possess…;
so many signs in the world:
like the ripples in the sea
(who can withstand the waves).
Like the leaves falling off the trees,
the armies of the world
are getting ready.
Where are the beams of yellow
and white lights—
that bellows freedom? (such a plight!)
No more walking the streets in
the afternoons.
We should always be together, we
never know how close is doom!

No: 1988 (9-16-2007) Written in the morning,
and rewritten in the evening.


Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Ice, Ice, Ice (A Minnesota, Mississippi Poem)

Ice, Ice, Ice

(A Minnesota, Mississippi Poem)

(Diary notes in Poetic Prose) In the late 1950s it was not uncommon to see the Mississippi freeze over with ice, ice, ice—along the banks of the city I lived in (St. Paul, Minnesota). During the spring thaw (or just prior to it), the sun breaking forth, winter to spring can be a marvelous thing, a dangerous sight; the water seems to drop a foot, as the ice, ice, ice—creates jams along the river. We have a few islands along the river’s center and on and around these and down the river around the bends, little ice mounds build up; everything melting, freezing and melting again. As it tries to warm up, the ice, ice, ice—floats down powered along by pushing ice, ice, ice—and hitting ice, ice, ice—barriers, thus creating ice, ice, ice—heavy days. The ice slows the movement of the river from a swift rush, that will develop soon, that will create a great water rush, in nearby waterfalls. The cakes of ice, on top of ice, ice, ice—will rub against the banks of the river (during this time it is best to stay at high ground). The banks and crust along the river becomes all sludge, muck a watery mess, thereafter it will mark the way downriver, around the many bends (to St. Louis and New Orleans). The levee (by the High Bridge)—with its houses—will be a foot in mud and water, the streets up to West Seventy (up a score, from the river) where the street cars are, will hear the cracking, the ice, upon ice, ice, ice—rattle, see the rising water frame the ice against the banks, until it looks like the thick walls of troy, and the jams will break and the flood will be created in its place, swift, swift, and swifter, at night this will take place (start), while the city snoozes, doses and sleeps, thus, the temperatures peaks.

#1942 (8-18-2007) part of the story “No Road Back Home”

Note.- The picture is of the Author at Minnehaha Fall in winter in Minnesota.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Frosty Minnesota March

Frosty Minnesota March


“Mother, you look so cold?”

(She’s gazing out the window, she loves winter time, its frightful cold this evening, though, and winters turn into a lion.)


“Mother, I’m going south for the rest of March—come along, the winters too long for me!”

(She simply looks into my eyes says :) “The South, go on, let me be!”


“Sweet mother dear—tomorrow they say, comes another storm!”

(Here cold eyes now look at me, says with a gleaming eye and smile :) “Then take me to Las Vegas or let me just freeze!”


Minnesota Winter Crows[A Minnesota Poem] in Haiku form

Minnesota Winter Crows
[A Minnesota Poem] in Haiku form

The long, long wave of winter
Creeps, slowly creeps back
From where it came from

It had burst around us, this
This Merry spell—died
It has not, not yet…

But lifted its gray, bleak clouds—
It most surely has!
Less lovely…yes, perhaps;

Then comes early spring: crows
In their bleak, black—flight
Looking feverish…!

#1732 3-13-2007

Notes: here is a four stanza Haiku, on the ending of winter in Minnesota, in 2007. Minnesota is known for its winters going out like a lion, and so it has proven so in the month of March, of 2007, when this poem was written. It would seem winter would simply stop, and spring would come in, but it never happens that way. Even the crows have a period of time to readjust to the new season, for the winter has helped them grow thin and lean, and has helped the humans in Minnesota to grow fat, because they hibernate in the house somewhat. Then in spring the crows grow fat, and the humans start growing lean, they get out of the house as soon as possible—and then there is no end to their activities.
Commentary on Winter Storms: Winter storms are simply a part of the culture, a fact of life, or so it would seem in Minnesota; I was born there, in St. Paul, and have witnessed many of them. Severe winter storms go back as far as weather reporting goes, to perhaps, Nov 10, 1835, when a severe storm caused 19shipwrecks on Great Lakes, 254 sailor’s died´. And then on Nov 8, 1870 the first winter storm warning was issued by the U.S. Army Signal Corps. On March 14-15, 1941 terrible blizzard in western counties, 85-mph winds at Grand Forks, 75 mph winds at Duluth. In 1996, we had three blizzards, and in 1997, we had five blizzards. The total seasonal snow fall, is between 90 and 120 inches.

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Friday, February 23, 2007

Angel or White Shadow (Surr'el))Minnesota, Poetry))

Angel or White Shadow (Surr’el)

My guardian Angel—
I’ve named you—Surr’el
I hope you don’t mind

I’ve never heard your voice
But I’ve seen you—
At least one time.

I’m the one you’ve protected
For so many years,
You stood, beside my bed once…

(when I was dying, almost gone…
and I got a glimpse of you—
tall and white and broad:)

You are my white shadow
Who I wish to meet someday,
I have thought of you often…!

#1696 2-18-2007

Note: the poem speaks for its self I suppose, but I did want to point out, the happening, where I had a stroke, and heart attack, and was not suppose to make it, and fooled everyone, was at the VA Hospital, in St. Paul/Minneopoles, Minneosta, in 1993, May 5. And every morning I'd wake up and see the doctor there, and when I had asked his name, they said "Which one," and said he does not come around until noon with two other doctors, and a nurse (I saw him about 5 AM each morning just standing there, solid as stone, white jacket, big and broad). I asked: "Then who was at the end of my bed these past tree days?" They said, "No one." Well, you can say what you want, but when you see it for yourself, no one can tell you different. Especially when they said I was at one point, like a Fruitcake, dead in the brain. So I think I owe my angel one poem, for those were three trying days. I remember slightly, trying to use the phone, and I couldn´t figure out the numbers for the life of me; even forgot how to play the guitar, and I had been playing it for 30-years at the time. I relearned quickly, and was the miricale of the ward. My brother Mike was there for me, and my mother was having every church in the City pray for me, bless her soul. And I have written poems for both of them, but now for the angel.

Night Song (confessional poetry))Minnesota))

Night Song (confessional poetry)

Anger set in her going, like an over would watch
As the hospital tried to hide me
From my unwed mother’s arms
(in 1947)—
And then I took my place among
The corrupt world.

There were no bands or relatives
Upon my arrive, I
Was just simple, and naked
Looking blindly at the walls;
Now in my mothers arms
Held tightly as the nurses frowned.

Note: #1610 (1-15-2007). One child had died that night in the hospital, on October 7, 1947, at St. Josephs Hospital, in St. Paul, Minnesota; hence, I was almost fed to a new family, had my mother fallen to sleep up a few minutes more.

Non-Virtue (A Minnesota sketch from a summers day)

(A sketch—From the summer of 1960))
Dedicated to Mike Siluk))

“Hurry up, come here!” He said.
My brother, Mike, was smoking in the backyard underneath some bushes afraid mother would see him, thus hiding somewhat, and he spotted me, or I him, I can’t remember fully who got the first glance, but we were seeing eye to eye now, so I leaned down and got closer to those bushes, and sure enough it was Mike, smoking a cigarette, if I had any doubts before, I had none now.
He was shifting that cigarette like car gears, between his mouth and hand, and back again. Perhaps that is where he got his name later, “Gunner,”
I couldn’t say for sure, but I think he used to gun his cars, you know, accelerate it like puffing on a cigarette to get more juice out of it, before the big bang, before the car took off. I suppose it made it all that much more pleasurable.
The pantry was part of the kitchen, connecting anyhow, to one another, and mother would walk back and forth, she could see through the pantry window, the whole backyard, and that is why Mike singled with his hands, motioned that is (to me), to join him in his little crime scene. Ah, I was not wise back then, as you will see in a moment.
“All right,” he said, “take it quick,” as if that those were my initial intentions. I was not there to start a smoking habit, that would last twenty-years, but he slid the cigarette into my right hand, as if it belonged there. Teenager to teenager, a mutual crime was now born. At this point I was already saying to myself, ‘What am I doing,’ but I kept it in my hand, and slowly brought it to my mouth.
“All right,” he said smiling. He really didn’t need to say another word, I got the picture but he said something on this order: we are equally involved. And so I perhaps learned my first lesson in self-survival, or was it self-interest. If he was evil, it was I now, because my innocence was really simply waiting to be tested under fire, so it would have happened down the road of life I suppose, somewhere, had he not triggered my so called evil side. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame him, under the circumstances, as Mark Twain once said, and I learned that phrase of his, way too late in life, “A virtue is not a virtue until tested under fire.” I didn’t do very well, did I?

So what did I learn, and what is the premise of this little sketch? Perhaps, we can call it a virtue, or a good quality one has is really a non-virtue, until tested under fire, and usually we don’t even know it.

(Humor) 1/16/2007

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)
(Back in the mid-‘60s; St. Paul, Minnesota)

Who was he? I kind of misplaced him when I was young, his rustic voice, broken English, but now and then it comes back to me (the Ole Russian Bear, grandpa). He was kind in his own rude way…funny, but that’s how I remember him; my brother, mother and I, all together on Cayuga Street, in the late 50s and 60s…!

Who was he? I kind of miss him now, the Ole Russian Bear; he cursed a lot, I recall, to whom ever got in his way, in those old, far off days—but now, now that I think of it, he was what he was, the sole voice that stood above the house, perhaps feeling un-thanked, who knows.

Yes indeed, the catalyst of over lives he was, perhaps a tinge of destiny he planted here and there: he counted his money, like honey, and paid the taxes, tradesmen, and utilities, I guess I didn’t notice or care.

A man of a few words, little style, but his presence was huge, manners sedate, faithful as I look back, more so than that old black wooden mantel clock, that sat on top of the dresser, more faithful than most wives.

1/21/2007 (#1628)

An Old Error! (Confessional Poetry)

An Old Error!

This afternoon, I was thinking,
An old friend—had asked me once!—
“…you’ve never—missed an opportunity?”
And I thought hard on this
And it came to mind ‘one,’ once
I let opportunity slip through
My fingers, once, just once!
And it took me ten-years
To fix the error!—

#1677 (2-5-2007)) written while eating at El Parquettos Café, in Lima, Peru (Miraflores)

Note: This is not a complaint in life, rather an observation, if not a confessional poem, one that reminds me in the 1980s; while in Minnesota, failure can become an image for future success, as it did for me, or it can indeed make one feel like a loser. For me it was a driving force that helped me make over a million dollars, at one time.
Error, in a collapsed career…do not reduce your expectations, simply because of errors, we all make them, a slip is only a wrong note hit on a string of a guitar (I’ve often hit a wrong string, and no one was the wiser, they never noticed)) but we do don’t we)). And now that I look back, perhaps it was good for me to have made the error, life was boring for me at that certain time and job, deadening me you could say, thus, it made a big difference in my future decision making, and I monitored myself closer.

Poetic Profile (D.L. Siluk)


My childhood—was in St. Paul, a neighborhood
where sunlit lilacs were growing—
pink and crimson red. My youth at seventeen
(on this planet earth, of asphalt and cement)
I say only a fragment of my life, forgive me…not sure
where it went.

I was found by many women, to be a home for them
cupid of the neighborhood , back then.

I am calm and live in a deep drum
a dream of a drum (some say):
I love beauty in all forms, even black roses—
and blue jays and yellow soup with chicken floating
on top.

I dislike lazy or unpolished brass. In my silence I listen
for echoes, from the outside of the world.

Today at the café, the man across from me—
staring and writing, black hair, dark glasses,
under an umbrella, (perhaps gay)
is howling inside his skin, for a friend, to look
mysterious for him—, he had a message to give, and
I didn’t take it…!

Men by themselves hope
to talk as gods someday, perhaps to be one, or
looked upon as, so it seems at the end
they leave the world with little or nothing,
but a change of cloths and hat, perhaps a
mattress and bed….

And when comes the day, our ship comes in, to take
us away…never to return, we’re all naked again!

Comments: The whole elaborate business of living and our bodies and minds collapsing after time, is written, and memorized deep within us, there is time for everything it has been said, under the sun, but walking will not get it done, we must run with the wind to fill all the gaps in our soul and minds. Thus, a quick examination, a profile, if you please, is needed today, or so I feel, and now you got it.

#1680 2-6-2007

Three Minnesota Poems: Haiku for MN Winter; MN's Winer Rose & Waiting for Autumn

Haiku for Minnesota Winter

Its mid winter
I wonder how they’re doing
In Minnesota.


Minnesota’s Winter Rose

There is frost on the Rose
Shadows sway with whistling winds,
Soundless is the snow…

#1676 2-5-2006

Waiting for Autumn

I was born in Autumn, and will perhaps die in Autumn
(Born in autumn I say, born in autumn, autumn
in Minnesota; thus, come forth with me,
O autumn—a peasant’s fondness, the hour is near).
Why do I long for you ((autumn)), become lost in your leaves?
I can see the rain on your roses, O thou inexorable time
Who passes the soul, the soundless soul—like snow?
I love your shadows bony thin, as the winds gather appearance,
It is autumn of the next year, and I stand alone—waiting
I love thee! I weep; embrace her, her chilled face,
Her sweet breath, known only to the air, crystal at the mouth.
She has a veil, mystery goddess, hast thou seen me!
Promise’s to come again she does, with her thine eyes
but I understand, you must leave for paradise!
To return in another year; yet my unhappy soul, drifts into
a darker world—Thou lovest me? But cannot stay!
With fringing flames, ye are fled! Holy whispers die, fade
Yet murmurs to my heart remain, I did not wish it!
but they remain,--ah! Far beyond these hours! She
Remains captive for a time, time and circumstance, will
I see you again?
Perhaps, if doom does not become my destiny! —come
forth with me, our far adventure waits…!
Should I not somewhat slay thee? If I could I would, then
you hath not me, or need of me to wait for thee!
It little matters which way I go, I drowest in gratification
That I have met you with a peaceful heart.
I was born in Autumn, for autumn, and will perhaps
die in Autumn;
Sorrow or joy, it little matters which comes, as long as
Autumn remains, her fiery-colored wings, to laugh
With me, as we hear the trumpets of God in the wind.

#1691 2-17-2007

The Old Camera (A Minnesota Poem))Cayuga Street Gang))

The Old Camera
(A tribute to old times)

Sometimes I feel
(looking at that old picture
from that old camera—back in ‘58)
feel I’m still that eleven-year old boy
in Como Park (St. Paul, Minnesota)
standing in the sun
with my pal, Mike Rossert
(like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer)
smiling—proud as can be
(over nothing)) just life))
arm around his shoulder
(his around mine)) now 59)).
I suppose there wasn’t a care in the world
(just loose time, romping time—).
That old camera (1840s)
caught it all:
life was so simple
it was a ball…!

#1632 1-29-2007

Note: Dedicated to Mike Rossert. Mike and I roamed St. Paul as kids, between 1956, perhaps to 1959; but we remained friends until I was perhaps 15-years old, then we both lost track of each other. He was perhaps my first real friend, I mean, one I spent any quality time with. We’d roam the banks of the Mississippi River, and wake up the bombs in the caves thereabouts. We run and explore the tunnels under the streets of St. Paul, Minnesota, that went from the Capitol to the Historical Society, and to other such places. And to the top of the hill where the museum used to be, and of course out to Como Park; we’d also run in and out of the elevators downtown, like clowns. I think he was more daring than I but it was—nonetheless, unforgettable times, times that are worth looking to back; thus, it is prudent I do believe, to let ones kids explore the wonders of youth, it is only around for a clap of an eye, than lost to oblivion, unless you can capture it, in a poem.

The Shameless Summer (Cayuga Street, St. Paul, MN)

The Shameless Summer
(And the old mud hole of Cayuga Street)

The street-road was being torn up, to be a highway,
A number of men worked at the end of the street
Where there reside two dead ends, South to Indians
Mound (and ahead)
We all stooped over and under and around the bridge
they were building
The mud hole, where we swam, seem to wait for us
this year of my life
From mud too mud, lumped and cool, we swam in it slowly
Waved our muddy hands over the top of it, feeling the
cool wind
Above our heads of this mud swamp, the highway to be
Here we were all wavering under the shameless sun
I was but twelve years of age, restless like everyone
And as the darkness fell upon us all, a starry darkness
Roger, and me, Mike and Doug, and a number of girls
lay face upward, on this stale mud water
Laughing and playing childlike, unreal, unimaginable
On the blanket of mud on shore, Roger and she lay
floating away, in some starry unnatural way
To me it was just play, play in dishwater broth, I was
Only twelve you see…

1/21/2007 #1629 (Dedicated to the Old Gang of the 60s, of Cayuga Street)) St. Paul, Minnesota))

Note: The mud hole was not there the following year, but we must have gone to it a dozen times that summer. There is nothing like a little swimming pool, half mud or not, that can make the summer more interesting than normal, and it did. I think for Roger, it was a playground for him to seduce his new girlfriends, for me it was play, but then Roger was a number of years older than I, perhaps four or five. Mike, my brother was now fifteen, and I think drinking and a few other things was on his mind, and we did that there likewise, and a few joy rides there after. All in all, it was a brazen summer.

Rats without a Roof (A Minnesota poem))and Three Epigrams))

Three Poetic Epigrams


I have been one of those folks that can pick up and move an irrevocable distance at a moment s notice; forgetting the trauma on the body, the problem is, now at 59-years old, I’m running on empty.

Dry Horse

People see what they
Think they saw, and expect you to
Believe what they think they believe.



Those that don’t know their won luck
Are prone to get bitten
By the imperious dog.

#1699 2-23-2007

Rats without a Roof
[Dedicated to My Brother Mike Siluk—l958]
…the rats would emerge from under the fire-barrel
in late fall (where the garbage was burnt year round),
before the season faded into winter;
this is when the stone-cold stillness
freezes the ground:
this is when my brother and I emptied
the old burnt garbage and all—
buried it deep, while the ground was still soft.
Shadows lurked when we moved that fifty-gallon barrel,
moved it on its rim—then came the fat hairy rats
who lived underneath…
we both knew they’d soon appear,
just when, not where; scat, they did:
to ‘nd fro; it was their roof to their home
you know— …sniffing us, they’d run here and there,
right behind the garage, the trees, bushes
and towering weeds, to our side—they’d
turn around squeaking insanely squeaking,
at our disturbance—as we took the roof
off their home, and they watch:
quivering in the icy wind: as we kept
digging…still digging the hole!...
to put the trash in…!

#1700 2-23-2007 (Revised) (Originally written, Mar. 24, 2005)) St. Paul, Minnesota, USA))

Sunday, July 30, 2006