Monday, November 27, 2006

Indian Blanket (A Sketch in Life--1953)) Dedicated to Mike Siluk))

Indian Blanket
(A Sketch in life—1953))
Dedicated to Mike Siluk/By: D.L. Siluk))

I was but a kid back in ’53, my brother Mike, two years older than I, we seemed to get along better then, better than now that is. When we were both young we’d play in our backyard, up a ways was a long embankment, with rolling hills behind (I once put fire to that hill, but that is another story); anyhow, we’d lie on our Indian blankets by the house in the backyard, play cowboys and Indians, Mike had a Mohawk, daring he was, it was the last few summers I’m talking about, prior to our moving, we even built a tent out of those old Indian blankets, we were together nearly all the time back then. Then one day we up and moved, we just disappeared, grandpa, mom me Mike, we moved from Arch Street in St. Paul, Minnesota up a few miles, north that is, to Cayuga street; oh, perhaps two miles in-between, here and there.
No one from the neighborhood knew we had gone, I think, nor cared, and the next thing I knew, we were in our new home, it was 1957-58, and I played cowboys and Indians in the attic; getting pretty old for that I think, I was ten years old, Mike was twelve, at which time I had asked him to play with me, knowing he had his new friends of course in the new neighborhood, of course, “Don’t tell anyone I played with you this…(Little People, we called it).” I assured him I’d not tell, and perhaps that was the end of our Cowboys and Indians saga. What would take its place would be poetry, in the following year, 1959.
As I think back now, growing up too quick takes the fun out of life, perhaps it wasn’t too quick, and it just seems so now. So I can only say to the parents out there, let them play, they will not forget those far off days.

Armageddon: Coming of the Last Baattle

Armageddon: Coming of the Last Battle

In most everything, one usually can look back after the fact, and say, “Yes I guess there were signs to the present disaster,” thus, there is a chronological list of prophetic events to the Coming battle, we all call Armageddon, in the near-past it has been more legend and lore, in ones theological mind than reality, but I would be hard pressed to believe that now: it is true light for our everyday reality. We are at present entering that very era, and perhaps one-day someone will say, “I heard of that, isn’t it myth?” Like Sodom and Gomorra.
I hear many folks saying, the none believers mostly, “We’ve always had wars,” pertaining to the bible scripture that says, in so many words: in those days there will be wars, and rumors of wars. Let me define that statement a little more to how it was meant to be read (Matt. 24:6): yes, there has been times where there have been wars and rumors of wars, but there has not been widespread wars plus rumors of more wars coming from all parts of the globe likened this era.
This is the era we are living in my friend. We have a number of wars going on now: from Haiti, or the Caribbean area to African Sudan, and a number of other African countries: Chad and there beyond, is unrest and anarchy in Zimbabwe. In South America, we have a number of countries unstable (with growing dictators, and want to be dictators, from Venezuela, Peru, Bolivia to Equator, and Colombia; thank God the people of most of those countries, not all, put such dictators down with their votes, poor Venezuela has now to suffer with its arch demon for a ruler, and Bolivia will perhaps wakeup in time, like Peru did, and), and rumors of unrest, possible wars for the near future.
In Asia and Indonesia, we have Timor, and terrorists in Java, a rocky area indeed. And in Europe we have unrest again in several eastern countries. In the Middle East we have more than unrest and a war just ended in Lebanon (ready to start up at any moment again), and one still going on in Israel, ready to ignite another regional war with Egypt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia (rumors again: but remember they have two previous wars); and Iraqi, and we see they are trying to talk to Iran (Iran threatening to blow Israel off the face of the earth once they get the big bomb, which they’ve almost got, making them number #8, in the nuclear field of deadly countries)) and North Korea right behind them, making them number #9), and Syria, in hopes to slow down their supplying the enemy, thus, all three countries are really at war, in a war zone: call it what they will, but that is what it is. So we have one forth of the world’s at war, and perhaps one third in the state of rumors of wars to be.
If this is not global, what is, and this is just the beginning, I haven’t even brought up the fuse burning with Japan over North Korea (but I suppose I will now), or Japan with China, and Taiwan, whom China threatens to war with soon (and we do not have a fleet of ships circling Taiwan for nothing)) thus, we have threatened China to war with them, should they do as they said they’d do; and in time I do believe they will do as they said, why not?)). And India who has threatened to use the big bomb on Pakistan, and in return they have reminded India they now are the 7th (I think) country to have the nuke likewise, and can throw one their way. So you see, the war games are in place. Even some of the Pacific islands are in turmoil over rulership, another provoking war signal.
I must say on the list of Chronological events to Armageddon, this is just one of many. I was going to go through more, but time does not permit, and it would take more space than I’m allowed on this magazine. But the premise of this article is, we are entering the era to Armageddon, right this minute.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Florencia [ Prose Poem] The Hidden Underworld Kingdoms of the Amuc (Revision II)

Florencia

[A Peruvian Love Tragedy, in Poetic Prose]


The Hidden Underworld Kingdoms of the Amuc


Revision II

In English and Spanish







By Dennis L. Siluk






Copyright © By Dennis L. Siluk, 11/2007
Florencia
[A Peruvian Love Tragedy in Poetic Prose]




Illustrations by the Author;
Translated from English to Spanish by
Rosa Penaloza de Siluk


























Prologue (The Account): There are many kingdoms that have come and gone on earth, throughout written history, mostly documented, but there is only one group of kingdoms, that I know of, that has come, and has not gone, that has existed for eons, it is the Hidden Underworld Kingdoms of the Amuc, which consist, actually four kingdoms, somewhat interconnected; I repeat, they are not on the surface of the earth, rather, they are in the crust, the gravel, the dirt of the planet.
I have talked to many people in the Andes, and in the villages beyond, talked to the miners, and old timers, they all believe in them—the Amuc, some have saw them, others have heard the legends of them. Some say they have blond hair, others say they have steel wings, and are a foot tall. I first heard about them in 1999, when I first came to Peru, and went to the Andes, and then I came back every year since (nine times to Peru so far), and the year is still 2006, at least for another six weeks. Anyhow, I bought a house in Lima, and one in Huancayo, in the Mantaro Valley. And then I purchased an adobe hobby farm of sorts, in the Village of San Jeronimo de Tunan, and this is when it all started. I mean this is where my story actually originated. I don’t expect anyone to believe me (I myself, am still digesting it) but I shall nonetheless give it to you (that is, the actual account that took place).
Close to my property, which is about seven hundred-square meters, with tall adobe walls surrounding the land, perhaps three feet thick, with several small dwelling within this enclosure, is where I live (when I’m visiting the Mantaro Valley, near Huancayo, beyond the Andes), live on the weekends that is (my wife, Rosa and I live in our apartment ((residence)) in the city of Huancayo, during the week); an old Church (1539 AD?) called St. Sebastian, is nearby my property, up an old dirt road a bit. There one weekend in the month of August, of 2006 (most recently, from writing this story)) for I am now in Lima, Peru)), I was carving out a garden in one section of my soil, by one of the adobe dwellings, and I found a sculpture, effigy type, it was carved into the liking of a midget size king—that looked a tad like a rat, but much taller than a rat, yet smaller than a midget; at the time I thought it was a goblin, but I am not in Ireland, I told myself, and it was not a fairy, although it could have been, perhaps it was something in-between, like one of those Amuc people I heard about.
Oh well, let me get on with the story: the adobe foundation to my property was build around 130-years before I had bought the place, it went through the Pacific War, the one between Chile and Peru, about 1879 to 1883 (that was the time when the famous and courageous Avelinos fought against the Chilean Soldiers, and that is in itself, another story). So I thought it to be a statue, or a grave marking of some sort, and perhaps was buried somehow, and brought to the surface (my guess would be right—I think—but in the opposite direction, in that it was somehow, I believe, long and deep under the ground, and yes, somehow surfaced in time). And so, it was, but it was not of the war I talk about, it was of a great Amuc that once lived, or maybe not so great, we shall see how he fares in history. Oh yes, now we are getting into the real heart of the matter, are we not. Well, that is why I call this story, an account because that is just what it is.

So let me go on with this account: I dug deeper into the ground, in the silenced of the night so no one would be the wiser, twilight is always haunting and worth a good dig, and eerie it was, and it really made the spell of the digging more enchanting, smoke like figures even crossed the moon, and moonbeams shot (so it seemed), shot right down through the porthole I had made in the roof over my dig, so as to give me more light over my head.
Shadows swept like lotus—to and fro—over the gray ebbing clouds above the crown of my head, it was a warm evening, to say the least. I had even added adobe walls around the dig; thus, it was a structure now: twenty feet deep the hole was, with a rope ladder attached to the adobe walls, tub by tub for three weeks I dug and brought up dirt from the hole, piled it here and there, little mounds everywhere in my yard. Woops, I forgot to tell you, I found the second part of the gravestone I mentioned above, of the same man or Amuc I presume, and it read in Quechua (one of the oldest languages on earth, which my wife could decipher, being Peruvian, and from the Mantaro Valley region). It read as follows:

“King Niobla of Remora (King of the West Kingdom) scornful heart he had, and a wicked laugh for all. He died in 642 AD, and blessed was the underworld for this, thereafter; and lets all hope he’ll be imprisoned in Hell. Inscribed by: the Un-grieving”


As I dug deeper, the walls started crumbling, that is when I found the coffin of the king, and when I opened it, he did have steel like wings, as if angelic, but they were laid to his side, perhaps he felt he could fly, they were attachable. He was no taller than a foot or more, perhaps fourteen inches, in all. And he still had his skull oddly attached to his neck, and deep-rooted socket for eyes in his head, yet he did not resemble a rodent so perhaps the sculpture was some sort of jest.
I was at this time, twenty-two feet below the surface, and hence, I dug another week, another ten feet, slowly, now thirty-two feet, then at forty-feet, I found a tunnel, and it went downward, but it was cramped, I am 172-pounds, and five foot, eight inches tall, not tall for today’s, primates, but tall for the average Peruvian, and a giant according to the corpse and statue I had found. As I pushed my way through these skin tight walls, I was scared I’d be buried alive, and only with a flashlight (and small shovel in hand); I saw a few hundred feet down further (in front of me), an item lay in the dirt, when I got to it, it was a hat, presumably for a small females head, so my guess was at the time, then I noticed foot prints, small, but I could make them out to be footprints nonetheless. I was starting to push my body backwards, I had had enough of this, air was thin, and I was scared, and cramped, and it was muggy and dark, going ahead I observed, would be most difficult, for the tunnel got even thinner, how would I make it, I asked myself. Then (and I must say, there will be a lot of ‘then (s)’ in this account), I heard behind me the crumbling of the walls, I couldn’t turn around, and it would be most difficult to go forward, pushing and heaving my way through that thin cramped space (it got no wider for about twenty feet beyond, where I was at that moment, and then, it was no wider than where I was now—if I could squeeze my way through to the wider side beyond that twenty-feet—that is; I was using up my options quicker than I hopped to, and in the process becoming fatigued.
I reiterate, I did have a little shovel with me for digging, it was what I had been doing for close to four weeks now—or perhaps it was a few days beyond four weeks, so why not try to dig my way through to wherever the tunnel led me to (that is, dig around the twenty feet in front of me, enlarging the space for my body), or rot where I was, and then I saw a little woman, beautiful as could be, faintly she appeared, and this is were my narrative comes from, not sure if I dreamt it, or was told it when I was passed out, or delirious, for I was incapacitated for a while, and exhausted when I tried to back my way out, and tried thereafter, to squeeze and dig my way forward, neither being of any good end result—, if possible, perhaps I may have gotten the story— instinctively, in some unconscious form unknowing to me through that Little Princess, and perhaps it was Florencia all along, or whomever, or whatever, but when I woke up I was back outside my tunnel, in the shack I had built around the hole, it was as if I was pulled out by my feet, my shoes were off, and my ankles had red marks around them.


[Opening: to the Dream]: it was in the time, perhaps the 7th century or so, a time when the kingdoms of the Mantaro Valley were ruled, and captured by the Wanka Warriors, and Unishcoto, Arwaturo along with Wariwilca were just being inhabitant (now old ruins in the Ville); it was a time when the little people, known as the Amuc, lived underground in four kingdoms, the Northern Kingdom, the Southern Kingdom (remote and small, not a fighting kingdom for the most part), the Western Kingdom know as Remora (once the most dominate of them all), which was part of the Eastern Kingdom, yet the Eastern Kingdom was the mightiest of all the kingdoms of the Amuc’s underworld at this given point in time—and each had its separate kings. Remora feared the Northern Kingdom, of Drabmol, and under battle, they had lost more lives, yet these two kingdoms were not completely tested to the point of one was dominating the other.



Interlude: The Landscape

In this break of sorts (between the prelude, and the actual story), I want to talk briefly of the landscape, before we get into the account, for that is really what this is. Let me first say, I am not a geologist, so I care not to struggle beyond my limits (for I would not execute well) that is, try to describe to you, the reader (as it appeared to me), the interior cavity I saw in the crust of the earth; I shall leave that—for the most part—to your imagination—but I will say (or give) in passing a brief report on it (and then be done with the matter): there were frowning, primeval and precipitous cliffs, and pillar like rock formations—with steep and rough looking peaks; deep rocky canons with sheer drops, plunging deep into valleys below (culde-sac)) or blind ended)).
There laid all about, scattered stones crumbled from the cliffs of various sizes and shapes (perhaps usable for ammunition, by the Amuc.)
In many areas formed an inky blackness, where it came from I do not know.
(I suppose I could say now ((but I didn’t think of it at the time when I was part of this account), these were most unfavorable circumstances to live under, and are little short of miraculous, for the Amuc, or anybody.)








The Andean Underworld of the Amuc





The Love and Tragedy
[The Account]






1

King Dnusirut of Drabmol (of the Northern Kingdom), accepted Prince Niobla of Remora, as his guest, he was visiting the kingdom at his father’s request, to ensure peace was still abreast with this barbarian tribal kingdom of the north, and at the request of King Nitsuj, of the East. But the Prince had brought up a sour issue, said he:
“I request to be given the dagger I killed your son in battle with, to take it back home with me as a trophy of my conquest.”
So he told this to the host king in the throne chamber, and with tears in his eyes the king bowed his head in sorrow, saying, “Yes, I understand it is your right of conquest.”
The war between the two kingdoms was stopped prematurely, when the king from the East told all, he would take both kingdoms from both kings should they not make peace, and it was a threat he could fulfill. Now, when the request had been made, it happened to be, Prince Dnumiunc was nearby listening, and went historical, as he approached into the center of the room, said he, in no pleasant manner, after a great laugh—which boomed like iron bells:
“He was my brother—father, do not give him the dagger he cut the throat of my brother with!”
The father looked weary indeed, and knew he could make no concessions in this matter— so he said the only thing he could say, “Son,” (he said in a humbling, but steadfast manner) “…oh my son, Prince and someday to be king of this land of the North, you must keep its traditions and customs, it is like particles of our peoples blood that goes back some 100,000-years—back, way back behind us, we must give it or be shamed, now say no more, I am already disgraced by your lips, your mouth, go and hide from my eyes…!”
“Disgraced from this mad-god that has no courage, he should have taken the knife out of his heart when he had the chance, when he killed him on the battle field, why now…why now does the slayer come to do what he could have done before? I remember quite well, he plunged the blade into his heart, and then ran like the wind from our soldiers. I even lost count of him.”
Oh yes, there was heat and hate, and venom coming from the body gestures, and the mouth of the uncouth prince. Said the king with a sigh:
“Say no more, lest I have you removed from this imperial chamber, and that will be to your dishonor, it will be as I said.”
And that was the last words that came from the tongue of the contempt prince.


2

It was in the hallways Princess Florencia of Drabmol was walking, and she was the flower of all the kingdom, most beautiful, more so it was claimed, than Cleopatra, or even Helen of Troy, and more pleasing to the mind and eye than, Aphrodite, with her deep flood of hair, and dazzling deep eyes, soft skin, who was full of life and warmth, so when the Prince of Remora saw her he stopped, caught his breath, wide-eyed, said (in an unkindly manner and inquisitively), “My gosh, who are you, a stunning beauty among these Barbarians?”
Said she with her head held high, “I, my immature and obnoxious Prince, am Florencia, and I dislike you more than the scorn you received in the throne chamber, now leave me pass!” (The prince was her senior by only a few years.)
Oh, save for his life, he would not move, not for love nor money, king nor land, he would not move, he made his stand, “I will have you, you will be my bride to be…you will be in my bed, and bear my children.”
“You insidious, insufferable creature, how dare you speak to me like that, I am a Princess, and you will never have me, save my father will slay you first.”
The Prince, looked about, then commented, “And where is he, your father, and who is he?”
“His name is Prince Dnumiunc,” said Florencia.
“Oh yes,” said Niobla, “Him, I suppose I will have to slay him as I did his brother. Perhaps, once I am king, then we shall see who fares best in war and battle, with sword or stiletto, it doesn’t matter to me; and I hasten to say, but I will: without King Nitsuj’s hindrance—had it not been for He, in insuring we no longer war with you, we would have had you under our heel by now—.”
“So you say, but I think not.” Rejoined the Princess. Next saying, “You would have been our servants, is more like it.”
“I see you have an undomesticated mouth, so be it, I will tame that also, and put you under my loins, and make love to you, and you will wish I would never have stopped.”
“I have no lover, but if he were you, I’d cut your throat, or mine,” exclaimed Florencia, adding “if man could for a moment not think of his stomach or sex—uncompelled for just a moment, perhaps he would provide something useful to society, all I hear is ‘I want, you should, this is, that is…!”’
Then all of a sudden Prince Dnumiunc appeared, said he with hand to his sword, “Why do you talk to this vulture?” he asked his daughter.
“It was I mad prince of Drabmol, I stopped her and asked her whom she was, so I am at fault, not her. But she is beautiful, give me her hand in marriage, for my wife, or I will take her anyway, as my mistress.” Said Niobla.
“You are an bug, bacteria, to this kingdom, and you have out used your curtsey of being our guest, I hope you are gone by morning, I would love to put my sword into your chest, cut out your heart, and I need very little reason more.” Said Prince Dnumiunc.
“I am sure that your sword and skill are as dull as your wit and words, hide your sword and save yourself: by god, give me your daughter while you can, or prepare yourself for the worms of hell.”
Having said that, the scourged and love hungry prince dashed off to his room.








3




Prince Niobla of Remora
(The Western Kingdom)



[Nine months later] It was by the night they came, and through the princess’ window, subsequently, they bound her, and took her back to Remora, Prince Niobla was now king—and waiting impatiently for his new trophy.
Said King Niobla, to his captured mistress, Florencia, “You will lay with me one way or the other.”
“I will not willingly, nor do you dare, my father will war with you, slay you.” Said Florencia, nervously, yet trying to keep her composure.
“He must know you are with me by now, where is this father of yours, he is not knocking at my door, I see him not (he goes to the window, it is morning in his land and the surroundings are cool, he looks out it, then looks back at Florencia, his eyebrow goes up, he smirks).”
“You dare not…!” repeated the princess.
“Do you think for one minute I have gone through all this, to not have my appetite, my desire, and hunger met?”
“You dare not, my father will….” Reiterated the Princess.
“But I do dare, I will drink your father’s blood someday, I will drink it with my wine and mix it with his bones, bury him with the worms; yes, and time will show you it will be so.”
“My grandfather will war with your kingdom, and we almost tore your armies to shreds last time we battled,” said the princess.

This was true, and the West, feared the Northern barbarians, but the new King would have his mistress nonetheless, and make her queen, one way or the other, or have her live as his mistress, like it or not, and he threw her on his bed. And it was that way for three months, each night, every night. He could not get enough of her. And then it came to pass, he was called to attend a meeting in the Eastern Kingdom, by none other than, Prince Dnumiunc, and King Nitsuj, and to bring Florencia along. Oh it was maddening for the new King Niobla to do so, but he heeded the King’s command from the East, lest he lose his kingdom, and mistress, Florencia—both out of pride, when he could perhaps persuade the king somehow to his way of thinking; he was no fool.



4


King Nitsuj, sat on his throne, as Prince Dnumiunc stood in front of him, and King Niobla, likewise, said the old king, King Nitsuj, “You have taken a princess out of a kingdom, and spoiled her, what do you have to say for yourself King Niobla?”
“This is true,” said the freshly daubed King, “and the heart sometimes cannot stop itself, I love her with all my heart, and I had to have her. I requested she be given to me, but her father has venom in his tongue, and blood because I killed his brother in fare battle, as all wars have battles, and loses, and now he wants revenge, and uses his daughter for this; had I not asked for the blade I cut his brother’s throat with, he’d have given her hand to me in marriage, perhaps.”
“This is no reason to take what is not yours in battle. You did not win the war, you slay only a man in battle, a prince, and imprison a princess under peaceful pretenses; you must be accountable for your actions, for you even admit you are at fault, guilty of this seditious and lustful offense, when I, and your father agreed there would remain peace between all kingdoms—what should be the judgment on a king who takes another kings granddaughter, what would your judgment be?”
“I want him dead!” bellowed Prince Dnumiunc.
“And what do you say to that?” asked the presiding king.
“Let Florencia decide what is to be done with me.” Said the accused king.
King Nitsuj, looked at Prince Dnumiunc, “And what do you say to that?” he asked.
Said the angered Prince looking at the King Niobla, “So be it, she will cut your throat, and your private parts off,” and he laughed with a vengeful grin.

At that, the old king had Florencia brought out, and she was asked what would be her judgment on King Niobla. She hesitated, so her father said, “Have him killed, Florencia, you hate him as I do.” But she could not speak those very same words. (In her heart, she knew deadly sleep was the only gift this selfish king could offer her, his kingdom, society, but she didn’t say that, she didn’t say anything of the sort.))
King Nitsuj knew that under the latch of freedom a king might take at will whatever he wanted, that if a king had an open door to do so, and no one was to restrain him—why not, especially for a youthful king that would feel infallible, therefore, there’d be no limits, no discipline, and continuous war and rebellion, rare would it be if humanity itself would not weaken, become degenerate, consequently, He knew He must bring forth somekind of judgment—now!))
“I must think of this a while,” she expressed, “perhaps a week would do.” Her father held his breath, a sigh came out, it was tension, and he was flabbergasted.
“I am with child, do I slay its father, and then tell the child when he is a young prince, ‘I killed him because he raped me?” All looked at her indecisiveness.
Said the old king, “It must be settled by you now, or I will make the decree…” and he murmured her indecisiveness.
“I cannot make the assessment today, it must wait.” Said Florencia.
“So be it,” said the Eastern King, adding, “you will have the right to join King Niobla at his kingdom, or your own, but should you choose his, you will be wed, and made queen. Should you choose your Grandfather’s kingdom, in the North, you will be Princess, and do with the child as you please. That is how it will be.”

And so it was that Florencia picked out the Western Kingdom, and King Niobla wed her as his wife, and adored her beauty, but hated her insults, yet for some reason he did not revenge those insults—no, retribution was not his game, rather he played with them with wit, for amusement. And when the child was born, it was a daughter, and the king was not totally happy, perhaps like most kings, they want a son first, to hand down the throne to, yet he accepted this fact, and adored her all the more, for it kept the Queen in place. He used it wholeheartedly, when she got too unruly, too disobedient (unmanageable), hence, he’d threaten her with the child, saying in so many words: he’d take his daughter away from a mad woman as she, and have her placed in some far off outpost of the province.





5


It was when the child was six years old, war broke out between the Northern Kingdom, and the Western kingdom, and Prince Dnumiunc was slain by one of his Generals, and his bones were brought to the throne chamber of King Niobla, and he picked out one, to have it inscribed, and silver tips fixed firmly on to it, and used as a mixing tool for his wine. It was during a gathering between he and his generals, they talked about warring with the South, and now that the Northern Kingdom was weakened (although not crumbling), they’d not come to their rescue should they attack the Southern sphere of influence, then they’d enslave the kingdom, use their gold, and men to dominate the Northern Kingdom, and perhaps, just perchance, take on the Eastern Realm. Awe, it was all circling in his head like thunder and rain clouds.

It was in this same hall a week later, the generals met with King Niobla, when he asked Florencia to come into the dinning hall, where all were feasting with a variety of meats and breads, and drinking wine and ale along with joking, and she did obey—un-cheerfully but complied, nonetheless, and upon approaching the king said, “What is it that my sovereign ruler wants of me, that you would have me come to such a despicable place like this, and look at your drunken face, and your devil rats, that do your bidding?” She was not kind with her words, nor her looks, and the King looked smugly at her likewise, his left eyebrow went up, and at that juncture Florencia, interrupted the general’s small talk by saying to all:
“Men of power are buzzards, supported by their mouths and stomachs alone—and Kings like you (looking at her husband) and your generals included, meddle with impunity in the affairs of the sovereign people, yet you know them not, they are strangers to you.”
The king continued to sip his wine with relish, then abruptly said, “You are at perfect liberty to say as you wish, you are my Queen, but, alas, I have a perfect formula for that!” (He had only wished to show her off, but now it was a contest of wit and pride, all mixed insidiously.)
“Old dogs, with new tricks, what a combination.” Said the Queen.
“With such insults to me and my generals, perhaps I should have one of them take you to bed and see if he can tame that wicked tongue of yours, they have done this in past times, and are quite good in tactical warfare, perhaps even better than I, which one would you choose?” He asked.
“Oh choose me,” said the old fat general, “I will give you male twins, “ and he laughed, and they all drank more wine.
“No,” said a tall thin general, “do not take the fat one, he will kill you with his belly in the way, take me, I will give you a strong male to rule the kingdom in time when you are old, he will protect you from your husband.” And they all held their bellies laughing and pouring down more wine and ale.
“So you see,” said King Niobla, “you have all these brave generals—willing to take on my wild rat, although one remains quiet, and one of these Generals killed your father, I have here in my hand, this silver tipped bone, with his name on it, Prince Dnumiunc, so who would you pick to be your new bed partner?”
“I have a child, but they would all be better than you, and I have my God, and would not soil my soul with such an answer.” Said the Queen.
“Here, take this bone and stir my wine,” and he held up his silver chalice, in one hand, the bone of her father in the other, “I said take it, or I will have your daughter removed from your presence, and taken to another outpost of our kingdom.” She hesitated but she knew he would do as he said.
Her heart was bleeding, and every inch of her wanted to murder him, but she took the bone, and stirred his wine, tears coming down her face,
“I curse you, for you will lay in Hell and beg the demons to let you glance through their magical mirror of water to see me, and I will be vomiting on your grave, and I will pick out your gravestone and it will be simple, not of a great king, but rather of a small, rodent in human form. It is mans inevitable contact—I think, with power—men such as you—which bears him—be he standing, sitting or laying, that keeps ones greedy mind wanting more, more and more, and it is only the force of gravity that brings one like you down; or the full concentration of your own self-interests, that also will bring you into touch with an early death (and she murmured almost in a silence: ‘…and so be it’).”
“Be gone before I have the generals rape you on the table, for a show.” And she left, to see her daughter in her room, but she made some observations, or at least finalized some previous ones: she thought on the way ‘…the King cannot stay in one position long enough to really think, he has to move (‘I shall not forget that’).


Interlude
(The Dark Interior)


It goes without saying, but I will say it nonetheless, what was reality, I do not know, my mind at this time seemed to be lost in the labyrinthine maze of fogy events, in this underworld of sorts. My sensory perception (or senses) wandered off, for long periods, or so it seemed, having to have to grab them and bring them back, as if pulling back pieces of a puzzle and putting it together—; I remember limestone formations, and farther back were granite —caves! Perhaps, not any kind of formidable habitat for man or Amuc, but surely for beast, yet I saw none, none but for a few small mammals (rodents) and reptiles, yet I could imagine, big for the little people, I sha’nt go any farther into this, it was as it was, and is really of no consequence either way.
—I would guess, somehow the eyes of the little folks could dispel the darkness; mine could—during this account.







6



It was two years later when the Queen could take no more, she was either to run, and hide from this mad king, or kill herself, or kill the king himself. He had now taken over the Southern Kingdom, and his plans were going quite well. And she knew it was just a matter of time before her mind would break with hate and revenge for his blood. Yet she was used to him, and there was something unknowing in her fiber that leered out for him, was it hate or a dead kind of lust, or something shielding, how could it be love (she had asked herself), lest it be coated with worms; she told herself this many times perhaps out of benevolent curiosity, thinking she’d come up with a solid correct answer. She would miss him, if he was dead, so she assessed, but she would die with anger while he lived, and one can learn how to live with naught. And he had her father killed, and all the sins he put upon her house, and her: vengeance, the settling of scores, her mind could not rest until it was so, it was the only healer, and as she sat in her room she asked Adlitolca, her maid to come in.
“Is not your lover, one of the supreme chamber guards in the kings throne room?” she asked.
Adlitolca was taken back a ting, she didn’t realize the Queen was aware of him as being her lover, and she said shyly, “Yes my Queen he is.”
“Why do you not marry?” asked the Queen.
“Oh, he says he is too young, and does not want to be burdened with a wife and child.” Said the Maid.
“Oh, I have a plan, tell him to come into your room at midnight, and I will be there, and persuade him to marry you, or he be put to the sword.”
The maid was astounded to here such good tidings, and rejoiced, and kissed the hand of the queen. There perhaps was not a brighter day in her life. And she agreed eagerly to do as she was told. And at midnight, Suedereo came into her room, but on the bed sat the queen.
The Queen whispered, and the room being pitch black, one could not see the other’s face, “Why, Adlitolca, do you have it so dark in here, I can’t even see my hands?” Asked Adlitolca’s lover.
“Come over here,” said the queen, “you do not need your eyes only hands, feel by breasts, they wait for you.” And excitedly he came closer, and they lay together, and he was more haply than a schoolboy who had won a priced sword.
Said the soldier, “You are more delightful than I have ever have known you to be, more softer, you smell so sweeter, an almost perfect fragrance—stunning might be the word, and all is so perfect.” Then she lit a lamp, and Suedereo bellowed, “Queen Florencia…!”
“Yes, it is me, “ said the Queen.
“But why?” asked Suedereo, dumfounded.
“Do you not like what you had?” Asked the Queen.
“Oh yes, it is above all I’ve expected. But why?”
“You will help me kill the king, or be killed by the king for taking me, for no matter what you say, he will not understand.”
“But how is a simple soldier like I to do such a great feat?” he asked.
“It will not be so great a feat, I will drug him, poison him, and he will be weak, and we will get Sihcimteh to assist you, he will put the sword across his neck, and decapitate him.” Said the Queen.

The queen knew Sihcimteh had eyes for her, plus he had special privileges with the king, he could come and go where he pleased, he was one of three of his special guards that stood beside him most always, or behind him. Thus, he was called into the Queens chamber, when the king was off hunting.
“I have noticed,” said the queen, in a silk gown, the right portions of her body exposed, her long hair laying across her back and shoulders, “I say you have had eyes on me like a lion that was hungry these past years.”
“If I have,” said Sihcimteh, “it is because of your beauty, not that I would try and take you forcefully, lest I be a traitor to my king.”
“If I wished you to be a traitor to your king, would you?” Asked Florencia.
He hesitated, looked at her carefully, “Your beauty is beyond a mans dreams, and if I could be persuaded, it would be only if I had you by my side. I have adored you greatly, but knew you possibly prized the king; I would have killed him long ago, had I felt you would love me. But you accepted the king and have not left his side.”
“This is true, but not out of love, nor fear, but because of my child; I would have killed myself long ago to rid myself of this monster, but she has always brought me back to my senses, where would she be. Hence, my braver Supreme Soldier, it is not love you see, but a test of my devotion to my daughter. (So the queen said with graceful effusion). In my husband’s face there is always death for others, or dishonor,” remonstrated, the Queen, adding, “death takes what life has no longer use for…I have looked upon you as a mate, a fine fit for me, a love that could grow, a love that is somewhat. My heart would be grateful, should you take the sword to his neck when he is asleep—for I do believe life no longer has any use for him. (The king was a handsome man, but he deplored the size of his hands, they should have been given to someone other than a King, perhaps a craftsman, or builder, they were strong, and surely the supreme guard was considering this, if he were to chose to kill the king: for he pondered silently for moment, picturing perhaps a struggle and those big hands pushing and grabbing).”
“He is a brave soldier also you know, and no one to fool with.” Said Sihcimteh.
“Then you are scared, and weak and fear him.” Said the Queen. (In her mind she thought: ‘…the king has taught me nothing in this world that would benefit me in the next; and soiled me to the point I will be only remembered as: the dishonored virgin, what an epitaph.’)
“No, I do not fear him out of fear, but out of his skill to fight, he is equal to me, perhaps, but out of love for you, he will be dead if your desire is well planned, and from what I hear, your love for me can grow.”
“I do realize he likes to rule as he likes to fight, like a tiger likes to eat meat and both are always hungry it seems: so Suedereo, will assist, as I poison his wine, you and he will come into his bedchambers, and Suedereo will hold him, while you cut off his head—and the tiger will be no more.”
“And you will be my love forever?” asked Sihcimteh. (Eh, the Supreme Guard watched her lean her thigh against him, her gaze upon him ((‘…how long her legs are…’ he thought)); next, there was a moment both were silent, he under her silent seething gaze; him perhaps imagining a kiss, then her eyes turned into ice water, sharp, and it broke the moment, remote it was, and he could not grab that immaculate feeling back.))
“Yes, yes, I will be your love, and love you as you please.” Replied Florencia.


(Interlude)) Thoughts of Florencia)): ‘One becomes attached to things one has long known, even if at first (even if imprisoned), at first, one is not particularly interested in the thing. Even a part of youth had some-say in the matter of me staying with the king—like wine imprisoned in a wine jar, and so I am, but I could not stop myself from fermenting with despair and anger. I know I’ll never be completely comfortable, not like before, before I met my husband, King of the Western Kingdom, unless he or I fall asleep, never to wake again. He brought me fret, and it seemed omnipotent. Now I shall give him death.’




7

Sihcimteh, Supreme Guard to King Niobla


It was the following night; Florencia went into the king’s bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, by him, about to hand him a cup of wine and stirred it willingly for him, with the silver tipped bone of her father.
The king looked at her with unkind stiffness, a haunting look indeed, and not favorable in the least, and the queen was unsure if this was going to work, she held her insides steadfast, disengaging from any undesirable thoughts that he might pick up on her face, she held the wine cup up…
“Why does the wild rat come in to see me, drink with me, have I tamed the witch in her?” asked the king.
“Must you say so much and look so hurt over the meagerness of this accommodation which I offer you? You are not my sire; you are my husband, my lover. (Trying desperately to assure the man on the bed that there was no ulterior motive behind her kindness, none whatsoever; trying to get that moment she knew she needed, when he couldn’t think of two things at once, when self-interest ruled.)
“No, it is I, whom wishes to make love, I desire thee, and I have been lonely for touch.” Said Florencia as she handed him the wine—stirring it, and he drank it, and as he drank it, she hid his dagger under the bed, lest he use it on her, or whoever else may enter.

It was a moment later the king tried to sit up from his bed, he was a ting sick in his stomach, “What did you put in the wine?” he asked.
“Not a thing, just the bone of my father,” she replied.
“No it is not true,” and he sat up (and Florencia also stood up and moved back away from the bed), looked for his knife, not finding it, and continuing to look, he hollered for his guards, and Suedereo and Sihcimteh came running in, Suedereo jumped on him, held him tight, but the king was strong—his big hands pulled him like a dead rabbit over him, slowly pushing him over his body—he rolled, then he spotted the dagger under his bed, leaned over to get it, and took one glance at Florencia before he grasped its handle of ivory and silver, and said “You devil’s witch …” and Sihcimteh’s sword sliced right through his neck, a millisecond later, and his head fell to the floor with a thump, as his body laid jerking across the bed as if it was electrified.

(Florencia was not crying on the shoulder of the king, her husband, the one who adored her, and scorned her—she was halfway in the arms of his killer. The Supreme Guard, the one that looked on with displeasure, but followed his heart; now she looked aimlessly about the room. ((‘So that is how a brave king looks with his head off…’ she told herself, quite ungrammatically so.)) Obdurate, in all he did, and here, in front of her, her divine king was turning gray and ugly now, so she thought. Now came beating of feet and the door opened and a deluge of light entered the room. She didn’t realize she’d react so shocked at his head being cut off, severed from its neck; inside of her she was starting to scream from the fright of it all, her body felt like crumbling to the floor, and then she walked out the door, bravely.)


In heist the Queen filled up a small caravan with the kingdom’s treasure, and headed east, there was a new king in the Eastern Empire, and she felt conceivably she could ask for asylum there, buy asylum that is, with a portion of her treasure, providing that is what the king desired, and she knew all kings desired gold and silver, and whatever else may go with it. He was young, and perhaps he had interests in her likewise, and that could be to her advantage.

Upon her arrival, she hoped that the King would be pleased with her beauty, and upon meeting of the king—it seemed so, she was asked in so many words: if the two soldiers that came along with her, had interest in her. She assured the young king from the East, they were only interested in the treasure, no more. And the king assured her, he would be interested in both her and her treasure, if this was so; and her being a queen (a queen at one time that is), she perhaps could be a queen again. He seemed to understand her killing of the King, knowing the long story of her oppressed life by him, but asked if this was his fate equally, should he trust her. And having expressed all this, he asked her to think about how much of the treasure he’d leave the two soldiers, should things work as premeditated. Therefore, she went to her room for deliberation.


The Supreme Guard took a quick stride from the king’s chamber through the uncarpeted hallways to Florencia’s room. He had done his duty, as he saw it, for the Queen, and closer he approached her chamber door, the faster his heart beat, discouraged: ‘Now I’ll see,’ he thought, exultantly.

With the King (her dead husband now), Florencia, always felt she had to tread in sand, now she was free… so she convinced herself, but on reflection, she was starting to doubt it (for was she)?

The queen paused before she said a word, smelling the freshness of the day coming in from the open window, she knew in a moment she’d have company, he’d walk though the door, the archway: ‘A day fades so quickly,’ she stated, ‘it is true of everything,’ she added softy, talking to herself, looking at the door, hearing his footsteps.

“I don’t know,” his voice said (‘why should she,’ he questioned in thought)
(‘He knows,’ she thought; ‘he’s a sentimentalist,’ she added to her thoughts, ‘He’ll enter the door archway ruefully, in a moment.’)


It was but a fleeting moment from her second to last thought ‘sentimentalist,’ Sihcimteh came busting into her room, bellowing, “Your love has faded to nothingness, what is this I hear, whispers around the kingdom, you and the new young king of the East will be one?”
Florencia looked at him, unshaken, gave him a glass of wine, “My love,” she said, “the kingdom talks because they wish to talk, I sat with the king and told him I wanted safekeeping and I’d pay dearly for it, I have a daughter you know, and it is true, my life would only burden you, it has with all men, although I’ve only known a few, and the few I’ve known seem to love war and killing, and are motivated by self-interest more than love, is this what a man is made of? Take a fourth of the treasure and go South, or North.”
Said Sihcimteh angrily, “It was only you I wanted, no more, and I will not let you go for any king, be it of the East or the West, or any kingdom or amount of treasure, we shall die together if we cannot live together, I will not be separated.” And then he started to sway, “You poisoned my drink, you little devil rat, come here.”
She hesitated, next, tried to flea, but he grabbed her by the hair, “You drink the rest,” he demanded, and she threw it to the floor. “No,” he said, “you will not escape me, I love you and we will die together, and he cut her throat, and she said, “Yes, yes…we will die together.” And they did.






Afterward


Florencia’s Heart


Who is to know another’s heart? Many think they do, only to find out they were mistaken. In the account at hand, perhaps the queen didn’t know men, nor the king women; once the old, had warn off, the King would grow on her—so he thought, and I don't know, but maybe he was right, conceivable, he did grown on her; on the other hand, perchance, he forgot, or overlooked, her spirit, how spirited, or forceful she could be, or she really was—sweet looking yes, with a bitter heart that never had a chance to heal with his disposition; it couldn’t had been any other way, she was given a dreadful scar, and it never left, nor had it (I repeat) a chance to mend; he had forgotten all her despair, and abortive endeavor to nurse back to health the wounds between them, but he had mistaken them for challenges.
No, no indeed, he didn’t know her dark side, and by and large, he could no longer hurt her. It was as she once said, “When it is hot, the king never gives shade.” She said it in a hushed tone, to her maid, said it as if her life had become pointless; and through the sheer prevarication of events (state of affairs) she could not live the dream within herself, dreadfully disappointed; furthermore, he had forgot about a woman’s needs (or perhaps never knew them), to touch the heart, fill her dreams, and know her depth and limits; yet he gave only new sorrow on top of old sorrow; nor did he see her vessel sinking.
If she could have, she would have said something good to leave matters as they were, she wished to, something that would release her mind: something that said: I see a spark of hope in him. But she didn’t see this, what she saw was a snake, and there wasn’t any medicine for his bite, which is what she saw, thus, her mind became lost in the placid death of evening; an evening of planning, that would undo the harm he could cause in future time. She had come to the conclusion, she was not going to change humanity, but she could unburden her soul.

Florencia’s face was still beautiful after several years, yet you could see a rough and heavy appearance being molded here and there on that face, a light color to it, too light, for a healthy countenance; perhaps from years of troubling sadness. She had thought at one time (possible from a passionate desire, I would guess) to cling to something concrete; in a world of dark shadows, it seemed meaningful, but she was learning all men live under a self interested umbrella of sorts, it was their nature to war, as it was for a woman to love, and care take, or want to; in both cases, most always, anyways; hence, she had not found one that had not. And yes, at this point and time, she was bone dry, her marrow sucked out of its foundations, its roots severed.
We all wonder how our death will be, but Florencia had hers figured out, or at least she thought so, most details were looked at, each corner reviewed, and as we now know, she was not indecisive when it approached her.



End of the Story



Index of Characters and *Places:

Princess Florencia of Drabmol (Queen of *Remora)
(Also know as: Florencia of *Drabmol)) The *North Kingdom))
Prince Niobla of Remora (the *West Kingdom)
King Nitsuj, of the *Eastern Kingdom
King Dnusirut, of Drabmol (*Northern Kingdom, grandfather to Princess Florencia)
Prince Dnumiunc, of Drabmol (his brother slain by Prince Niobla of Remora)
Prince (became king) Niobla of Remora (Western Kingdom)
St. Sebastian Church 1539 AD/San Jeronimo, Peru (*Mantaro Valley)
Maid to Queen Florencia: Adlitolca
Suedereo, Supreme/Chamber Guard, and boyfriend to the maid
Sihcimteh, Supreme Guard to King Niobla



11/16-25/2006; Written in Lima, Peru, in part, at El Parquetito’s Café, in Miraflores, and my casa, nearby; Revision #2




Reviews


RPP: November, 21, 2006: —Milagros Valverde—Radio Programas del Peru (RPP)) National Radio)) interviewed Mr. Siluk on his book, “The Magic of the Avelinos,” with positive feedback about the book; adding, she said: “It is nice to know, that someone from a forgion country can write beautiful things about our country and adopt it as his, for differents reasons.”



ENGLISH VERSION
10/8/2006


The Contest of Children’s Story and the
Globe-trotter Poet


Dennis L. Siluk is a globe-trotter American poet who anchored in Huancayo, and has fallen in love with the Mantaro Valley. He has already become known in our towns, where he participates in every holiday that takes place, as in the most recent one that took in Jerónimo de Tunán with the Avelinos.

“It is excellent to teach the children to foment their love to literature and to promote the love of nature through a contest of children’s story on ecology and human values,” he says referring to our announcement (contest).

According to Dennis Siluk, to write a story is a way of learning to value the natural resources. “It is very important to teach our children since early age, to spread the love to the nature and to the literature,” he indicated.

He told us that: “The College Independence, In the District of Cajas, has asked me to talk to the children about literature inspired by the ecology. I consider myself to be an old soldier in this struggle for spreading this type of literature; but now that I find out that there is this contest already, I do not feel alone because since Correo has begun to publish its page of Ecology, major interest is taking for this type of topics ".

He also stresses: “When literature is taught to the children since early ages, as well, the love of nature along with his and her culture, they become more sensitive persons, and then all their beautiful feelings are put onto a piece of paper. And certainly their self-esteem and personality is formed better.”

Finally he addresses and confesses to the children (by saying): “I want to say to the children they have a wonderful country and have many things of which they can feel proud of and to make Peru to become bigger than it is. Peru is a sleeping giant! The new generation has to wake it wake up, because it has everything to be a powerful country,” he concluded.



Spanish Version
10/8/2006


El Concurso de Cuento Infantil y el Poeta Trotamundo


Dennis L. Siluk, es un poeta trotamundo norteamericano que ancló en Huancayo, enamorado del Valle del Mantaro. El ya se ha hecho conocido en nuestros pueblos, donde participa en cada fiesta costumbrista que se realiza, como que recientemente estuvo con los Avelinos de San Jerónimo de Tunán.

“Es excelente que se les enseñe a los niños a fomentar el amor a la literatura y se promueva el amor a la naturaleza, a través de un concurso de cuento infantil sobre ecología y valores humanos” dice al referirse a nuestra convocatoria.

Según Dennis Siluk, hacer un cuento es una forma de aprender a valorar los recursos naturales. “Es muy importante enseñar a nuestros hijos desde temprana edad, a difundir el amor a la naturaleza y a la literatura”, señala.

El nos refiere que: “En el Distrito de Cajas el colegio Independencia me ha pedido dar charlas a los niños sobre temas de literatura inspirados en la ecología. Me considero un soldado viejo en esta lucha por difundir este tipo de literatura; pero ahora que me entero que hay este concurso ya no me siento tan solo porque desde que Correo ha comenzado a difundir su página de Ecología, se está tomando mayor interés por este tipo de temas”.

También remarca: “Cuando se les enseña a los niños a escribir literatura desde pequeños y a amar a la naturaleza y a su cultura, se les vuelve personas más sensibles, y luego todos sus bellos sentimientos plasmarán en una hoja; y por supuesto se les forma mejor su autoestima y personalidad”.

Por último se dirige a los niños y adolescentes y les confiesa: “Quiero decirles a los niños que tienen un país maravilloso y tienen muchas cosas de las cuales se pueden sentir orgullosos y hacer que el Perú sea un país aún más grande de lo que es. ¡El Perú es un gigante dormido! la nueva generación tiene que hacerlo despertar, porque tiene todo para ser una potencia”, concluyó.



·


—Periódico (9-18-2006): “Primicia”

“…Dennis Siluk, North American poet…fell in love with the Mantaro Valley…he writes in his works…. The landscape, the customs of the city…the food of the city (…all seems to come from an inspiration he draws out of the, and is captivate by, this region).
‘Huancayo is a modern city that keeps its traditions…and its colorful fair (Sunday market))…I hope it does not change…”’

—(Editor: Mr. Nilo Calero Perez)



¨

2006

Continuation:

Reviews of the
Author Dennis L. Siluk




From the Counsel General of Peru: Efrain Saavedra: “How beautiful the poem (‘The Ice Maiden’),” as he read it in his Chicago Office, on 2/14/06 (Valentine’s Day).

·


Dennis received two columnist awards in the past three years. In addition, in 2005 he was awarded Poet Laureate, of San Jeronimo, Peru. He has met and briefly discussed his forth book of Peruvian Poems, with the Ex First Lady of Peru, now High Senator, Keiko Fujimori; and is friends with the Consul General of Peru, in Chicago, Efrain Saavedra.

—Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
·


[June 2006] Dennis was number #1 Poet (out of 131), and number #1 author for Arts and Entertainment (out of 704), for an international magazine, Ezinearticles [Annual Readership: 12-million]. He presently lives in Peru, and Minnesota, with his wife Rosa. This is his 34th Book; he has a worldwide audience.

·

Additional Data on the Author

Dennis’ works comprise over 2725-writtings: 850-articles; 275-short stories; 35-books (to include novels of fiction, nonfiction; alcoholism, suspense, drama, plays, poetry and few horror stories); 16-chapbooks; 1550-poems (as of November, 2006).

SMS.ac, International mobile phone services, has now picked up Dennis’ writings, with over 50-million users. [June 2006]

Dennis has traveled as of October 2006, 696,000-air miles, throughout the world (he has been in over 60-countries and 46-states, in the United States), in which can be seen in his writings.

Mr. Dennis L. Siluk, He has over 55,000-readers go to just one of his 26-sites on the Internet annually; on Ezinearticles alone he has had over 250,000-readers in twenty-two months. Thus, he has about 25,000–readers a month, perhaps more. In 2006 alone, he was on TV, seven times, on the radio eight times, in the newspapers seven times, and in magazines three times. He has been twice on RPP (Radio Programs Peru), and schools and colleges from Lima to Huancayo, and throughout the valley have had him as a their guests for conversations or speaking engagements on culture, poetry and literature. Thus, Dennis is a person concerned about spreading the good news about the culture, beauty and heritage of Peru. Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk.


In 2006, Dennis was awarded the Grand Cross of the City, San Jeronimo, and Peru; was the judge for a school’s poetry contest, and is being considered ambassador-promoter for tourism of the Mantaro Valley (from Huancayo).





2005

From the author and poet, E.J. Soltermann, commented on Dennis' poem in his new book, "Last Autumn and Winter,” called "Night Poem, In the Minnesota Cold," he said: "That is Poetry." I know that is not a lot of words, but a powerful statement it is, coming from someone who can judge poetry for its worth; as Dennis once said, “Only a poet is suitable to critique a poet’s poetry.” Rosa Peñaloza

·


By Rosa Peñaloza,

I have in the past written many comments about Dennis’ work, and today I want to share with you some of his reviews and comments other people have had. He has a variety of literature out there, from short stories (over 225 now), to articles (over 850), to poems (over 1400), to chapbooks (he has done about 13-chapbooks) —and of course his 34-books, and he is working on four other books. Of these poems perhaps 400 to 500 are in books, the rest he has not published for one reason or another. Yet still out of this figure, about 250-poems are on the Internet, not in books.

For the most part, I think Dennis is best know for his travels and poetry; he has traveled the world over, now it is almost 28-times around the world, or as he said: 694,000-air miles; not to include all the travels he has done cross-countries, on the road, etc., he did when he was young, going to: San Francisco, Omaha, along with Seattle, and the Dakotas; he lived in all those places in the 60s; in the 70s he traveled throughout Europe for four years, during this time he went to Vietnam, in 1971, and came back to Europe thereafter. Now he has spent, or taken eight trips to South America, where he has his second home, and where he loves the Mountains by Huancayo.

Here are some of his reviews:

Note 1: Recent interview on Radio Programas del Perú, concerning his two publications: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”; reaching five countries, and three continents; over 15-million people; by Milagros Valverde, 11/15/2005, 11:00 PM. (Milagros read poems from both of Mr. Siluk’s books: “Spell of the Andes” and “The Ice Maiden”.)

Note 2: “Spell of the Andes,” recommended by the Cultural Agency in Lima- Peru; located in Alfredo Benavides # 605 - Apartment 201, phone number 2428942

Note 3: Interviewed by JP Magazine, interviewer Jose Luis Pantoja Ventocilla, who had very positive comments and appreciation for Dennis’ Poetic Peruvian Traditions and Contemporary way of Life; 10/26/2005.

Note 4: Mayor of San Jeronimo, Peru, Jesus Vargas Párraga, “All mayors should recognize Dennis’ work (on his Poetic Traditions of Peru; and favorable articles for the Mantaro Valley Region) and publicize it.... (Paraphrased: we should not hide his work)”

Note 5: 91.7 Radio “Super Latina”, 10/19/2005, interviewer Joseito Arrieta, reaching 1.2 million people in the Mantaro Valley Region about the book “Spell of the Andes” (paraphrased): the Municipality and the Cultural House from Huancayo should give an acknowledgement for the work you did on The Mantaro Valley.

Note 6: Channel #5 “Panamericana” 10/16/2005, “Good Morning Huancayo” (in Huancayo, Peru ((population 325,000)); interviewed by reporter: Vladimir Bendezú, on Mr. Siluk’s two books: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”: also on, Mr. Siluk’s biography.

*Note 7: Cesar Hildebrandt, International Journalist and Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluk’s book, “Peruvian Poems,” to the world, saying: “…Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important….” (Population of Lima, eight million, and all of Peru: twenty-five million)) plus a number of other Latin American countries: reaching about sixty-three million inhabitants, in addition, his program reaches Spain)).

Note 8: More than 240,000-visit Mr. Siluk’s web site a year: see his travels and books…!

Note 9: Mr. Siluk received a signed personal picture with compliments from the Dalai Lama, 11/05, after sending him his book with a letter, “The Last Trumpet…” on eschatology.

Note 10: Ezine Articles [Internet Magazine] 11/2005, recognized by the Magazine Team, as one of 250-top writers, out of 14,700. Christopher Knight, Editor; annual readership: twelve-million (or one million per month). Dennis has about 10,000 readers of his articles, poems and stories, alone on this site per month.

Note 11: Dennis L. Siluk Columnist of the Year, on the International Internet Magazine, Useless-knowledge; December 5, 2005 (Annual Readership: 1.5 million).

Note 12: Dennis L. Siluk was made Special Author, status, for the site www.Freearticles.com

Note 13: Mr. Siluk’s works are on over 400-web sites worldwide as of (early 2005)



More Reviews:


Benjamin Szumskyj: Editor of SSWFT Magazine Australia

“In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows”

"The Macabre Poems: and other selected Poems,"

“…Siluk’s Atlantean poems are also well crafted, from the surreal…to the majestic…and convivial…” and the reviewer adds: “All up, Siluk is a fine poet…His choice of topic and theme are compelling and he does not hold back in injecting his own personal thoughts and feelings directly into his prose, lyrics, odes and verse…” (September 2005)


·


“…I liked your poem [‘The Bear-men of Qolqepunku’] very much. It is a very poignant piece.”

Aalia Wayfare
Researcher on the Practices
Of the Ukukus

·


“I just received your book ‘Spell of the Andes,’ and I like it a lot.’

—Luis Guillermo Guedes, Director
Of the Ricardo Palma Museum-House
In Lima, Peru [July, 2005]

·


“The Original title of the book Dennis L. Siluk presents is ‘Spell of the Andes’ which poems and stories were inspired by various places of our region and can be read in English and Spanish. The book separated in two parts presents the poems that evoked the Mantaro Valley, La Laguna de Paca…Miraflores, among other places. The book is dedicated to ‘the beautiful city of Huancayo’…”

By: Marissa Cardenas, Correo Newspaper,
Huancayo, Peru [7/9/05]
Translated into English by Rosa Peñaloza.

·


Mr. Siluk’s writings, in particular the book: ‘Islam, in Search of Satan’s Rib,’ induced a letter from Arial Sharon, Prime Minister of Israel, along with a signed picture. [2004]


·


“You’re a Master of the written word.” [Reference to the book: ‘Death on Demand’]

—Benjamin Szumskyj,
Editor of SSWFT-magazine out of Australia [2005]

·


A poetic Children’s tale “The Tale of Willy, the Humpback Whale” 1982 Pulitzer Prize entry, with favorable comments sent back by the committee.

·


“Dennis is a prolific and passionate writer.”

—Matt James,
Editor of ‘useless-knowledge,’ Magazine [2005]

·


“The Other Door,”…by Dennis L. Siluk…This is a collection of some 45 poems written…over a 20-year period in many parts of the world. Siluk has traveled widely in this country and Europe and some of the poems reflect his impressions of places he has visited. All of them have a philosophical turn. Scattered through the poems—some long, some only three lines—are lyrical lines and interesting descriptions. Siluk illustrated the book with his own pen and ink drawings.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press [1981)

·


“Your stories are wonderful little vignettes of immigrant life….

“… (The Little Russian Twins) it is affecting….”

—Sibyl-Child (a women’s art and culture journal) by Nancy Protun, Hyattsville, Md.; published by the Little Peoples’ Press, 1983

·


“The Other Door, by Dennis L. Siluk-62pp. $5….both stirring and mystical….”

—C.S.P. World News [1983]

·


“For those who enjoy poetry…The Other Door, offers an illustrated collection…Reflecting upon memories of his youth, Siluk depicts his old neighborhood of the 1960’s…Siluk…reflects upon his travels in poems like: ‘Bavaria’s Harvest’ (Augsburg, Germany and ‘Venice in April.’’’

—Evergreen Press
St. Paul, Minnesota [1982]

·


“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”

—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]

·


“Dennis Siluk, a St. Paul native…is the author of a recently released book of poetry called The Other Door…. The 34-year old outspoken poet was born and reared in St. Paul. The Other Door has received positive reaction from the public and various publications. One of the poems included in his book, ‘Donkeyland-(A side Street Saga)’, is a reflection of Siluk’s memories…in what was once one of the highest crime areas in St. Paul.” [1983]
—Monitor
St. Paul, Minnesota

·


“This entertaining and heart-warming story …teaches a lesson, has all the necessary ingredients needed to make a warm, charming, refreshing children’s animated television movie or special.” [1983]

—Form: Producers
Report by Creative
Entertainment Systems;
West Hollywood, CA
Evaluation Editor

·


The book: ‘The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,’ writes Pastor Naason Mulâtre, from the Church of Christ, Haiti, WI; “…I received…four books [The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon…]. My friend it’s wonderful, we are pleased of them. We are planning to do a study of them twice a month. With them we can have the capacity to learn about the Antichrist. I have read all the chapters. I have…new knowledge about how to resist and fight against this enemy. I understand how [the] devil is universal in his work against [the] church of Jesus-Christ. Thanks a lot for your effort to write a so good book or Christians around the world.” [2002]



Additional (mixed) Notes and Reviews:

Mr. Siluk was the winner of the magazine competition by “The Eldritch Dark”; for most favored writer [contributor] for 2004 [with readership of some 2.2-million].

And received a letter of gratitude from President Bush for his many articles he published in the internet Magazine, “Useless-knowledge.com,” during his campaign for President, 2004 [1.2-million readership].

Still some of his work can be seen in the Internet Ezine Magazine, with a readership of some three million. [2005, some 350 articles, poems and short stories]

Siluk’s poetic stories and poetry in general have been recently published by the Huancayo, Peru newspaper, Correo; and “Leaves,” an international literary magazine out of India. With favorable responses by the Editor

Mr. Siluk has been to all the locations [or thereabouts] within his stories and poetry he writes; some 683,000-miles throughout the world.

His most recent book is, “The Spell of the Andes,” to be presented at the Ricardo Palma Museum-House in October 2005, and recently reviewed in Peru and the United States.

From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:

E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:

“The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” (Feb. 2004)




Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.


—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03


Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com and many more.


Books by the Author


Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1980]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1981]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants


Tales of the Tiamat [not released]
Can be purchased individually [trilogy]

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib


The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety,
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery

Autobiographical-fiction

A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV

Romance:

Perhaps it’s Love
Cold Kindness

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler [psychological]

After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]

Poetry:

Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]

The Macabre Poems [2004]

Spell of the Andes [2005]

Peruvian Poems [2005]

Last autumn and Winter [2006]
[Poems out of Minnesota]

Poetic Images out of Peru
[And other poem, 2006]

The Road to Unishcoto
[The Wanka’s Last Battle]
And Other Poetic Writings on the Mantaro Valley
To be out in January, 2007

Orion’s Orchard
[And Other Selected Unpublished Poetry]
To be out in 3/2007

Flornica
[A Poetic Peruvian LoveTradagy]




Back Cover of book


“The Road to Unishcoto,” is about a Wanka warrior (his last battle). Also, there are poems on Huancayo, Sapallanga, and Concepcion, all Andean cities. Here again we see the culture, beauty and customs of the region flourish in Dennis’ poetry: along with, two commentaries on verse.



—“Primicia” (9-18-2006)

“…Dennis Siluk, North American poet…fell in love with the Mantaro Valley…he writes….
‘Huancayo is a modern city that keeps its traditions…I hope it does not change…”’

—(Editor: Mr. Nilo Calero Perez)


Siluk was awarded Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo, Peru (2005), in 2006, given the Grand Cross of the City. Los Andes University (Huancayo), the Mayor of San Agustin de Cajas, Director Mauro Rosales E. of Institution… “Independencia” acknowledged Dennis’ contribution to the culture of the Mantaro Valley. Furthermore, Mayor Jesus Chipana Hurtado of Concepcion asked Dennis to write a poem for the Inauguration of the new statue of the Virgin Mary.

You can see in the “Lost Sanctum #2”, October 2006, issue, an interview of Mr. Siluk, by Australian Editor, Benjamin Szumskyj.


“The Pulitzer Prize”

September 5, 1984

“…Cassie’s Guide and Text Book…It is clearly a book many people will find valuable. …”

Robert C. Christopher
Administrator
(The Pulitzers Prize Board)




Dennis has chosen the beautiful Mantaro Valley of Peru, to call his permanent residence. This is Dennis’ 35th book, 11th in poetry, and his 5th on Peru.

Winner of two columnists’ awards (2004, 2005); awarded The English-Magazine’s top October story of the month, 2006.Interview by Ricardo Palma University, of Lima.

Friday, November 24, 2006

"Adios Mr. Don Cipriano Benites: Lima's Monkey Man"

11/23/2006

[Elegy]

“Adios Mr. Don Cipriano: Lima’s Monkey Man”


Don Cipriano Benites, his last name isn’t needed, everyone in Lima knows him, I think perhaps in even beyond Lima, he died a few days ago, a sad day indeed. I wrote a book, called, “The Mumbler,” and he was one of he characters in it. I gave him the book one day, and he was so happy. I even sat and talked to him for an hour, to find out about his life; he was in the papers in New York City once he told me, and a few other newspapers, he was proud of that also. Anyhow, I was about to say, I wrote an article and put it on Ezinearticles.com Internet Magazine, he liked that also. But I suppose if you are not from Lima, Peru, you are saying: who the heck is the Monkey Man. Ah, let me explain, he was the last of his kind. When I was a kid in St. Paul, Minnesota, 1953, and so, there were men who had monkeys and music boxes, and you’d give a nickel or dime, and the monkey would dance. Well, Don Cipriano, was of that stock. He died at seventy-six years old, for 59-years he worked in the Miraflores Park, in Lima, Peru, everyday, even Sunday, as the entertainment Monkey Man. I’ve had 9-trips to Peru, and every time I stop and talk to he Monkey Man (he was always there, I say was, because I stopped the other day, and 12-hours before that, he had died); as I referred to him, my wife calls him Don Cipriano, by his first name. He has more of a grin than a smile, or had. He was a small man; small boned, narrow looking eyes, and a white hat on usually, a blue suite coat, and somewhat polished shoes. Had three or four monkeys these pasts 59-years. He got his first monkey free, he once told me. He worked in the park system for some five years as a caretaker and when the first monkey man, retired, he gave him his monkey, then he bought a few years later a Music Box, Red and White. He never retired to my understanding, but took two weeks off a year to rest. Other than that he was in the park from 2:00 PM to 9:00 PM.
He was the last of his kind in Lima; you can find a few like him up in the Mantaro Valley region, in the small town-lets, and only a few. I expect they will be gone soon also. But for Lima, that spot he put his music box on, the one the monkey danced on, and the one that sat near Victor Anchayhua the Camera Man, with his 1820s or 40s Camera, who has been in the park some 45-years and stood about fifteen feet away from Don Cipriano is having a hard time with this, grieving, yes indeed, he will miss him dearly I would guess. He is busy now, answering everyone’s questions, “Where is the Money Man?” everyone wants to know, and so I suppose he can say (The Monkey Man where ever he is): I sure had a lot of friends!

Spanish Version


Versión en Español


23 de noviembre del 2006
[Elegía]
“Adiós Don Cipriano: El Organillero de Lima”


Don Cipriano Benites, aunque su apellido no es necesario, porque todos en Lima lo conocen, aunque pienso quizás más allá de Lima, él murió hace unos días, un día triste de verdad. Escribí un libro, llamado “The Mumbler”, y él fue uno de los personajes en éste. Un día yo le di el libro, y él estaba tan feliz. Incluso me senté y hablé con él durante una hora, preguntándole sobre su vida; él estuvo en uno de los periódicos de Nueva York una vez, él me dijo, y en otros periódicos, él estaba orgulloso de eso también.

De todos modos, estaba por decir, que además escribí un artículo y lo publiqué en una Revista de Internet llamada Ezinearticles.com, lo que a él le gustó también. Pero supongo que si no eres de Lima, Perú, tú estarás diciendo: quién es ese Organillero. Ah, déjame explicarte, él era el último de su clase. Cuando yo era niño en San Pablo, Minnesota, en 1953, entonces, habían hombres que tenían monos y cajas musicales, y si le dabas una moneda de un centavo o cinco centavos, el mono bailaría. Bien, Don Cipriano, era de aquella clase. Él murió a los setenta y seis años de edad, por 59 años él trabajó en el Parque Kennedy de Miraflores, en Lima, Perú, todos los días, incluso los domingos, como el Organillero con su Mono que entretenía al público. He viajado nueve veces a Perú, y cada vez me paraba y hablaba con el Organillero (él estaba siempre allí, digo estaba, porque el otro día que pasé por ahí, él no estaba, porque 12 horas antes él había muerto); como me refiero a él, mi esposa lo llamaba Don Cipriano, por su nombre de pila.

Él tiene una sonrisa abierta, o tenía. Él era un hombre bajo; de huesos pequeños, ojos de mirar estrechos, tenía un sombrero blanco siempre puesto por lo general, un terno azul, y zapatos lustrados. Él tuvo tres o cuatro monos en estos 59 años pasados. Él obtuvo su primer mono gratis, él me lo dijo una vez. Al comienzo él trabajó como jardinero en el parque durante aproximadamente cinco años y cuando el primer organillero se jubiló le dio su mono a Cipriano, entonces unos años más adelante él compró una Caja Musical, de color rojo y blanco. Él nunca se jubiló según tengo entendido, pero cada año se tomaba dos semanas de descanso. Los otros tiempos aparte de este él estaba en el parque desde las 2:00 de la tarde hasta las 9:00 de la noche.

Él era el último de su clase en Lima; tú puedes encontrar algunos como él en la región del Valle del Mantaro, en las ciudades pequeñas, y sólo unos cuantos. Pienso que ellos pronto se irán también. Pero para Lima, aquel punto en el que Don Cipriano ponía su caja musical donde el mono bailaba, aquel lugar en el que él se sentaba cerca a Víctor Anchayhua el Fotógrafo estará vacío. Víctor con su antigua cámara de los años 1820 o 1840, quien también está en el parque unos 45 años y ha estado aproximadamente a 3 metros de distancia de Don Cipriano, tiene un tiempo duro con esto, apenado, sí de verdad, él lo echará mucho de menos, yo creo.

Víctor, está ocupado ahora, contestando a las preguntas de todo el mundo, “¿Dónde está el Organillero y su Mono?” todos quieren saber, y entonces supongo que él puede decir: ¡el Organillero dondequiera que esté, estoy seguro que tiene muchos amigos!

Sunday, November 19, 2006

"Divine Sunlight" [Two poems: 'Scars and Wings,' & 'Old Jealousy']

"Divine Sunlight"
1
Scars and Wings
I will sleep beneath my scars, and they above me,Somewhere in-between we shall touch:Oh, God, oh, God, who knows our minds And hearts—our thoughts, our damaged brows,Our-sour mouths, troubled stomachs—Where is the sound body? You once gave me—Give it back please, it had wings you see,And now I have only scars…scars, scarsScars to offer Thee.
Oh, God, oh, God, how I love Thee—I would take death tomorrow, to have them back,To wear a crown of victory, on my head.
#1549 11//19/2006 {Written in Lima, Peru, Café EP]
2
Old Jealousy
When I was a kid, I asked my Grandpa, “What is old jealousy?” because once I had heard him mention it, in passing—“You’d not understand, go about your way, and play….” He told me in no kind way. Later on that very same day, I heard he say to my mother, “When I was young, I had not the courage to ask such questions (to grownup), as does your son, and now I’m too old and feeble I suppose, nor the opportunity have I, to accomplish the power to do whatever.” I remembered that clearly now, now that I’m close to sixty, perhaps because I’ve lived a full life, and somehow along the way, I buried all those old jealousy’s, that might pop up in old age.
#1552 11/19/2006 Two poems given by "Divine Sunlight"
Note: Here are two new poems Dennis wrote during lunch at El Parquetito's, Cafe in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, while the sun was upon him. He seems to think deeper at certain places, as in St. Paul, Minnesota, he has selected the Coffee House, in Har Mar Mall, it is not called that, but it is that. A poet needs a place that he feels comfortable in, and quiet. I often just leave him wherever for hours while he does his thing; he reads and writes some five to ten hours a day (between 300 and 3000 words a day, he reads and writes). These two poems, I kind of think they are somewhat divinely inspired, or as he called them, "Divine Sunlight." It can't hurt I suppose. Rosa

Paestine Human Shields, New War Teachings

Palestine Human Shields, New War Teachings

It is as shame, and outright disgrace when warriors, such as Hamas, cower to such levels as hiding behind the walls of so called innocent skirts, women and children. When I see this it tells me they have no pride, or dignity (I’m sure Allah is the only one proud of them, the hoofed Allah that is), and any willing Palestine that sits on a roof, or in the front yard eating pizza and drinking coke, thinking they are a hero in the deadly war with Israel (as Hamas sneak out the back to kill more Jew), should find a hole to hide in, and this haven of sorts, should be considered a military target, with or with its civilian guards; they are like militant mice while the feministic Military Rats dot the map of what cities in Israel will be hit the next day. In war, any willing participate can be considered a soldier, thus, these women and children and men who sit around outside with no soldier uniforms on, are soldiers, even if they wish to be called civilians. Thus, they are enabling Hamas, the ones that think they are the heroes, to go about killing at will and running back to their Starbucks, for coffee time—with out reprisal, thus, they are subject to be killed as warriors, and should be looked upon that way; plus they go to paradise soon (you can’t get anything better than that); just like any other soldier, and I’d not lose any sleep over blowing that house off the map, right to kingdom come, and Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert had a right to criticized a UN resolution passed on Friday that calls on UN Secretary General Kofi Annan to scorn Israel. Annan, no better than the Antichrist, is not worth even quoting, and should have been thrown out of the UN long ago, if anyone is a mass murderer, it is he and his African coward ness, when he could have prevented many lives, he looked the other way; father like son: he most likely taught his son to be a thief also.
Dedicated to the PLO, and Annan.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

From Tehran to Damascus [The Fangs of Gods/a Poem]

From Tehran to Damascus
[The Fangs of Gods/a Poem]


There are kings in the lands I speak of, and their gods have hoofs and brutish brows, for they and they love there traitorous hours—with root steel teeth, and fed on blood, a hundred hands they cut off to get their way, and lead their nations down the road of nothingness—to Hell’s pale grave.

Downward starts their road, and shapes of death, to and fro they go restless, yet not told: are the horrors and despair they will inflict, infest, and toss to the air, and then again, one can see ages of tears, lips wailing, waiting; come–thee, the world should know by now, Tehran to Damascus is crouched in the shadows, ages of tears will come from thee, the world should know by now, you will never be content—content with less than all.

You are the fangs of the hoofed-gods, thy boastful foe; the world’s blood is like honey to you…talk no more for you lean blindly on Allah, and think He is your burden, and squeeze Him into your dark soul (perhaps He is like you, if so, if He be as boastful, who then is the God of love?).

Alas, the coming bliss of certain doom, fates demand you will sleep before you outwit the Jew, and heaven be no refuge for the wolf you are—; yet I fear, should man delay, it will be his sad day: to your glory.

#1548, Written in Lima, Peru, 11/16/2006 Dedicated to the Presidents of Iran and Syria

Monday, November 13, 2006

Circle of Refaim/or the: Nephilim (Giants in English)

Circle of Refaim or the: Nephilm (Giants in English) "Who were the Giants of Old?"


Built by the Giant King Og of Bashan/ 3200 BC;
37,000 Tons of Stones/159 Meters diameter;
Outer Ring, seven feet high
Location: Israel (Golan Heights)
Gilgal= circle:
The Circle of Refaim is one of the last great scarcely known wonders of the ancient world atop Israel's Golan Heights (see: Josh, Chapter 4: JKV).

In the middle of the rings is a mound of stones set up as a landmark, monument gravestone. Perhaps used as an astronomical observatory and stellar calendar; it resembles some of the ruins found on Malta (I have been to Malta, and its makeup is very close to the Refaim Circle). Built on a flat plateau, in an remote area, it can only be seen clearly from the air; perhaps for the returning giants; hundreds of tombs are on this site, thus it could have been used also as a burial site.

"...sons of God" (b'nai Elohim), taking wives from among the daughters of Adam. "In those days giants [Nephilm] were in the earth...”
The word, which is translated, "giants", in the King James Version Bible is in Hebrew, "Nephilm", which means, "Those who fell (or ... the fallen ones). Jude, the brother of Jesus describes them as "angels, having left their first estate in heaven who came to earth on a mission, to guard the people of earth (otherwise known as ‘the Watchers).
The "fallen ones (or the Watchers)" sought to merge with the bloodline of Adam, because of the promise that was given to send a redeemer through Adam's kinsman. The Hebrew says that the Sons of God (the angelic Watchers) saw that the women on earth were able-bodied (or good fit) "extension", for they sought to extend themselves into this realm from the spirit realm (or from spirit to flesh), as well as to extend themselves into the "children of the promise" (thus, they would thereafter be part of the birthright) of Adam. Satan of course, tried to screw this up, by trying to prevent the eventual birth, in the future of the Messiah (perhaps envy, for he could not get in on the show). This mating process of human beings with angelic beings resulted in hybrid creatures, evil spirits with human bodies; Giants such as Og, and thereafter, Gilgamish. And is perhaps the main reason God had the Great Flood come.

The KJV Old Testament Hebrew Lexicon: old tribe of giants (also: implying spirits)=rapha: shades or spirits.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Mr. Castro: “So long…and good luck”

Mr. Castro: “So long…and good luck”


Today the world was told Fidel Castro has terminal cancer. I don’t wish anyone bad luck not even him, and you can’t get much worse luck than that, but I think the old dictator has had his share of good luck these past 45-years (plus), with the whores he brings through the backdoors of his palace, as I was told by the many folks who watched his palace when I was in Havana, watched them come and go (horde his money also). Perhaps they are liars, but it would seem they got no more to lose than gain by telling me a fib. Alas, he will not be returning back to power I would guess that may be a relief for the country he has put under his heal. In addition, he has won a few victories; he can talk about in the hereafter.
This 80-year old crony of the out of date Leninism, or Communism, will now have to face his maker: it often bewilders me, what then? I mean, you cause havoc for 40-years, and everyone thinks they are headed towards the pearly gates, only to look stray-eyed into the lions mouth of death, and join the rest of the dictators like him, in the worm chambers of Hell. Perhaps he thinks he will be pardoned like the man on the cross at the last minute: nothing new, most of us feel that way. Something tells me this will not happen, the heart has to tell the soul, something more than ‘pretty please.’ I will grieve for him and his kind, but perhaps not too long. The world has seen too many of his kind in my day; I hope Cuba can find someone saner to be ruled by. I shall say a prayer on that. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish him hell; I just can’t see who else would take him in; he can’t be the head honcho in Heaven, and perchance he might make corporal in Hell, and where else is there? Perhaps the silent grave would be better, and a death wishes for him. But I shall say my goodbyes early, so I don’t have to write anymore on him. It would be nice if he opened some doors for his people he slammed them on, in those 45-years he ruled with an iron hand; before he hits the road, but that would be too much to ask for. So long Mr. Castro, and good luck. [11/12/2006]

Saturday, November 11, 2006

ICC (International Court): under Satanic Influence

ICC (International Court): under Satanic Influence


ICC [The: International Criminal Court] is part of the demonic new world order; it is plain to see, and part of the UN connecting, EU dictator ship taking place in front of our eyes. It shows simply the Coming of the world dictator. They want to leave America vulnerable, unable to move, so their dictator can move freely at will. If our government officials are subject to them, and soldiers, and our U. S. Secretary of Defense, then who has control of our country. They tried to have us under the United Nations whim, or wing, now the is ICC trying their best. Soon they will tell our President he can and cannot do whatever is in the interest of our Country. North America is not the only place this is occurring, South America as well. It is the whim of the Antichrist, the militarist behind this forthcoming human, exhibit of using international criminal prosecution to paralyze our countries will to fight on: the Muslim terrorist laughs at this, it is heaven sent for them.
Germany is being used again, for this new phenomenon to bring America to its feet, why not they have a rich economy, and laws conducive for such an ignited fire, and it will be a rampant fire once this time bomb gets started. They don’t talk of the lives that were saved in the process of the imprisonment of criminals at Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib. I hope our president throws Germany, along with the lawsuit, where it belongs, in the garbage can, and get back to vaporize the terrorist before they do us. This insidious escalation, ICC is trying to push ahead, simply weakens our pledge to fight terrorists, and alarms everybody for nothing, at the end, the enemy laughs all the way home from the court rooms. I guess I feel that way about the Geneva Convention also; it serves only bad guys, and harnesses the good. The bad guys don’t change, they only regroup, and Israel can tell you that, that is why they don’t play tag with them.
We have all these so called groups out there trying to protect the bad guys, throughout the world, and we keep seeing their victims, and then we become one, not because of the bad guys, but the good guys, what an awfulness to be facing, a Satanic conflict we are in. It is not even a matter of what is right and wrong anymore, it is simply a matter of survival. And the enemy is looking for loopholes, like the ICC, and the recent resignation of Mr. Rumsfeld, hand he not stepped down; it would not be on the ICC’s menu. I understand the world is in a transformation period, grant you that, and only the arrival of Christ will stop the evil horrors this world is putting up with, but until that day comes, America is the only hope this world has—for peace.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

The King’s Dilemma [Night, the Manticore, Mt. Hades—in Hell]

The King’s Dilemma
[Night, the Manticore, Mt. Hades—in Hell]

The king of Atlantis, Phrygian could meet death at its own terms, bravely enough, but when it came in the form of everlasting bestial hell, demonic figures so familiar, on a daily—if not hourly—scheduling watching your every move it became uncanny and hideous. It was the face of death facing you every minute, the mind never resting. There was no way in which he could direct his course in life, or if he did, he could not hold it but a millisecond, being always observed, and an object of scorn.
As it was, he found no pleasure in existence anymore, if only he could have stumbled on a way to extinguish himself once and for all, he would have tried. Furthermore, there was no way to make a break for freedom, and there was nobody to rescue him—; God was not present or if He was, He was sleeping. This primordial world in which he found himself, plus seclusion, with in the hills, mountains and caves of Mount Hades, the interior of Hell, was the most crude of all places in existence. It was a brutal looking with a harshly treaded civilization, it was called Hell, and it was named properly he thought: no noble, chivalrous or lovable creatures in it at all.
He said to himself aloud (sitting on a rock, chin in hand, overlooking the mountain, to its valleys below, outside his cave): “I simply made the same mistakes most of us do—people do in selecting the road we wish to follow along in life, a course, perhaps given to us at birth, or thereafter, and often the least resistant; thus, I was no different than the majority.” (But of course he was different, he was the king, ruler of most of the known world, he could and did make a difference, more so than most people).
He was mostly correct in his thinking that he had taken the wrong trail in life, and now he was retracing it, step by step, day after day. His problem perhaps was he had no divide in life, and total rulership of the world was his only solution on earth. When he was first made king, the lure of discovering that he had it all in his hands was too much, in consequence, he decided to proceed, take the short distance, not turn back that was his signature for Hell: he wanted it all.

[Hell’s Surroundings] There were no clumps of trees where he was, there on Mount Hades—like what surrounded Atlantis; the landscape here was decayed growth—between him and the dock, much of the land was swampy, muck, but right in front of him it was dry up to the tip of the mountain. On a clear day one could see the restless waters of the gulf advance and retreat.
Curiosity pushed him to take walks down the mountain for a different scene, but not too far down, for there were sentries posted here and there, watching, waiting to torture him, should he leave his prescribed area. The guards eyes seemed to be able to penetrate the dark, the mist, everything.

[Night on Mt. Hades] Hell, whose forbidding walls did not allow any human beings, not cast into hell, to enter, was a strange world for the king to discover—a mysterious land indeed, and he was on its bosom—sort of speaking, at night it was even sores, the land was thence invisible to most inhabitants, accept for the formidable beasts, the demonic beast watching and waiting for savage delights.
At night he often thought about the land, almost with a fascination, if not speculation, it fell upon him as other mysteries of life did, as when he was human, and admired the dark poetry and power of the night.
The whole land of Hell was as if it was brought back to the birth of time, and stamped: ‘So it shall remain,’ (the outer world may advance, and grow but not here, it must remain untouched by God, after He evidently created it; perhaps the first day of creation. (Yes, the king dwelled upon these thoughts and dreams.)

[Fossilized] It was odd, very odd thought the king, pacing his cave one day, thus, he discovered the fossilized remains of something that seemed to have been human, at first he took only a single glance at it, and then it moved, and he examined it closer, it looked to be long-extinct (perhaps as far back as the Triassic Formation). And it moved, and there he was straining to look at these compressed, bones, bones of some demonic-half human, half lion creature, its head like a human, and its lower parts like a lion, it was an ancient Manticore—so he estimated. And it moved again, a third time. To his understanding he must had been cast naked into this stratum of rock mysteriously sometime in prehistory; unquestionably, he could not escape, or he would have; and perhaps to his advantage, and for the better.