September Poems
Old Dog Ways
(The ways of an old Peruvian Chow Chow)
When dogs grow old—(like Jason)
they seem to want to be left alone
(not completely, but some).
They want to chew their bones
alone…in peace—; they want
to lay down with a gentle-warm wind
(and fall to sleep).
They want to get patted on the head,
now and then; drift along
in a grassy backyard—, check out
the food bin! And like many
people, prefer to be left alone,
with a few—select, good friends!
No: 1998 (9-21-2007); written in Huancayo, Peru on the platform. “Today, Friday, watching old Jason (perhaps seventy), he paces in the back yard, chews his bone, goes to the food bin, by all appearances he has a pretty good life, and he knows it.”
Silence in War (Iraq)
No one sees the bombs and bullets come
anymore, pieces of metal fly by, —
yet voices are crying in silence, as things
fall (bombs, debris and bodies).
One arm left behind, along the roadside,
as the body keeps walking; some
eyes part the face, what direction, the
soldier can’t see. Smells of death,
death that seep out everywhere.
The medic nails a list of the dead,
onto the back of a chair (this is war
at its best, in Iraq).
No: 1992 (9-19-2007). Written in Huancayo, Peru, on the Platform.
“Hill Burning…!”
“The hill is burning!
The hill is burning!”
It frightened all the ants
and bugs…in the
underbrush— (I suppose);
and the butterflies hurled back
their manes, it seemed.
As six-years old, life is simply
watching everything!
Note: when I was six-years old, I vaguely remember, but I do recall lightly, the hill or embankment we had in our backyard, in St. Paul, Minnesota, I let on fire; let me explain: I was somehow captivated with a book of matches I had in hand, playing on that steep hillside, can’t remember how I got them, and I lit the dry yellow tall weeds and grass on fire, thinking I could contain it in a little circle, but of course I could not, and when it got out of control—and it’s blaze grew hot and high I ran a hundred-yards to the back of our house went inside the screened door and told my mother (my mother, aunts, brother, grandfather and neighbors came running out towards the hill, after someone started yelling ‘fire,’ after I had mentioned it of course): thus, I had said only twice, almost exhausted to my mother: “The Hill is burning…” then my mother and brother, two years older than I, and the several other people (in the summer of 1953) grabbed buckets of water, running back and forth, throwing it on the fire. After all was under control, my mother asked me, “Did you light the fire?” I hesitated, but said “…yes.” And for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened afterwards, but I never played with matches again. No: 1995 (9-20-2007). Written on the Platform, Thursday, 4:00 PM, the rain clouds just covered up the sun).
(The ways of an old Peruvian Chow Chow)
When dogs grow old—(like Jason)
they seem to want to be left alone
(not completely, but some).
They want to chew their bones
alone…in peace—; they want
to lay down with a gentle-warm wind
(and fall to sleep).
They want to get patted on the head,
now and then; drift along
in a grassy backyard—, check out
the food bin! And like many
people, prefer to be left alone,
with a few—select, good friends!
No: 1998 (9-21-2007); written in Huancayo, Peru on the platform. “Today, Friday, watching old Jason (perhaps seventy), he paces in the back yard, chews his bone, goes to the food bin, by all appearances he has a pretty good life, and he knows it.”
Silence in War (Iraq)
No one sees the bombs and bullets come
anymore, pieces of metal fly by, —
yet voices are crying in silence, as things
fall (bombs, debris and bodies).
One arm left behind, along the roadside,
as the body keeps walking; some
eyes part the face, what direction, the
soldier can’t see. Smells of death,
death that seep out everywhere.
The medic nails a list of the dead,
onto the back of a chair (this is war
at its best, in Iraq).
No: 1992 (9-19-2007). Written in Huancayo, Peru, on the Platform.
“Hill Burning…!”
“The hill is burning!
The hill is burning!”
It frightened all the ants
and bugs…in the
underbrush— (I suppose);
and the butterflies hurled back
their manes, it seemed.
As six-years old, life is simply
watching everything!
Note: when I was six-years old, I vaguely remember, but I do recall lightly, the hill or embankment we had in our backyard, in St. Paul, Minnesota, I let on fire; let me explain: I was somehow captivated with a book of matches I had in hand, playing on that steep hillside, can’t remember how I got them, and I lit the dry yellow tall weeds and grass on fire, thinking I could contain it in a little circle, but of course I could not, and when it got out of control—and it’s blaze grew hot and high I ran a hundred-yards to the back of our house went inside the screened door and told my mother (my mother, aunts, brother, grandfather and neighbors came running out towards the hill, after someone started yelling ‘fire,’ after I had mentioned it of course): thus, I had said only twice, almost exhausted to my mother: “The Hill is burning…” then my mother and brother, two years older than I, and the several other people (in the summer of 1953) grabbed buckets of water, running back and forth, throwing it on the fire. After all was under control, my mother asked me, “Did you light the fire?” I hesitated, but said “…yes.” And for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened afterwards, but I never played with matches again. No: 1995 (9-20-2007). Written on the Platform, Thursday, 4:00 PM, the rain clouds just covered up the sun).
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 1:39 PM
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