Three Haiku Poems

Haiku of the Bear

The bear and the man

They both steal for pleasure, thus:

Are they not brothers (?)

9-8-2012/#3419

The Bishop

(Double-haiku)

To see what man is

born to, a Bishop should: eat,

sleep—and, above all:

work–, as his enslaved

brethren  does! Then he’d learn

and then, he can preach.

9-8-2012/#3420

Note:  The author for a good portion of his early life worked in foundries, factories, fast-food, and construction; during the second part of his life he worked as a soldier for a decade, along with being in a war (Vietnam); and then as a professional counselor (Psychology); now as a poet and writer, which he started at the age of 12, and somehow maintained on the side intermittently writing whenever he could, all his life until the forth part of his life allowed him to write full time.   Thus, he walks the walk, not simply talking the talk. Even God, in the form of Jesus Christ did this: walk the walk.

When People Understand

When people value

one another, they speak frank

as if they’ve known

each other, all their

lives…; thus, with my two prized friends

I leave it lay there.

For: Dr. Jesus Pomachagua (Rector of the UNCP)

& Lic. Dimas Aliaga Castro (Mayor de Huancayo)

9-9-2012/#34121

Haitian Woman Making Goat Stew in Ranquitte, 1986 (poem)

Goat Stew in Ranquitte

I stood still in the forenoon, my face is turned away from the

       sun.

A woman is cooking goat stew in my long shadow.

The Minister’s house is silent, I’m standing under the edge of the

       extended roof.

My friends and I are building a medical clinic nearby; I’m a bit

       overheated, resting (it is the summer of 1986).

…

I feel like a strange sea creature, drawn back into it (it is July, 2012).

But the spirit inside of me is moving, it says: after twenty-six

       years, it says: ‘It’s time to go back!”

I close my eyes, and think of Haiti, I see a little girl by a woman cooking

       the goat stew…

There are good things in this world, and Haiti is one, and Goat Stew is

       another!

#3379 (7-18-2012)

Recalled from notes and photographs from 1986,

trip to Haiti by the author and 18-other Missionaries 

Poem of the: Feeble Heroes of the Day

William Faulkner was a punk and a drunk!

Dylan Thomas was a punk and a drunk!

Hemingway was a drunk and a suicide!

Jack London was a drunk, but less than a punk!

F. Scott Fitzgerald was a punk and a drunk

Sylvia Plath and her mate, Anne Sexton were

      both mentally ill poet suicides;

We can add Virginia Woolf to that list too:

And we can add George Sterling to that also.

Elvis was no punk no drunk, but was a drug

       addict all the same; likened to the Beatles,

And the Doors: sex mongrels so many adore.

And Michael Jackson was the same, feeble

       Heroes, that played the game—and

Everyone thinks their in Heaven, are we insane?

Mary Renault, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein,

Elton John—to mention a few, along with a dozen

       movies stars, I’ve got no room to mention

       in this poem,

Are all Homosexual heroes, and a few priests

       I know…good writers, singers, and clergy;

All the same, I’d not wish to be near them,

       in any john or café!

Saddam Hussein and bin Laden, were both

       cowards, couldn’t load a gun, and

Perhaps never shot one, but had everyone

Else fight their battles for them…son of a gun.

President Obama—head of the USA, never

A soldier, sailor nor airman, but runs the scene;

       a devil in disguise, always

Wants to wins first prize, doesn’t do a thing, but got

The Nobel Prize for war, and a PH.D., for the love

Of Homosexuals, gay marriages, abortion, at

The Catholic University, called Notre Dame,

He knows how to play the game. And he’s no

Different than the rest, he’s made America

Fight wars with no American crisis: for exercise

I’d guess; all under the disguise of National Security…!

More and more and more lies, more sick soldiers

Coming home with broken bones and broken minds!

More movie stars—singers too, athletes, with big

Mouths, voicing their opinions at the UN, like

       little poodles trying to befriend whoever will

Praise them…

Philosophers everywhere, who are really, newscasters,

       or comedians!...

Everyone wants to get a shot at being a hero,

       for the day, but nobody wants to go to ground zero

And fight for what is right, in God’s name.

What’s wrong with this picture my friends?

There are too many roosting roosters, which look like

        hens; and too many hens trying to be roosters

And all the people in between, are watching football

And drinking beer, by some T.V!  Waving the American

       flag, as if they had something to say.

By gosh what’s next? Only feeble heroes to pick from,

Where are the SEALs…! They’re all hidden.

#3438 (10-4-2012)

Operation Neptune Spear (The poem)

The Engines roared of the two helicopters,

With twenty-three SEALs and one CIA

The Black Hawk I, its crew’s chief slid the door open

The wind buffed against the men

On a tall wall overlooking the compound,

Black Hawk one crashed—into the courtyard

But it didn’t infringe the plan,

Thus, only frustration came! They were

Chasing the man called Osama bin Laden:

Ahead of al Qaeda (the Base)…out of

Jalalabad, they had come, beyond

The boarders of Afghanistan, to Pakistan

Pushing Operation Neptune Spear:

The Assault, was to be on a neighborhood house

In the city of Abbottabad: the fugitive’s home.

The plan, ‘Kill the man and anyone who tries

To stop them…’ Not to say, it was said that way,

But that’s how it was read, I do believe…

And good reddens to bad rubbish:

(The latter being my saying of course).

But first came Ahmed al- Kuwaiti, like a caged animal,

With an AK 47 in hand, bullets, and shrapnel

Flew here and there, everywhere:

He was assigned to be bin Laden’s savior, but

That didn’t play out!

And he went down, like a clown, perhaps to Paradise,

More likely to Hell!

Leaving his wife (Mariam) and children behind!

Now it was Bin Laden’s time…

Let me see if I can make this rime:

Holy ...uck, he got shot in the head:

He laid there by the side of his bed, like a dead duck:

His blood and brains seeped out of the side of his skull—

Twitching but dead, convulsing but dead—

No more to be said…!

Then he was shot in the chest—god forbid,

He was deader than dead!

And the SEALs went back to wherever they come

From—and had a good crash, if not laugh, I mean rest:

Ate a hearty breakfast that night: with whiskey

And rum and beer on the side, and had lots of

Milk and cookies in morning for their briefing

While Obama the Great U.S., President, for the day

Had his way; was full of pride thinking what was next

Oh his merry-go-round check list:

How about the 2012: “Campaign?”  I mean,

Presidential elections…?

Note:  Dedicated to the Team of SEALs, who dared the great feat of ‘Operation Neptune Spear’

May 1, 2011 (#3437/10-2-2012)

The World That Was

When I traveled the world from continent to continent

       seen all the fossils, high and low:

Animals and our ancient ancestors buried in muck and mud;

       walked on glaciers, seen the ocean’s floor;

Been to the peaks of the Andes, and on Cape Horn;

To the ends of the earth, North and South—

To me it becomes quite obvious, it is God’s testimony

       to man, should he feel he’s alone!

On the other hand, should He not be feared or revered…

One who is able to destroy the earth and nearly all that

       is on it, with a twist of his finger with water and sand:

Once angered by the filth of man, has something coming!

Thus, he can surly destroy the earth and man and his

       soul, ONCE again.

Incasing all man, back within the sediments of earth

       and sand, once and for all, from whence he came from.

There awaits an even more terrible fate for man, of this

       present age, who refuses Him respect,

       who disregards His warnings from the Heavens:

What is eternal fire, what can be compared to it?

Of that day, the heavens will pass away— with a great

       roar, with intense heat, and the earth will be

Scorched, and melted, like a candle and burnt meat…

#3439 (10-4-2012)

Note: Ref:  11 Peter 3:10/Ps 66:3/Heb 10:31/11 Cor. 5:11

The Peasant

  Anton, at the age of 75-years old (1969)

The sketch was drawn by the poet- author, Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

(1891-1974)

My grandfather, he grew up near Grodno, Russia, in 1891, near  

       great estates and untilled land, a peasant’s son of peasantry

A farm worker of no degree; whose father lived without land, and

       very little bread, died one afternoon by falling off his roof top, Trying to mend a hole in the wooden tile; he was buried like many,  

       without much style.

Back then, back in 1914, unbreakable men fought thankless Struggles to gain a living from the harsh soil, and long toil, which

       was all fruitless, in the end, and then war came; and my Grandfather went to America, only to come back and fight again,

       this time in the trenches of France.

He was bred from a race of men who were rough, willful and

       stubborn: men of action: smiling was contempt, showed a

       weakness, I know: my mother and brother, and even I—to a

       small degree, inherited that trait—if not sin.

He could neither read nor write, but he had pride and a fierce belief

       in human dignity! 

Such is the person from which I came; we were born an ocean

       apart and then some, again—again in the humblest of families: But Russian we were, and proud to be, not a cringe when we said it.

Thus I carry it, on my side, like a pistol in its holster. Against  

       oppression and unauthorized influence, rebels along my life’s

       road.

Like so many Russian-Americans, I was impatient of restraint, at  

       times hostile to authority, a believer in direct ardent justice;

Went to war when I was called, under the American flag, sacrificed

       myself for the sake and good will of my land, like so many.

Now at sixty-four, no longer in those ceaseless years of struggle, 

       nor the bitter hatred of the servant, I recall my grandfather’s

       roots: long overdue.

In the past, my mind said: “Silence, step back” now it says: be

       proud, step forward, acknowledge your heritage. 

In life I wanted to strike a real blow, thus I became Poet Laureate of

       Peru with a doctorate degree; you see Grandpa, what you Helped make me?

Note: Dedicated to my Grandfather, Anton Siluk, WWI, Veteran; Russian-American, and Vladimir V. Putin, President of Russia, may the world be safer because of Russia and America, and my Grandfather.

#3432 (9-25-2012) in Classic Narrative and Natural Poetic Prose

The World That Was

When I traveled the world from continent to continent

       seen all the fossils, high and low:

Animals and our ancient ancestors buried in muck and mud

       walked on glaciers, seen the ocean’s floor,

Been to the peaks of the Andes, and on Cape Horn

To the ends of the earth, North and South—

To me it becomes quite obvious, it is God’s testimony

       to man,  should he feel he’s alone!

On the other hand, should he not be feared or revered…

One who is able to destroy the earth and nearly all that

       is on it, with a twist of his finger with water and sand:

Once angered by the filth of man, has something coming!

Thus, he can surly destroy the earth and man and his

       soul, ONCE again.

Incasing all man, back within the sediments of earth

       and sand, once and for all, from whence he came from.

There awaits an even more terrible fate for man, of this

       present age, who refuse Him respect,

       who disregards His warnings from the Heavens:

What is eternal fire, what can be compared to it?

Of that day, the heavens will pass away— with a great

       roar, with intense heat, and the earth will be

Scorched, and melted, like a candle and burnt meat…

#3439 (10-4-2012)

Note: Ref:  11 Peter 3:10/Ps 66:3/Heb 10:31/11 Cor. 5:11