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Poetic Tender Riffs

Here are a few poems I wrote today, in the process of writing them, I wanted to give them all one common name, because it all came out in one long afternoon chain of thoughts (so I named them: “Tender Riffs”), as I sat under the sun, my coffee in hand, and eggs and steak nearby, at my favorite outdoor restaurant, in Lima, and the waitress (Sarah, brought my food, said “Mr. Siluk…” meaning stop whatever you are doing and let me put your food on the plate, that is what she was thinking, not saying, and what I was reading, eyes tell a lot. Her hands patiently hoping I’ll finish my stanza quick so she doesn’t have to hold the tray much longer. I have to always finish the sentence you know, or the stanza. My wife, Rosa, is under the big yellow umbrella, I sit under the sun—she likes the shade. Then after I eat, finish eating that is, back I go again to see if …whatever is needed gets it (2-18-2007):

1)Angel or White Shadow (Surr’el)

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

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

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

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

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

#1696

2)Flyover

An F16 Jet, flew over our heads
(on my way to the café, today))
Several times, like a Roaring lion))
The earth moaned under my feet,
As I walked the neighborhood,
Lima, streets…folks were outside
Sitting, watching, listening…numb,
Women, with hands over their mouths,
Absorbing the terrifying sound…!
After the flyover (a military air show I hear),
The jet now out of sight, I look back at the
Two women, still they remain in fright…
And the others, speechless…!

#1697

3) Rosa’s Newspaper

She tucks the newspaper—tightly

against itself,
Taps it on the table, to insure one section
Is even with the others—as if she’s going
To give it a rest (and drink her coke,
Perhaps talk); then she—Rosa, my wife,
Opens it a second time, and reads it
Again (not sure what the tucking
And the tapping was for) but now she

Adjusts her eyes to the small print,
With her new glasses—‘Guess’ (squints)
And grips it as if the wind may move it
(what wind, I ask…myself); She’s firm

in her posture,
Glances onto the next page (doesn’t notice,
I notice her)) I think…?). I ask,

“Anything interesting?”

“No,” she comments, and then adds:

“There is a man in Pakistan he blew

himself up….”
She glances at me now (as I write

this down (stoned faced) unaware;
Then she shifts her eyes back to the paper

and continues to read again….

#1693

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Waiting for Autumn

I was born in Autumn, and will perhaps die in Autumn

(Born in autumn I say, born in autumn, autumn

in Minnesota; thus, come forth with me,

O autumn—a peasant’s fondness, the hour is near).

Why do I long for you ((autumn)), become lost in your leaves?

I can see the rain on your roses, O thou inexorable time

Who passes the soul, the soundless soul—like snow?

I love your shadows bony thin, as the winds gather appearance,

It is autumn of the next year, and I stand alone—waiting

I love thee! I weep; embrace her, her chilled face,

Her sweet breath, known only to the air, crystal at the mouth.

She has a veil, mystery goddess, hast thou seen me!

Promise’s to come again she does, with her thine eyes

but I understand, you must leave for paradise!

To return in another year; yet my unhappy soul, drifts into

a darker world—Thou lovest me? But cannot stay!

With fringing flames, ye are fled! Holy whispers die, fade

Yet murmurs to my heart remain, I did not wish it!

but they remain,–ah! Far beyond these hours! She

Remains captive for a time, time and circumstance, will

I see you again?

Perhaps, if doom does not become my destiny! —come

forth with me, our far adventure waits…!

Should I not somewhat slay thee? If I could I would, then

you hath not me, or need of me to wait for thee!

It little matters which way I go, I drowest in gratification

That I have met you with a peaceful heart.

I was born in Autumn, for autumn, and will perhaps

die in Autumn;

Sorrow or joy, it little matters which comes, as long as

Autumn remains, her fiery-colored wings, to laugh

With me, as we hear the trumpets of God in the wind.

#1691 2-17-2007

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com