Trying to Understand Nighmares

(The Nightmare Demon: see picture on front cover) There is such a think as called the Nightmare Demon, it is biblical, and there are charms, spells that can produce this. These demon, or spirits of evil, imps, looks similar to the picture on this book, which Clark A. Smith drew. Such spirits are foul, they and if you wake during their visit, often times one can become short of breath. A friend of mine, artist friend in Lima, has had many such visits, where he actually saw them; I have not experience this in that capacity, although I have seen demonic figures, and smelled their foulness. Anyhow, they have a heavy breath, and sit on your bed, if not your chest, and breathe this foulness into you, and I assume this creates a nightmare, so I have been told, and have had many in the past, I now simply pray to the Lord each night to rid me and my house of such imps. These creatures attack at night, and breath into your nostrils, causing horrible dreams, and if present can cause a paralyzes, although once dreaming the body automatically goes into a state of being frozen, this is different. Dreams in themselves are necessary, but nightmares are not.

(The Incubus) An example of such demon, might be, the Incubus, a male demon, ghostly sexual wanting intercourse, seeks out women in the night (different than the nightmare demon, but similar for he acts when she is sleeping), as proclaimed by giving birth to Mother Shipton, the prophetess, whose mother was said to have been visited by one, off and on, and the villages tried aimlessly to protect her, in the 15th Century, legend or Lore, or reality? It is for the reader to figure out, but do not be fooled and think everything one cannot explain is legend, and untruth. The word, Incubus, is Latin for Nightmare.

(Imps) When I imply imps, I perhaps shouldn’t, for they dwell mostly in the forest, but I used the word loosely I suppose to mean demonic small forces, lesser forces, or unfamiliar spirits.

(Diet, Psychology, Prophecy in Dreams) Nowadays, the scientists, and psychologists, and so forth, blame nightmares on the vagaries of diet, and that may very well be part of it. But there is more to it then food, I believe; perhaps one’s sins, occupation, various forms of stress. These dreams, bad dreams, nightmares can be blocked, either by prayer, or oneself, if trained to; we are not talking about avoidance, but possession, nor are we talking about prophecy. Psychologically we can use dream rehearsal and dream lucidity. Check with your professionals, as well as clergy for therapy, or learning more on this subject.

(Education vs. Theology and Psychology) I did much of my graduate studies in Theology, and undergraduate studies in Psychology, and doctorate studies in learning and education. So in the above information, I have used all but the educational part which I will now. Education is teaching, or edifying, cultural or learning. Many of my previous books are in Peruvian cultures. Other parts of my education were in sociology and philosophy, so you get in this book of course all of the above, and now the Educational part as I have already told you. Nightmares, can be a necessary medicine at times, they can present, openings, depending on whose nightmares you are receiving. They can be healing, from past emotional stress, and thus a release. And even at times warning, if present in a pattern; I kept getting a nightmare in Vietnam, of getting on a plane and crashing; I had the dream over and over and over. When I left Vietnam, I was talking to a stranger at the airport in Saigon, a man, now that I look back, talked a lot about Jesus, to the point he got me annoyed and I said, “Yaw, yaw,” got up to see how my plane was doing, and the man said, “We called that flight fifteen minutes ago, you missed it. The next flight was an hour later, I got on the plane, and when it landed I heard my original flight crashed just before reaching Japan. I never had the nightmare again.
So here was a behavior pattern, and an opportunity that I did not realized I needed to remedy, but some angelic being problem did. So in the process of learning, I’ve learned to take all into consideration. Be it psychology, theology, science, and faith. What is the sense having having these disciplines and not taking note of them, and using them? If you are asking, or telling, or saying at this moment, “You didn’t know, so it really didn’t help you,” you might be right, but it can help you.

Yoreth, the Twenty-seventh Demigod ((reading his Tablets)(poetic prose))

Poem of the:
The Twenty-Seventh Demigod,
Yoreth

(Yoreth,
The Plato of Hell’s Shallow Waters)

He called his assemblage, unveiled his plan
To the seven-two names, that sat in a circle whom
Were to rule the worlds, with various qualities
And redundant plans, under a hypothesis that
That was taking too long…

He lectured, and preached,
on the table of archangels, whom to feared, that
watched over the worlds, and wrote down their names,
as commonly written, on tablets for his assemblage—

He said, Micha’el also goes by the name of Lelah,
Elsewhere, that is, so where you are assigned,
Beware, this information I’m about to give, for it
Comes under the hard research of Vau, which
He seized from the 6th, Sophiroth (spirit of beauty
And evil).

I beckon you to you all, during your trials and
Adventures, missions and all, to use black magic as
Often as possible, make much use of it, it is all related to
The order of demons, and spells to the order of
Angels and evil spirits, as well…
The arch devil Belphegor has cursed us if we don’t.
He has his legions of demons standing by, but
Fears the Arch Angel Michael his army (the Malachim).

And so today, it is my task to try and translate
Hebrew symbols into readable English
I have handed out clay tablets to each of you, to help,
and believe me tt is almost a hopeless task, however
I am the Plato of Hell’s Shallow Waters, and have
Twenty-four PhD’s, and thus, I have created these
Language tablets, lost once to mankind, now found and
Translated by me, so make sure you pronounce the words correctly, due to the fact, Aramaic was its earlier language
Of Palestine, written before the birth of Christ.

To each of you, my students, I give the Talmud, and
Of the old scrolls of the Scripture; hence, we
Shall look at the verities that existed once in the Bible,
Until translates came into being.
You will see, and witness in the Bible, and my
Tablets, ‘signs’ (astrologers) assume the signs to mean
Certain things, and this of course was taught
To me by one of the Great Watchers’, of
Prehistory, an arch angel, one of the two-hundred
Azaz’el, to watch over man, and decided to cohabitate
With woman, review Genesis 6, when you got time.

Vaho, the 49th student, stood up, said:
“The tablets submitted in this lecture, are of great
Assistance, now we will know in this world, what we are
Dealing with; this archetypal world, of a vast universe;
world of materialisms. I see in this tablet you gave,
Something that reads ‘destruction of the soul’
Which I assume is our goal?”

You are quite right Vaho, we can call it pure spirits or
The soul or sprits, or the plastic mediator—call it what
You will, but I do not use the word destruction,
Because the soul cannot be destroyed, that is why
I am giving this lecture, so you do not go off on
Some half hazard adventure. These tables
Is a mystery to the entire universe, but me?
And those Old Ones who write them.

Let me explain Vaho, the soul is immortal
By renewal of itself, even through destruction of its forms;
And so while the prey lives, you must bury the soul,
We have done this to a certain degree by presenting
Evolution as an idea, and thus this has produced
Forgetfulness without destruction, buried the soul alive,
Sort of speaking: the human flesh, the body is
The shell, the veil, like a shroud, do you understand
(Vaho nodded his head yes, still standing).

From the graces of God, proceeds the great angel Micha’el
The good angel of the soul; but you and I are of course
Uninfluenced by the good aspirations of this spirit, as is
Samael the evil spirit, the one next to you (Samael, is an
Angelic being, he laughs).

Thus, we see good and evil on the table of thoughts
Do we not? (Yeli, stands up, the 2nd in the assemblage)
“Yes, Maestro…” he yelps aloud so all can hear.
Is it not true Yeli, that God allows us to carry on to
See if His so called pure emanations: to the worlds
Can deteriorate after those whom are given his
Radioactive light, if we can produce decay in those
Grabbing on to it? “Yes indeed (says Yeli), that is God’s
Plan, weed out the decay before it gets into heaven.”

So with this in mind, you should know that humans
Have wisdom, intelligence, love and justice
Circulating in their minds; what else do they have–?
Haa (26th name in the assemblage) stood up to answer:

“Maestro, there is, according to this tablet,
Beauty in their minds, and firmness in their souls,
and splendor, and righteousness, greed and materialism.”

Student Haa, do you understand these words?
“I think so,” said Haa.

So you are not sure? Some are similar to others. For each
World you go to, different worlds have different terms, as
Did different times, and different location on earth, term righteousness differently, earth is a material world.

As you read these Hebrew tablets, some I see are reading them
Wrong, why have you not asked me how to read them?
This is a question to all?

Sit, 3rd in the assemblage, stood up, said, “Is it not
Because of pride, we do not want to look bad in front of you?”

Oh yes, yes indeed, you will be a help to your missions.
You read Hebrew from right to left, thus, just the
Reverse of English. Number one starts at the right hand side.
And if we supply the vowels, we secure the names of the enemy;
Those angelic beings watching over the cities of the world;
We must remember the names you come out with are
Aligned to the four heavens on the other side of the tablet,
These names go back to the days of the creation of the earth.

Note: and so it was, at the assemblage, all were—thereafter, assigned their missions,
duties, and locations, on earth, and elsewhere.



#2308 3-2-2008

Faith and Logic

(Logic vs. Faith) We talk of faith as if it is abstract, an intrinsic spirit that has to bite you before it becomes real, subjective (and when you get the blessing from the faith you don’t have, but wish you had, and the echo hits God’s ears, then we call it by-chance, for nothing else could have produced it). Faith, its roots are belief, trust, very simple roots, but if you hate God, pride will stop the faith from entering the soul, and what do you have left, a Jaw bone from Darwin’s theory; logic has much more to deal with, in the race of thought (or thinking and deduction). The question may come up in this prose work, is God to be understood logically or by faith? If you saw Jesus, whom the Christians call God incarnate, would you say “This is not logical?” So therefore it is not, and is simply an illusion, for some reason, my mind must be taxed? In reality, I don’t know what the other man would say, but I know what I would say “It is Jesus, because I saw him,” and therefore logical or not, it is (we may have to look at whose logical concepts are we dealing with also, Plato’s or Aristotle’s? (or my own)—they did not think the same you know, so who was right?). And no one can tell me otherwise.” All the scientists out there don’t read this, it will just spoil your breakfast or lunch, go back to the moon. But is there a moon (maybe he can’t go back there, he only saw it), maybe it is not, but we’ve been there right? Or at least someone has, maybe it is not so, just a lie, on top of a created illusion (like Darwin’s Fairy Tale, no one ever saw an ape man; we saw a Jaw from the Heidelberg Man, and a few more fragments from the Java woman, and now we got a human ape running around a million years ago, sent by Darwin via, his theory, is this logical? It takes a lot more faith to believe in this, than God.) Anyhow, the moon, perhaps we saw, special effects as they call it. Anyhow, I will take it by faith that man has been on the moon, for I can’t see any real concrete logic here.

Now what is logic and faith have to do with the moon? I believe because I saw it on TV, and in the magazines, man landing on the moon in 1969, sat in a bar in San Francisco, but I saw Jesus also, on TV and in the magazines also, and in some visions, and I see the moon in the sky so it is as seeing Jesus in the person also, so I have three equal elements here, actually Jesus has one up. What is logistical here? We shall look at that in a moment, we can call it reasoning out, in what we are doing now, or common sense (which is not all that common nowadays, which is seeing might be believing), or it can be judgment, and that we have to hope is correct, and it does not mean judgment by science, although scientist would claim I think it should be. Logic to me is perhaps closer to ‘What else could it be?” Most folks who study the cosmos come to the conclusion, there has to be a God (I read that someplace, but it makes sense in that, we cannot conceive a beginning, only an end).

(Did Jesus exist?) More evidence out there says He did, and it’s been out there a very long time, perhaps more than believing in a Davy Crockett, or Daniel Boon, or a Muhammad or a George Washington. We have only paintings of these folks (and some written documents), like Jesus, in a way, but his has more worldwide expectance, more pictures, is known in more countries, and the New Testament of the Bible was written because of Him. Christmas was created because of Him, and BC and AD was created because of him, until some goofball change it, must had been an angry believer who did not get his way with God. Anyhow, point of fact, Jesus is more known than any of these fellows, yet, he is more in question of His existence, this is not logical to me. But we believe our historians would not make them up, so we have faith in them, we believe them, we trust them (or do we, and perhaps we are in a bubble). But I like Davy Crockett, although I think, and could most likely prove, a lot of what they say he did (or he said he did in his book), is not up to the full truth (and I never ever even say Davy in a vision yet).

(Logic and Reason) When we talk philosophy, we are talking about logic or reasoning, are we not? Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle, and their kind, argued on what was and what was not, or appeared not to be, but should be because it is. Socrates was killed because he made what he thought was a logical determination, that there was only one God, not many, Athens did not like it. He put logic and faith into one bag. Prior to this we had a whole lot of gods in one bag doing nothing, all based on faith, no logic; I’ve found out in life what seems right today, ten years down the road, it becomes to the contrary, and so at best, I got to say we bend logic in each age as did the Athenians, as we bend the bible, or Karen today, or the Talmud, to suite the reasoning we want to come out at the other end, and those who go against it, go against the: church, mosque, or synagogue, are outcasts, whom really are observers, and should be treated as such.

(Examples) Is it right to kill whales, so we can have whale stews, or steak? Or to kill Elephants because there are too many in a park, and people want ivory? Debates are often won by who buys the biggest dinner, it all sounds logical to be a big receiver. It is all in who is the interpreter, especially if it involves self-interest. If anyone knew this, it was Socrates. Philosophy is perhaps the only discipline, if you can call it that, which has not advanced much in comparisons to psychology, anthropology, sociology, and all the rest of the zoologies and methods we use to understand the world of man.

I don’t wish to be the logic–chopper today, but take all these theories, and theorems and disputations and throw them into the wind, renew the encrypted, and nuclease mind, the first step, to expurgation the overlapping pretense, and self-interest, now common sense can flow (which was not common a moment ago, with faith).

(Conclusion) In the process of reasoning out whatever you are reasoning out, use some faith with it, it is better to believe in something believable, even if it does not hold the logic the professor prefers you have—why? First, because to you it is believable, second is there a reason not to believe it, I mean, did the believer, the one you believe in do something to you to be put into second place, and thus, untrustworthy? If not believe—why? Here we go again, because it is healthier to do so. The reasoning here comes into play, when the person is not trustworthy, then if you believe in him, it is not faith you are working with, but gullibility (and you are blind, or it is more painful for you to jump out of denial).

(Going against the grain) Do not damn the sources of error, or make hurdles for folks to jump over them, some minds are weak, and need pictures and images to worship, a weak mind of faith is not domination, or the unpardonable sin, it is reality for the other person, habit you could say, and often mistaken for a thing (let’s hope it is not, a pray is better than a curse), but the error is not so unreasonable as to make it proceed above a human being. Let it sink, where it may, God will take it from there, He always does, contrary perhaps to the suspended universe, hovering above us, but I can live with that, if the mirrors can live with my face.


3-1-2008 (prose, #2307)

Dead Skies over Kenya ((a poem)(and Commentary on Kenya's struggle for peace))

Dead Skies over Kenya
(2/2008)

Deep death, encircles the skies over Kenya
Whence even the lightening seems remote;
Here, the cities burn, with burning eyes
Ask now what hand will save the dawn.

#2285 2-23-2008

Note: In recent weeks, there has been much commotion, fighting, and loss of life in Kenya, and it seems, the United States, along with the United Nations, are for once in unison, with concern over this African nation, not like it was back in the early 90s, when the world ran away from the Uganda crisis, and almost a million lives were lost. All Kenyans seem to agree with one thing, change the constitution, that in itself is a problem, the two sides that are in opposition, are talking, it’s about time, and in one way or another, agree with that above statement. The popular demand seems to be, a better democratic governance in their nation, for it all started because of that very reason, if I recall right, over bad elections. So, better late than never, here are two poems on the subject, or issue of Kenya, as I see it. Even Condoleezza Rice, and the former U:N: secretary-general, Kofi Annan are trying to put out fires before they start back up there, as worthless as Annan has been in the past maybe he can do something good for mankind here in the present, if it is in his heart, that is (I hope so). There will be more mass protests in the near future, but let’s hope it remains at that, better than mass graves are dug, and in that part of the world, who can ever tell. Kenya was perhaps the most civilized, and well off country in Africa, until recently that is. So here is a little poem, for a big issue.

The Complete Muhammad Letters (Poems inspiried)

The Muhammad Papers
(Year of the Elephant)

(Inspired, and Illustrated)

Twelve (XII) Poetic, Prophetic Letters found in a Cave in Medina, and now
Translated for the first time

Revelations from the Prophet Moss (634 AD)



By Three Time Poet Laureate, Ed. D.
Dennis L. Siluk

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture (through his Poetry and Writings)
The Muhammad Papers
Dennis L. Siluk
Copyright©2008


Illustrated by the Author





Dennis L. Siluk, Ed. D
Poet Laureate




Haikus for Evil

No one goes, and
Does evil (or kills) in the Name of God;
That is Satan’s work.

#2276/2-17-2008


Muhammad, the Islamic Prophet was born in the “Year of the Elephant,”
And died at age of 62-years, of an illness, in the year 632 AD

In these few short poems; one may gather up the nature of Muhammad, perhaps better than another book, without any biases, they express his nature more than his deeds than anything else, and according to historical data.



Index

Haiku for Evil

The Prophet Moss
(From the Echoes of the archangels)

Letter #2 “From the Grave of Muhammad”
((Inspired by Raguel) (archangel))

Letter #3 “The Battle of Badr”
(A Revelation from the angel Uriel to Moss)

Letter #4 “the Coffin Makers”
(Revelation given to Moss from Michael)

Letter #5 the Prophet from the Orphan
(A Revelation from Gabriel to Moss)

Letter #6 “the Arrow & the Apple”
Inspired by Lucifer (undetected until now,
He was pretending to be, Raguel, who takes vengeance
For the world)

Letter #7 “the Underworld”
(Revealed by Saraqa’el the Archangel, Guide for Moss, while touring Heaven)

Letter #8 “Story of the Cranes"
(Inspired from the spirit voice of Rufael, the Archangel)

Letter #9 “Mecca’s Cry: the Year of Sorrow”
(As remembered from the mouth of Moss the Prophet)

Letter #10 “Pledge under the Tree”
(A Revelation from Muhammad Himself to Moss)

Letter #11 “Spirit of the Dark”
(Amduscias and the Trees of Hell)

Letter #1 “A Poetic Sketch on:
A´isha Bint Abu Bakr”
((Inspired by Sure’el (archangel of trembling)
(Wife of the Prophet))

†


Moss, the Great Prophet from Medina
634 AD


The Prophet Moss
(From the Echoes of the archangels)

Moss, a great prophet of his day,
stood between heaven and earth,
so it was is written, and saw
the emmence, and very pillars
of heaven, and saw the winds,
turn the course of the sun and
saw the stars as well, and they fell,
beneath the clouds, and the angels
held them up, and they were flaming
day and night, and a voice said,
prophet of the earth, listen: mark
down these words, keep them far
from the pit, and let not the foundation
under the waters of the earth,
listen, save, they steal these words
and make havoc with them.
Break down the pillars, tell the truth,
from the beginning, for it has now
turned into a mystery…I give you
revelations on earth’s number one
enemy! (Muhammad)

#2270/ 2-16-2008 (inspired 6:30 PM)
Letter: II


“Oh,” from the Grave of Muhammad

Inspired by Raguel (archangel)


“Oh!” Surprised by death
was—Muhammad?
He suffered from the anger and hate,
filaments he had inside his breast:
madness—; he lays now in his illness,
covered with sand…
his soul, in a washbasin.
His mouth calling “Oh!”
from the dead;
he was surprised
God did not let him into heaven.
Alas! Death came with no other
settlement!...

#2261/ 2-16-2008 (Revelation received, 3:00 PM)















Letter: III



The Battle of Badr

(A Revelation from the angel Uriel to Moss)


There will be blood in the sand tonight—
Like gravy over meat,
Dead bodies eating soil, vultures chewing
Hearts from corpuses’
Eyes plucked out, of their sockets, like
Candles in a twist—
And I see Muhammad hiding in a cave,
Safe, watching all this;
Yesterday, he walked tall, like a peacock,
Among men of the world;
Today, he’s evasive, hiding behind shadows,
Like a frightened little girl.


#2262/ 2-16-2008
















Letter: IV


The Coffin Makers





(Revelation given to Moss from Michael)


What Moss saw in the far off days?

We are Islam.
We are the coffin makers.
We are Death.
We hate Jews and Christians;
we pack them in carts
like potatoes.
The body fires like stars:
we use children,
women and the insane.
We are to them,
their savior.
We are the death makers.
We are Islam.
We have credentials.


#2263/2-16-2008



Letter V

The Prophet from the Orphan

(A Revelation from Gabriel to Moss)

He eats the heart of man
spits them out like fingernails—;
his followers threaten even the Pope
or any man, of speech, and freedom
if they do not listen, take head.
He was once an orphan,
now he’s Islam. Once a poor
broken tool, ornament, whom
decided to make a religion
decided to free a people
(from the bondage of many gods)—
then held them hostage,
corralled like hogs,
accountable; put his new world
under his heel, as they cried
in duress; thus, he simply said:
I am the word of God
(the prophet
from the Orphanage).

#2264/ 2-16-2007)











Letter VI


The Arrow & the Apple

Inspired by Lucifer (undetected until now,
He was pretending to be, Raguel, who takes vengeance
For the world)



Hell’s High Tower


And Raguel heard Satan whisper to Moss, as he was sitting on a mountain top, looking down upon the land (and here is what he wrote in his scriptures):

“You are a knife in my side Moss, I gave Muhammad messages
and you try to poison my words, the very words I gave to him;
give them lies, lies, big lies, small ones they detect, oh yes—yes,
they detect: big ones they never check. You are my infection! Yet
I must admit, I’ve been getting much attention out of this, those
letters you now write for posterity, will not be discovered until
the 21st Century.

What harm have I done you? None! Did I make you insane, as I have
a certain other prophet? No! Have I made your heart sour, as I’ve done to you know who? No! And here you climb to the roof of the city, to this mountain top, overlook it, and pray to God—my antagonist.

Muhammad is dead, under my wing, my pillow, under my stirrups. And you, I, give you all you wish, like I did for Muhammad, and this is what I get, ingratitude.” (And that was that.)


#2267/ 2-16-2008 (Muhammad was 62-years old when he died, in the year 632 AD)
VII

The Underworld

(Revealed by Saraqa’el the Archangel, Guide for Moss, while touring Heaven)

Belphegor, King of the
Demon


Moss, the Great Prophet of Medina, wonderer of the wastelands in 633 AD, wrote the following revelation, as he had ascended into the atmosphere:

“Birds turned into plums and apples; a wind swept me up into the heavens, I thought my body would turn into a corpse, I went so fast, hanging onto Saraqa’el, tightly on his back, I twisted and twirled, and almost lost my grip. Then the birds disappeared, and there I was. I was seventy-three years, at this time, and
this great archangel, my guide, introduced me to Adam, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus, and then I looked about for Muhammad, and then asked, ‘Where is this great, great, great man, prophet of God?’ And an angel by the name of Gabriel answered,’ I think he’s down yonder taking a nap.’ I hesitated to ask, where yonder was, in fear, Gabriel may think I was perplexing, and that just would not do. Then I asked again, and another angel answered, ‘I’ll tell you where yonder is, if you write me a poem?’ I paused to see if he was serious, and he diffidently was. I did not feel great by all means; a tinge of wine would have helped. Then I heard an echo, a deep, deep echo, that ascended from below, that other angel said, here is his voice, and I listened carefully, and it said: ‘Idiot prophet, I’m dead, will you take my place here in Saul…instead’ short for hell I think, ‘the devil’s got me by the tail, hurry up, make up your mind, I’m the great prophet of all time!’ I didn’t say a word, I just wanted to go back to earth, and see those birds.”

#2268/ 2-16-2008
Letter VIII


“Story of the Cranes"
(Inspired from the spirit voice of Rufael, the Archangel)


“Story of the Cranes"
(the Satanic Verse),
Muhammad’s involvement,
I lived through these times,
the account holds true,
that Muhammad pronounced
a verse, acknowledging the existence
of three Meccan goddesses
considered to be the daughters
of Allah—praising them he did,
and thereafter appealing for their
intercession. According to my
observations, Muhammad later
retracted his statements,
the verses, saying Gabriel
had instructed him to do so.
Just in time, I would guess?


Note: In the tenth century this was rejected as a false entry of his life, yet it stood the test of time, for 350-years, until one day, woops, it is no longer history. 2269 2-15-2008 (1:30 AM, received revelation)












Letter IX



Mecca’s Cry: the Year of Sorrow

(As remembered from the mouth of Moss the Prophet))


His heart beat like the sea
his anger was as if he had bees in his mouth;
Mecca became a dead city
after he killed them all
(10,000-soldiers strong, he conquered
them, butchered, like hogs).
The flies had a feast…, for
they tore open their bellies like beasts!
Their heads severed, rolled off,
down the streets—;
they would not listen,
they would not stop
they simply killed and killed,
as if, in a death dance.

#2271/2-16-2008 (10:50 PM)





Letter: X

“Pledge under the Tree”
(A Revelation from Muhammad Himself to Moss)

The Devil

While in the process of conquering the lands of Arabia (624 AD to 632 AD)

“I wanted everything, the houses, the dogs, hogs, ropes, and
jewels, even the souls, the family heritage, even the food, everything, and when the people who did not bend their wills,
I wanted to kill their wills; whoever was left, ate chicken
bones. My army, had pledged their lives to me, their souls,
to die for me, to kill, to kill to the very end of their days: to
battle, be it man, women, child, even virgins; they
died liked chickens or hens; twenty eyes like volcanoes
came and butchered them.

“There is never a silence in my head, only teeth and death. It comes each day, in shock waves, the vibrating twitching of muscles and swords clashing. I killed so many with no reason,
it was a season of red rain, in my days.

“I try to swallow my memory, but it keeps coming back,
chained down to oblivion, like a crucifixion; even
laughter does not help anymore, memory comes back,
luminous, like a clock.

“Once upon a time, I was a young man, and I died, for
no reason, like so many.”

#2272/ 2-16-2008 (11:15 PM)

Note: Muhammad, in the course of his battling with his enemies, he had his followers make a pledge to their death, called, “Pledge under the Tree,” perhaps this is where the suicide bombers got their credo, to the death.



Letter: XI


Spirit of the Dark




Amduscias and the Trees of Hell


Powerful Grand Duke of Hell
powerful demon, of 29-infernal legends in hell:
once a unicorn, once a human, you come in many forms:
thou bends to the music of heaven, commands
at will the trumpets of hell—yea plays
and the trees sway: who art thou
who comes in the form of
familiars (dogs and cats
bats and rats…) your
legend from hell?
so some say, one in the form
of Muhammad! Thus, a curse
to us, ordinary people of this thin world.



There is a Christian, belief, or call it folklore, that Muhammad was born on the day, year and month considered the Mark of the Beast, 666 AD, and not on 634 AD, as history has recorded it, and that he was the beast incarnate, the devil, or at best, a simply demon. #2264/2-17-2008






Letter: I

A Poetic Sketch on:
A´isha Bint Abu Bakr

Inspired by Sure’el (archangel of trembling)

(Wife of the Prophet)




Aisha 3rd Wife to Muhammad


To my understanding Mohammad the Prophet, had 13-wives.
Aisha was his 3rd, and very, very, very young; she was, said to
have been nine-years old, and the only virgin. Sawda, his second,
so it is said, yet there is a belief out there Aisha may have been his
second instead, but did not make love to her until after He wed Sawda,
being so very, very, very young ((`A´isha Bint Abu Bakr)(she who lives))

`A´isha Bint Abu Bakr: mother of believers: so it was, in older times,
one often married to strengthen ties, with families, clans, with other
armies, and kingdoms, and so it has been suggested, Muhammad did
just that, similar to Alexander the Great.

Aisha, lived with her parents to the age of nine, when the marriage
was consummated. Thus, after the wedding, it is said, Aisha continued
to play with her toys, in Median, in 622 AD.

It seems history records she was his most favoured wife, and he received
most of his revelations when she was in his presence. And even though
it might have been motivated for other reasons, they did become fond of
each other, and blessed by heaven.

It has been also said, Aisha had gone looking for her necklace, one
morning, and her caravan had taken off, left her behind, unnoticed,
and soon after a stranger found her, brought her back to the caravan, and
was thereafter called an adulater, until that is, until Muhammad
got a new revelation, from heaven, clearing her of any such charges.

After Muhammad’s death in 632 AD, at the age of 62, Aisha’s father became
the leader of the people, the new found religion, Islam, but his leadership
was to be a short run, only two years, and he gave it to Umar; whom ruled
for ten years, and was followed by another leader, thereafter.



End Note: It would seem, or at least it does to me, Aisha, was a learned woman, who—throughout her remaining years—gave stories to the Muslim world about her husband. Of her own time she must had been quite valuable as a historian. She is now of course, revered as a model for Islamic Woman. She also raised an Army, and fought against Ali, her step-son in-law. She was quite a woman indeed.

#2260/ 2-16-2008 (Inspired at 2:00 AM)





End to the book






†


Dr. Dennis Siluk has a Degree in Psychology, a License to Counsel in Minnesota, is an Ordained Minister, and has an Ed. D. in Education (for teaching and learning); he has traveled to more than 60-countries; and has written 36-books to date. He is a War time Vietnam Veteran. See author's site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/

Midwinter Winds (A Midwinter Poem for Minnesota, 2008)

Midwinter Winds
(A Midwinter Poem for Minnesota Poem, 2008)

Midwinter winds over the gray,
now heavily displaying in the Midwest,
go forth to gather the day,
for here the magic has come, with dreams.

O, happy winds play within my warm hands,
Ah! Let me play and rest…!
and breath in the yearning, to see,
so much midwinter gray, and snow to be!

#2280 (2-22-2008)

Christopher Brennan, A Great Poet (Review)

Who was Christopher Brennan?

For the most part, a forgotten poet (other than for Australia), who was born 1870, and died 1932; his work was more on the mythological side of the spectrum it seems; born in New South Wales, Australia. His main work, which I would like to bring to surface here, was Poems: 1913, which he published in 1914. He wrote several works, and seems to have influence many poets in Australia, perhaps like Juan Parra De Riego, in the Andes of Peru, whom most people do not know, but did some great things for poetry—creating motion.
In 1888, he, Brennan, entered the University of Sydney (I had visited Sydney back in 1971). His father was a merchant, and his first published work was in 1897; he was a librarian and lecturer, similar to our Minnesota Poet, Robert Bly, whom translated many books in Spanish and German.
The poem, “Autumn” has a shell of haunting to it, he uses such images as Clark A. Smith, Robert Howard or George Sterling would. Autumn is the best of all seasons to me, especially living in Minnesota.
In the poem, “Because He would ask me why I loved her,” once can see a nice rhyme schema, and fine architecture. He seems to shift a little in this poem, to a clearer premise, and a tinge of philosophy than many of his era poets, I like that.
In his poem, “Fire in the Heavens,” almost reminds me of Mary Renault’s work, on the Greek world, although Brennan shifts to Egyptian crypt like imagery, and descriptions. He is a worth while poet to read, even if one has to shift away from Free Verse.
Of the poems I’ve thus far mentioned, I would prefer “I Am Shut out of Mine own Heart,” a lovely poem, with skill, reverberation, and character. He was in love with a certain lady, and here you can get the mood of it, although he is not famous for his embedded feelings into poetry per se, better put, not emotional, yet he seems to get the message across in this romantic poem.
In “Sweet Silence after Bells,” I don’t care for that poem much, but it is a worthwhile poem to read; we often push certain poems aside because we have not experienced what the poet has, and this may be one of the cases.
In the poem, “The Yellow Gas,” Christopher Brennan produces many images, perhaps close to some of George Sterling’s poetic images—who is the master I believe of imagery, but seems to be more connecting and clear than George.
In his poems he does not get into radicalism, or nationalism, like so many poets do today, and half not knowing the issues at hand, it is refreshing; I like Robert Bly’s poetry, but he does this too much, and saturates his books with it, as did Ambrose. He has a touch of William Blake in his poetry also, depending of the poem of course.
At one time, Brennan was facing the issue of joining the priesthood; this also can be seen in his poetry (of faith, and metaphysical lights, embedded into his poetry).
In “Spring Breezes,” we see him shift his style to a more of a free verse style, but does not lose his rhyme schema, his stanzas are not exact, but he gets a good result, effect from the poem. All in all, I enjoy his poetry, and am anxious to read additional books by him in the future, if I can get a hold of them.

Most Read Poet on the Internet?

Most Read Poet on the Internet?

Recently, I scanned the internet for who might be the most read poet on the internet today, and I found a few claims but only one can stand its ground, so I feel: Allen Jesson comes the closest but doesn’t quite make it, that is, he claims to being the most read poet (actually he claims to be the most popular, not sure if there is a difference here, but I can’t prove the popularity part of it, only the reading of Mr. Dennis Siluk’s poetry, three time Poeta Laureado); as do many others, but after checking it out, it was Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, with over 165,000-readers a month, minimum, which is really on the short end of the scale. He is on over 400-sites (over 3000-entries on the internet), one of his poems is on 34-sites alone another on 50. One of his poems has 16,000-hits or readers on one site alone. Dennis, by himself has 30-sites throughout the internet, and has written 36-books. Sorry Allen, but it doesn’t look like your claim can stand any longer. Dr. Siluk’s poetry only features his poetry, no one else’s. On one of his sites alone, he got a year ago, 250,000-visitors, and gets 6000-visitors per month now, which will be 360,000 by the end of the year; perhaps because he has now, 30-sites, at this time, and one can see movies of him now on the internet, he will pass the two million mark for readers this year, if he hasn't already. On Ezinearticles, alone he has about 560,000-visitors—with over 1400-articles and poems ((he has written 2260 poems to date)(and has over 300 short stories, and over 900 articles, and 20 or so novels)), and that is one of a countless number of sites to have his written word on. From Ezinearticles alone, around, 23,000-other folks have come to take his poetry off the site, to put it on theirs, all this can be reviewed of course simply by checking out the internet. So Mr. Jasson’s claim is a bit foggy I feel today—maybe yesterday it was ok, perhaps we can say he is number two at best, and again I say, this is my opinion, with all respect intended for the poet.

Incidentally, Mr. Siluk’s poetry can be read in English, Spanish, Japanese, Korean, German, French and has been put into the schools in Peru, and Bosnia.

By Rosa Peñaloza

Winter of Sorrows (an Elegy for a Friend)

Winter of Sorrows
((An Elegy for a friend) (Grieving for a loved one))


Sunlight settled around her human form
(as she visited my wife and I in our parlor,
room, this afternoon)…
agony deposits, settled around her face,
her eyes settled with gold dark beams
upon mine, we talked about her twenty-years
she spent together with her husband, like
two birds with one wing, and many feathers,
to comfort each other; through the hard and
trying times.

As I looked upon her countenance, her face,
her composure—dignified, (outwardly, quickly
I noticed, she had been aging, from a broken heart,
from grieving…from her ribs aching, and her
fingers turning to rubber, from wiping the
tears from her eyes; trying to hold up her
appearance, to be strong for God, and us;
yet her words were brushed with sorrow hidden
perhaps, laced (even edited) as if on a spool of
thread, for softly like cotton they came.

She had now thawed out, frozen once I
could tell, like a tree stump, temporarily in
the Winter of Sorrows (her husband had
died, just six weeks ago, from cancer, his body
had said “That’s it…” and he said, “Oh!”
Yet he lives in her every moment, her soul.

It is indeed, an unstable place to be, no easy
way out, our spirit surrounded by memories
and thoughts! The deceased gets out of his body,
while she’s left in the box: soft pain, yet it all
drifts to heaven, in the winter of sorrows.


Dedicated to Carmon Alfaro (#2249/2-12-2008)

Garden Music (a poem)

Garden Music

Green leafage and roots
with flowers and stems:
a cactus and a totem pole,
in the center of the garden.

In and above, my deep dark
earthly garden, makes for
charming music, --upon:
twilight meeting the moon.

And the birds perched,
along the houses, once in
the garden, are now settled
reconciled for the Evening.

So, much charming music
prevails, along the many rooftops,
and countless window sills,
with dark feathers, flopping

flopping wings, softly swaying,
swaying with bent heads,
to the music of the garden,
to the rhythm of the night:

in and above the garden’s eyes.

#2177 1—27-2008

Death Coma (a poem)

Death Coma

My mother—three days she lay in a coma
(lapsed into a death unconsciousness), before she died.
Her death was as she would have had fashioned it.
If she had a poetic last breath, or one of
some philosophical meaning, it was this:
“I am ready, I’m not afraid—,
would you like to live like this?”
Thus, somehow she made her peace
and found her quest!


#2182 1-26-2008

Helicopter over the Jungle ((From a Dream)(Motif...))

((From a Dream) (Motif, first thought poetry))

Mike my brother, hot muggy,
jungle all around him, lost in its sea of green,
my helicopter softly roaring
my helicopter softly roaring
my helicopter softly roaring
over the top of the mass of green—
(they just saved someone from the jungle a day ago—)
told my Commanding Officer, an Army Captain,
we had to arrange this helicopter to drop me off
in his last known locality—:
in this sea of green, this jungle
in this sea of green, this jungle
in this sea of green, this jungle:
below me, with its suburb colors of foliage
with so many shades of green
below me, in this sea of green,
with no alleyways, stop lights
just bugs, green and weeds.
Mike I thought:
where can you be,
where is he,
where can he be…
deep in this sea of green,
deep in this sea of green—below me:
the ground below me, spots of brown
brown spots, eh, where can he be?
in this sea of green, this jungle,
in this sea of green, this jungle,
below me; I notice—in this early morn,
a bright sunrise beyond the copter’s eye,
way beyond its eye, way, way
beyond its eye…
rotary motion above my head
like a watchtower jumping, rocking
“Jump” a voice says,
“we’ll pick you up later.”
Thru the blue ski I fall,
thru the blue sky I fall, fall, fall,
fall, and fall to the hot planet below,
I almost feel like an angel falling to earth,
falling to this sea of green, this jungle.
I fall, and fall, to the hot planet below,
then hit land, insects hop back and forth;
hit land, insects working hard,
with heavy green loads on their back,
with heavy green loads (I see a toad
in the foliage—hiding big as my head,
in the sea of green, this jungle;
between my feet, fingers, and boots, the
ants march, march with their loads
like trained little soldiers.
I have a horn type loudspeaker
and some other equipment, food;
it’ll have to do, last a few days.
I tell myself, ‘Staff Sergeant,’ get up,
the helicopter will be back in a day,
available, to rescue me.
I search the terrain,
I searched the terrain,
this sea of green, this hot, muggy jungle,
with heavy green toads, and ants with big loads:
thought, thinking, had a thought,
he might be in… then it all of a sudden,
my thoughts, thinking, stopped,
there over there,
there, right over there,
over there, over there,
I see him resting from the heat
under a large tree, in this sea of green,
in this green sea, this jungle:
bushes on both sides of him,
he’s eating something.

#2170 1-25-2008 (Dedicated to Mike Siluk)


Notes: About the Poem “Helicopter over the Jungle”: Here is a new poem from a dream, many lines repeated, to incorporate the motif tone, and first thoughts to produce the sensitivity and texture (or grain I want) for the poem-dream. I do not claim this to be a” First thought, best thought,” poem, that was not the idea behind this poem, or even spontaneous insight, was considered, not sure if there is any insight, other than a psychological message for me, and if so it is most likely my fear of my brother being in some kind of mental turmoil (and this in itself is a good premise for the reader to look at, for dreams are often made up of fears, desires and wishes, and messages from the Lord, and some nightmares, come directly from His Adversary). What you get in this poem really, or so I think, is a sequence of thoughts not particularly in any solid form, it is more of a natural form, mindfully set of course.

Four Holy Poems (written in the '80s)

Here are a few poems written in the 1980s, never published before, I call these four poems "The Holy Poems." They were found among my papers in 2003, after my mother died, and I cleaned her house, I had many things packed away I guess. I hope you enjoy them.

1) The Hand


Of all the beauty that I’ve ever seen,
It was a hand that was supreme;
Like holy due with lights from heaven
It filled the space within our presence;
And there I sat, in respectful fear,
And torched the hand that disappeared.

Notes: Written November, 1987 ((from visions, #87) (Ref: Isa. 49:15))


2) The Garden

In a garden I saw Him,
Elbows upon a rock—
Deep in thought;

His eyes firm,
looking towards heaven.
Like pillars of stone
A lake at rest.

Then I whispered, “Lord,
Is this really you?”
An undertone come back:
“Yes, it’s True.”


Notes: Written November, 1987 (from visions) #88


3) The Mist

He said ther’d be no tears in heaven
Where I shall be some day;
And I thought, when by the pearly gates:
“What of my friends in hell?”

Then within a mist of sacred dew
I became awe-stricken, paralyzed;
It permeated my pours (osmosis)
A new beginning, I cried!

I knew now, the divine wonder to be—
A touch of God’s joy, inside of me.


Notes: Written November, 1987 ((from visions, #89)(Ref: Rev. 21:4))


4) The Thorns


Within a crown of earthly thorns
In a misty fog one early morn—
Strenuously I looked straight ahead,
And saw the deity of Christ’s head;

Tears rolled down my ransomed face
Unto the earth that took His grace
And with a hiss and smile inside—
Silently I knew, He was Alive!


Notes: Written, April, 1988 (from Visions) #93
St. Paul, Minnesota

Stillness on the Ship (a poem on grieving and the waters around the Galapagos)

(A poem on grieving and the waters around the Galapagos)


Parts of the day, and nights I watched the sea gulls,
chase the ship, sometimes along side us,
sometimes in back, sometimes perched, as if in the air,
but up there, by the Captains helm,
the gulls would roam, seemingly, uncaring,
staring into his room;
snubbing the whole world, and its land,
under a blue sky looking down onto the blue water.

Now I paced, in the moonlit night, paced
like a child, back and forth
along the side of the ship, going from Island to island,
in the Galapagos (it was September of 2003):
I had a cup of coffee in hand,
left over from dinner, in the lower café.

A few ship staff, climb up and down the white ladders
there wasn’t much of a currant in those waters,
carved in smooth, calm silk—it seemed,
I’ll sleep well tonight this evening,
until the pain of my mother’s death ascends
to my head again: it seep you know,
into my head as if there was a hole, a
hole in the boat, that leads to my brain

but somehow, these gulls and their wings
gliding in the moonlit night, pasted me
on deck, seemed to pacify me, especially when
we went by little islands full of seas and sorts:
I could always hear the times hit the rocks.


NOTE: After my mother died in July of 2003, which seemed to age me 10-years, I took a voyage to several of the Galapagos Islands, I was perhaps not the best of company, for my wife, or passengers, I kept a lot to myself, but my mother either lived with me, or I her for 34-of my years, it was traumatic when she died. In February, 2005, Donald Hall and I would talk briefly, on my loss, actually his book on his wife, helped me during those days. And here in this poem is one of those days on the deck of the ship me and my wife were on during this period. #2178 1-24-2008

Sand (a war poem on Iraq and Afghanistan)

Stack the bodies high in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Lower them onto the ships and planes—
Be quick about it, we have two wars to fight;
I am the sand.

We stacked them high in Korea
And we stacked them high in Vietnam
Just lower them onto the ships and planes
Be quick about it, we have wars to fight;
I am the sand.

Where am I?
What is this new place?

I am the sand.
Let me fight.


#2177 1-24-2008

Guard Duty on a Dusty Road (a poem out of Vietnam--1971)

In Vietnam I wrote one poem and only one (1971):


Guard Duty on a Dusty Road

I’m out here on guard duty
rifle and all…
(sent a letter to Rachel).
The dust on the path
that leads to my hut
(near the ammo dump)
is dusty and rough…
not much to do here
just talk to yourself
count the hours
as they go by
(make sure the VC
don’t get too near);
wait for the five-ton
to arrive, take me back
(off this dusty road)
to 611 Ordnance,
which I call home!


Note: I remember thinking (at the time), I should send a poem home, perhaps to my mother, or send it to someone, anybody, to let them know I was alive, even a magazine or newspaper came to mind. I remember, the day was long, and hot, I was in Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam, and was selected for guard duty, and when the truck picked me up, to take me back, we drove down along the South China Sea, a smoother road there, and up into our campsite, several miles from the three ammo dumps that occupied the peninsula. I put the poem in my pocket, and forgot I left it there, would not realize it for a spell, and then tucked it away. The poem was written about June, 1971. It was shortly after this time, we got hit by rockets, which were at 2:00 AM in the morning, and I’d have to go this time inside of the ammo dump to guard, not sure what we were guarding, the rockets came all round us, and some within meters of me. The VC would blow up the Air Force dump that night which was next to Charlie Dump, (one man got killed) and our dump being Alpha. It was a trying night. Anyhow, after many years, the poem appears, and for the first time since 1971, it is available for reading. It doesn’t say much, just a hot day, on guard duty, far away.

The Unattested Echo (Poem 20/1964)

(The Threshold) Poem #20

Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008). .


Am I the water of the seas,
The copper-pointed tides?
Is he the rain that falls on me,
The wetness that subsides?

Are we the tumult in the ice;
The streaming glacier’s glow?
Is he the dampness that frostbites;
The trench, its flowing echo?

Were we the tempo of all chants,
The chimes that dwell—befriends?
Was he the weather among their rhymes,
The meter that begrimes?

He is the tempest in the rain,
A shadow in the snow.
We are his lust to shame;
A blasphemous thirst; echo.

The Master of a Hundred Hounds (A poem #21, 1964)

Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008).



The Master of a Hundred Hounds
(The Vine’s Soliloquy) Poem # 21 (of 2174-poems)


He swam with his kind,
Sighed when they sighed,
And had become the master of a hundred hounds,
—a pilgrim of Evil—
As the masters before him.

As he walked, others carried his load—
this was not uncommon of his foe, yet
Forward he trusted oppressed,
Insidious, more entrenched;
Forward he became repugnant.

He slept then with toiling thoughts,
Hoping for their extinction,
But they did not (there was little time left).

Then the master upon awakening apostrophically cried:
“Oh, but there is no God.”
Then talked of days past:
the wars he never fought,
the heroes he never knew,
the ideas that were just there.
With all of this—He
hallucinated,
burdened with logic;
Yet he could not conceive nor digest,
For he knew, he lived it!

Then boasting of only one regret—that being,
The loss of breath,
He emphatically screamed in a personifying characteristic:
“I, the master of a hundred hounds—I am!”
The standing sullen and erect, he wept (there was so
Little time left).

Thereafter he removed the dirt from his eyes,
Wiped he dew from his lips,
And with a murmur, substantiated his deterioration.
He knew now he had run before he learned to walk,
for his legs did not obey,
And on reflection had followed teachers who never
taught;
He knew now hey were the thinkers who never walked,
(He knew now, time was very short).

Ensuing, a tempest of catastrophe flooded his cerebrum;
Insofar as his title became an overtone.
There remained nothing of his own.
He then called to the dawn and daylight; as a result,
light was laced upon his dynasty; now,
Opening his eyes for the very first time,
He knew for he very first time
The dreadful closing of them.

And to his descent he left:
the dampness shed upon is lips,
the blisters that swelled upon his thighs,
And the sand that covered his eyes.

Beyond Man (Dennis Siluk's #18 poem, 1963)

(A poem written before its time)

((Originally written in 1963, and published in “The Surveyor,” Washington High School newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota)(and first time published on the internet; the poem was originally written while in Journalism Class, at the age of 16-years old, Dennis’ first published work)) Poem # 18


Let’s assume!
People seem to think
It’s far too far,
The darkness beyond the sun;
But it’s actually but a distance
Of the far-off run.

But yet it shields
A shivery chillness,
A warming sense of defeat,
But an ever lasting wanting
Of the far-off victories.

You know,
Imagination can go a long way,
As far as man can see,
And yet beyond the darkness
Man has yet to be.

Beyond he blue of the sky
Man has yet to see
The everlasting oceans,
Which stir eternally?


Note: One must remember, this poem was written before man had landed on the moon. Space was just being challenged, Star Trek, was just beginning to show up on TV. The Universe was a strange and haunting viewpoint of sorts; guesses for everyone. #18/ 1963. Therefore when I wrote this poem, it captures the moment, giving a breath of imagination, for us students at Washington High School. Metaphysics, or the study of the cosmos, was for the population at large, a new branch of study, other than the fictional movies of monsters from the moon or Mars, or Edgar Rice Burrough's books on Mars. So it was a poem for the school to be looked at, and the journalism teacher found it good enough for the paper.

"Christ’s Hymn of Conception"

There was nothing, nothing at all, all was non-existent:
there was no universe, no beginning beyond it.
What came about, and was? Was shape, and sanctuary?
And in this shape was unfathomed power and life?
Death was not yet born, created, only immortality:
there was no day or night, just thrust.
That very thing, that came from the breath of the Creator
apart from Him, there was nothing at all.

Darkness came, when the Creator,
created a being that concealed his darkness,
this all was haphazard, thus, chaos prevailed in Bliss
somewhere in what was now called the universe.

This Adversary, thereafter raised a craving
in the beings that were created by the Creator along with Him.
This new thing called aspiration was a kind of
primal germ, within this spirit.
A new creation, that came out of freewill,
no kinship in the non-existent past with the Creator.
And the Adversary’s darkness, gave his seed
to the other beings, from corner to corner
of the Creator’s abode, called Heaven.
This all was above the blue dot,
and then, all the darkness was sent below it.
And those beings that lived on the blue dot,
begetters of the Adversary, were not equal to the
angelic mighty forces—they were dark-men,
once ruled by the Adversary their king, now
sent to hell, beneath the earth, demons.

No one knows for sure, when this all took place
When this and that was created, when men
of another nature, turned to be demigods.
He, Christ, the hands of creation,
formed it all, in the eyes of his father, in highest heaven,
He, and the Holy Spirit, all together.

#2173 1-23-2008