"Here today, gone tomorrow," my mother used to say, in her simple natural way-and in-between, few of us are remembered. Movie stars, I think they think they'll be remembered until kingdom comes, like presidents of nations, and generals of armies, so many alike, but they are akin to old books badly written, put on shelves, like old songs, long forgotten, not much else.

There has been a three day battle, or war, part of an ongoing war, a period in Somali, where people have been dying like flies, and it will soon be tucked away, in the writings of time, perhaps brought to surface now and then down the road of life, but for the most part forgotten. Eighty-nine-people died, and over two hundred wounded: mostly civilians, body parts stinking up the city's streets.

Note: Here is what I see on the horizon, between Russia, China, Iran Egypt, North Korea, America, the EU, Cuba, Syria, Iraq, Venezuela, the club of nations that seem to be at odds with America, to mention just a few, and a few not mentioned nations, the fate or man's destiny rides just in front of it. I do believe, living through the 1980s, God gave may a reprieve, in that it pardoned its sins because some nations bent their knees, and thus, allowed the ones that didn't along with them more life to fixes thing up. And it did for a spell, now it has becomes whose than ever.

Last night I had a dream, and I said to it this morning, "Where did you come from?..." In that dream there was a toilet, and a long yellowish fat snake, the nature of it went unexplained, I flushed it down, a demon was someplace chewing gum, watching the final aspect of the dream wove with arms together.

When you're old you usually have a wish or two, the big one perhaps being, to settle everything unsettled in your life, before it ends. Make peace where there is no peace; to do what one thought he or she should have done but never did: at this ripe old age, the age of the last wish, the age of reclining...

Note: It is not news; it is old history, the poem above.  If it is too atrocious to read, don’t read it, we all watched it on the internet, and T.V., and radio, and did nothing about it, like in Cambodia with Pol Pot, until it was too late, after he killed.

Note: Around the world everyday we see war, and people trying to make peace, a silly combination.  Take any day, and look at its contradictions of peace for war, or war if not peace, watch the hypocrites in motion, in Iraq, we fight for peace with war, in...

Here are more poems from Dennis Siluk, who was just awarded, "The Poewta and writer of the year 2006, for cultural and customes and tradition of the Mantaro Valley of Peru.  These are his new poems for his next book.

Cold eyed, she stood, blood burning, lurking at death
with death at hand—unweaving, she watched in silence
muffled, nerves dying, dim went his vision, then grief!
(She thought: he might find peace…!)
Passion had bleached out long ago, while living…!

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…”

All men who live by war, present
A kind of hawk-like appearance
(as well as, a steadfast stance).
His, whose body showed strength,
Combined with endurance
Smooth shaven, features being more of
The sun, than of nature—
He was the Wanka Warrior.

Written while in El Tambo, Huancayo, at the El Caserio Café (1556 ((12-3-06)); dedicated to Joseito Arrieta, and his son Rey Enrique, whom had breakfast with my wife and I, and provided me with the background of the drink, Chicha; although I’ve had it twice myself.

In the Mantaro Valley, beyond the Andes of Peru, it is one continues fest you might say, but close to Christmas, it is more so, as I suppose is every place in the world. Here you have many children graduating from school, and many chocolates parties going on (of which I was invited to one a few days ago in the little city called Cajas, at the Independence School there), to celebrate Christ's Birthday. It is an endless celebration. The Cathedearl is lit up like a Christmas Tree, and the city is buzzing.

Forgetfulness, drowsy
Are my days-?
(Not all, but many)
Heart, like a burning tower
Mind, a labyrinth of voices
I feel like I'm made of:
Rust and red-iron-.