Monday, December 17, 2007

Days (...on they Dying of a Beloved Motgher) a book in the making

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

(…on the Dying of a Beloved Mother)

(Translated from English into Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)


Recent Awards of:
Dennis L. Siluk

Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by
Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma (of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Poet Laureate of San Jerónimo de Tunán, Perú (2005); and the
Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))

Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment

On November 26, 2007, Lic. Dennis L. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco and received recognition as an Illustrious Visitor of the City of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay

“Union” Mathematic School (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. (Ed.D.) Dennis Lee Siluk, (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director

The Sociologist School of Peru, Central Region granted to
Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, Writer Laureate for his professional contribution in the social interaction of the towns and rescue of their identity. Huancayo December 6, 2007 —Lic. Juan Condori –Senior Member of the Sociologist School

The Association of Broadcaster of the Central Region, of Peru, nominated Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Member for his works done on the Central Region of Peru; in addition, the Mayor of Huancayo, Freddy Arana Velarde, gave Dr. Siluk, ‘Reconocimiento de Honor,’ and ‘Personaje Ilustre…’ status (December, 2007).

Poems (…on the Dying of a Beloved Mother)
Copyright © Ed. D. Dennis L. Siluk, 2008

Back Photo by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
(Taken 42-days before the death of Elsie T. Siluk)

Front Photo by Elsie T. Siluk, 1939
(She was 19-years old)
St. Paul, Minnesota, USA

Love says:
I don’t want anyone else;
and I never wanted any other mother.



Poems on Days
(Part One)

Lost Days
Final Days
Forty-two Days
Last Day
A Day of Recovery
Days Grew Heavy
Day after Day
Days of Protocol
A Day Late
Day Zero
Days of Depression
A Pretty Good Day
Days of Cleaning Out Things
Trying Days
Day of the Dead
Day of Cremation
A Day After the Wake

Poems without Days
(Part Two)

The Sofa Chair
“Would you like to live like this?”

Two Dedication Poems
(Part Three)

Love and Butterflies
A Long Glimpse

A Letter

After Four-years

Books by the Author

Prolog: Most folks, to include poets, prefer poetry on death to entail (to a high degree) courage and strength; I don’t disagree completely with that, only partly, for submissive suffering is also involved, most folks just do not want to look at it. Nowadays things are changing though, and it is more permissible, if not bold, to mix them together, and thus, here we have just that. I prefer them both together, for what else can one do, to find the true and aggressive and passive emotions one voyages through during a paramount loss: especially while another is dying, day by day, especially, one’s mother. Having said that let me add a note on emotions.
Emotions are neither right nor wrong, they just are. Therefore, we weep, behind or in front of the curtains. We weep often to heal and let go, to go forward in life, as it was meant to be. Some folk’s scream, as to be able to endure the pain of a loss (loved one). Some grieve long and hard, some not so long, or hard, perhaps they are more durable. In any case, the periods of grieving are different for everyone, and we grieve like it or not; and one-way or another, it will come out, if not smoothly, conceivably sideways.
This is a daring book—to say the least, if I may say so, on what I consider poignant poetry; based on a fact, a dread fact one must face sooner or later—dying or death of a much loved person. It really involves all the readers whom are going to scan this book, or read it word for word—; in a way, this is my poetic testimony, to a beloved mother (dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk).

Note: I tried to write this book several times in the past four-years, I have not been able to do so, not until now, and they had to be done in a moments breath, I wrote it in three days, and have not changed the poems except for a few words here and there, and for a good reason, I wanted to leave them as they had flowed in and out of me, the two days I wrote them: feeling if I changed them to read better, or clearer, or more explanatory, they would only end up being an abnormal vague picture of the times for me and the reader, perhaps also with less effect.

Poems on Days
(Part One)


Lost Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)

She was getter weaker
the last months of her life;
her blue-eyes lost their
rapture, their venture.
A congestive heart helped take
her vigor away…!
And then, then came, those
long lost days.

12-15-2007 No: 2104


Final Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)

I sat by my mother’s bedside
as death drew near,
and saw her white skin,
turn pale (while in the Hospital).

I wrote a poem a few days
after she passed on….

The first twenty-seven days
of her hospitalization
she talked a lot,
the last words to come,
before the coma.

Out of a window, near her bed
was a July summer blooming…!

In those last days—so honest
she was, she saw angels
in her room.

Each day (almost every day)
we talked together—
I, in my droopy melancholy despair;
her, with smiles and laughter,
which filled the room…(with)
butterflies, as she dwindled away.

No: 2101 (12-15-2007)


Forty-Two days

After my mother’s death
I looked back at the calendar,
it was forty-two days—forty-two days had passed
since we ate cake and ice-cream at the restaurant,
along the banks of the St. Croix River.
Stood out by its fence,
waved our hands at the camera;
my mother seemed to stagger a bit.
I wonder now,
now, if
she knew
she only had
forty-two days left?

Notes_ 12-15-2007 No: 2102: In this poem, the author is referring to the St. Croix River, that flows through the town of Stillwater, in Minnesota, USA.


Last Day

This morning Rosa woke me up
“What for,” I asked?
I put my cloths on, went to the bathroom,
took a pee, cleaned up (quickly).
I sensed something was wrong,
something, starring back at me…
my mother had died.

No: 2103 12-15-2007


A Day of Recovery

After the surgery,
after they cut out half her insides,
she started to recover,
but she would relapse, after a day
(in the interim,
I checked on how much morphine
she was being given).

She wanted me to bring her home,
had a dream she was in a taxi,
and it wouldn’t stop at her house.

She was a breathing, observing coffin,
just waiting in the bed to die;
she didn’t worry though,
she said: she had lived longer
than she had expected.

Her ardent last awaking days
were full of power and praise.
Talking away on old passionate associations,
of the past eight-three years:
brief, calm and joyful.

No: 2105 12-16-2007


Days Grew Heavy

Days grew heavy throughout June,
of 2003; after the 26th, I knew
I’d have to bear her death.
They bathed her and fed her,
as her trembling hands
signed the last checks
to pay her bills.
Yet she smiled.
I watched her dying
failing, of old age.

No: 2010 (12-17-2007)


Day after Day

I walked around her bed (day after day)
wondering what I could do
she must have had thought me a dupe…;
there I was pacing, pacing here and there,
like a hungry bear—
anxious to do something, anything
but there was nothing I could do, nothing at all.
Perhaps she understood:
even the good and thoughtful must endure….
She would not overlook my sorrow.

No: 2106 (12-16-2007)


Days of Protocol

Everyday in the hospital (thirty in all)
was a day for protocol:
questions, infusions, shots, sleep,
heavy sleep (sleeping ten to
fifteen-hours per day) that was her
life, her living. She asked
when she saw me: “Were you here
“O yes,” I’d respond, “but you were

No: 2107 (12-16-2007)



Now, four year’s later, memories, voices, images
words, all turn up in my mind.
She really didn’t want to take that agitated ride
to the hospital, the morning she called
upstairs, to my wife Rosa…but the pain in her
stomach was too much; thus,
Rosa drove her to the Emergency Room,
(admissions), and she never left.
Perhaps she knew this—

No: 2107 (12-16-2007)


A Day Late

When the minister asked (brought to my attention)
at the Hospital, after mother’s death,
if I’d give to them her name, they’d pray, I simply
told them (with annoyance):
“It’s too, too late— go pray for the living.”

No: 2108 (12-16-2007)


Day Zero

My mother lay silent on her back—
while the female doctor—was talking to me
(in a private room)
showing disinterested love….
It was day—zero, I couldn’t take
much more.
(Thank God, my brother spoke
before I did!)

No: 2109 (12-16-2007)
Dedicated to my brother Mike E. Siluk


Days of Depression

There were days of depression
(for me) waiting for the light of life
to be blown out, after
my mother died…. I knew
I wouldn’t, or couldn’t
commit suicide, but my doctor
and wife, wasn’t so sure:
throwing medicine my way,
to stabilize my brain waves.

No: 2110 (12-16-2007)


A Pretty Good Day

She ate (or had)—:
soup, jello, chocolate milk
(mostly, tasteless)
the last days of her life.
She was bored, but
comfortable in the hospital;
as she dehydrated—.

She’d say, “Bring me some good
chocolate!” And I did, once—
before the operation
(she hid it from the nurse).

That was a pretty good day.

No: 2111 (12-16-2007)


Days of Cleaning out Things

Throughout my mother’s apartment, my brother
and I found a massive storage of things, things,
and more things…like sewing things, and
garments she made, never wore, garments
bought and put away in storage, not sure
what for.
Things, like records and ribbons,
knitting things, almost everything buyable
under the sun. Tons of toothpaste, and
toilet paper (stacks and stacks); all three
bedrooms filled, and she slept on the couch.
Stamps, paper, and can goods, silverware
in three drawers, tools and much, much more.
It took all of two weeks, to clean that house,
but I bet she had a hell of a time buying and
giving it away as gifts, as often she did,
plus, my brother and I never
run out, of things.

No: 2113 (12-16-2007)


Trying Days

I tried, during those trying days
to remain dry-eyed and half-sane
—silent (my pain, paralyzed).
I was trying to understand, --

She laid in a coma for three days
I told her to let go, and go home,
home to heaven, with the Lord,
and she did—; that brought me
into a horror.

No: 2113 (12-16-2007)


Day of he Dead

I had told my mother—
(two years prior to her death),
that in a vision I had
seen her laying in a bed
(she looked dead).
Her right arm hanging loose to the side…
(she smiled, and didn’t say much
and went about her chores).

In her hospital room, I saw this vision’s
reality (the day she died).
I stroked her dead, but warm
blooded arm, kissed her forehead—
it was the Day of the Dead!

No: 2114 (12-16-2007)


Day of Cremation

“Cremate me,” she said (with indifference),
adding, “…it’s only $1300.00, I checked it out, not bad!”
And we somewhat laughed—thinking, I suppose—
thinking: no one will profit from her death
(fancy funerals cost piles of dollars, I guess).
And so it was, and is to this day,
she lay as a pile of ashes in a urn.
If she could see it, I’m, sure
she’d nod, quietly, and say:
“Job well done.”

No: 2115 (12-16-2007)


A Day After the Wake

Back home after the wake
(the one I couldn’t attend)
on the porch I put her sofa chair,
her brown afghan—
over it…
her jacket behind it:
I only allowed a few people
to sit on it,
it was too much to tolerate!

No: 1011 (12-17-2007)

Poems without Days
(Part Two)


The Sofa Chair

She couldn’t stand, nor walk in her hospital room
I feared she’d fall, if she tired, she needed
lifting from the bed to the sofa chair, to watch
television. She got angry at the nurses—
for their reluctance, in lifting her to and from
the sofa chair, until I straightened it out.
Then after that, she gloated at the nurses, as if
they didn’t have full control.

No: 2116 (12-16-2007)



Dying, is no more than a breath away—.
Letting go of your loved ones
is another thing, much harder,
enormous echoes
seep through your brain,

No: 2117)12-16-2007)



They all came, one by one, to say their goodbyes
(family and friends, to the hospital), some from afar.
Some wiped their eyes, trying not to cry, others
touched and looked wide-eyed. And Mother, she
smiled, and laughed, until she tired out, and closed
her eyes, And we all left, wondering if she’d open
them again…. (and on July 1, 2003, she didn’t).

No: 2118 (12-16-2007)


“Would you like to live like this?”

Her eyes opened wide
(she had spoken for a while),
can’t remember what I said,
and now mother replied:
“…would you want to live
like this?”
my pale lips pushed out….
There was almost a spasm
to her face, a sharp, yet
sweet rise to her cheeks,
open mouth...”No!” I repeated.
I watched her body go still
as she leaned back towards
her pillow (thinking…)
Then her round yet squinty
closed for a moment,
and she started talking

No: 2109 (12-17-2007)

Two Dedication Poems
(Part Three)

Dedicated to: Elsie T. Siluk

Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03

Spanish Version

Amor y Mariposas
[Para Elsie T Siluk, mi madre]

Ella luchó una buena batalla
La última de muchas—
Hasta que no hubo nada más
Donde una vez, hubo plenitud.
Y así, serena y digna
Ella dijo, ‘adiós,’ en su propia forma
Y dejó atrás
Un gran tiempo viejo
Espacio para otro

Amor y Mariposas…
Eso fue mi madre.

—Por Dennis L. Siluk © Julio/2003


The Long Glimpse

From the arch of the doorway
She’d look my way, into the garage, at me—
as I readied my automobile to go someplace;
She’d be looking-steadfast
I’d open my car door a bit, ask:
“Why you staring? (at me)”
“No reason,” she’d reply, smiling.
Then with a tinge of hesitation
she summon up, and said (at 83):
softly, in an almost whisper “You….”
((as if she had remembered the day I
was born) (almost in a trance.))
And I’d for the life of me—
not know why; I know now though, she was
simply getting a long glimpse before
she died (for she died shortly after).
I guess, she was really saying goodbye,
saying goodbye with a long glimpse
to last between now and then, when we’d
meet again.

No: 1947 8-24-2007

A Letter

After Four-years

I wanted, the first three months to end,
after your death, perhaps others saw it differently—
that is, they felt I wanted everything to end—.
I didn’t feel emptiness, like so many others do
after a loss like this, rather, I felt only pain—,
pain an old war veteran like me had never felt.
After a year, a thawing came about (anger
and misgivings left); my heart was warming
up again, now closer to the sun.

My thoughts of you are like
old warm snow (of which I shall never let go);
yes, old warm snow, I now can endure hours of
downpour without bleeding.

There’s a snowstorm now,
throughout the Midwest, and Eastern Regions
of the US: I haven’t forgot, how you like winter
and its snow, especially Christmas; do you know,
it’s only eight-days away.

No: 2012 (12-17-2007)

Visit my web site: you can also order the books directly by/on: along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.swft/writings.html

Books by the Author

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1981]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1982]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]
And other selected books

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery


A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV


Perhaps it’s Love
(Minnesota to Seattle)

Cold Kindness
(Dieburg, Germany)

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler [psychological]
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]

The Poetry of D.L. Siluk:

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]

Last autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]

Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruviana Poemas [2005]
Poetic Images out of Peru [And other poem, 2006]
The Magic of the Avelinos
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006)
The Road to Unishcoto
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007)

The Poetry of Stone Forest (Cerro de Pasco, 2007)
Poetry of the Miners (Cerro de Pasco, 2008)

Days (Poems: on the dying of a beloved mother, 2008)

Back of Book

“Most folks, to include poets, prefer poetry on death to entail courage and strength; I don’t disagree completely with that, only partly, for submissive suffering is also involved; yet, many folks just do not want to look at both sides of the dying. Nowadays things are changing, and it is more permissible, yet still bold, to mix them together, and thus, here we have just that. I prefer them both together, for what else can one do, to find the true and aggressive and passive emotions one voyages through during a paramount loss: especially while another is dying, day by day, especially, one’s mother. “Days…” is such a book, it takes you on a thirty day journey. (The picture on the back, is of my mother, in 1939.)” Dennis

Dennis is a world traveler, prolific writer (his first poetry written at the age of twelve); he is a License Counselor; has a Doctorate Degree in Education and has attended several universities in the United States as well as Europe. In addition, he has been awarded the title of Poet Laureate (three times); and in 1993, was ordained a Minister in Good Standing; he is also a decorated Vietnam War Veteran.

About the Author

This is Dennis’ 38th book, 7th on Peru, 14th in Poetry. He lives in Minnesota and Peru with his wife Rosa. He has won two Columnist awards in the United States. One of his short stories took first place from “The English Magazine,” October of 2006.



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