Tell Me What Your Life Is Like

This, to all the friends I have who have children or who, in a broader sense are interested in beings, human and otherwise.

* I was thinking about my son and daughter – how little I know about them and their interior life. I thought about asking them sometime, then all the ramifications stepped in and my thoughts broadened, widened, became more inclusive. Hence, the poem.
         Tell Me What Your Life Is Like
Tell me what your life is like:
I’m serious.
I do so want to see
The commonalities, universalities
And differences.
Do they dissolve, resolve
One into t’other?
Are we sister, are we brother?
I suspect we are,
Observing daily layers that lie under.
So for me, the likes of me to bind this wonder.
Tell me what your likes are life:
Your tastes your talents,
Weaknesses, which out of balance
Throw you off.
Softening the lines that pull us sunder
Is the key, I think.
World’s great thinkers think so too;
Blurring lines ‘tween me and you
Necessity. Pink
Black, brown, yellow,
Every creature a good fellow.
Ant, snake, spider, ape included;
Whale, fish, cows and pigs un-fooded.
Well, there’s not much more to say.
So if you chance to pass my way
Tell me what your life is like.
I’d like that.
Tell Me What your Life Is Like 3.15.2018 Love Relationships II; Circling Round Egos; Arlene Corwin


OutsideTime: Hawking March 14, 2018

On seeing the Hawking news some hours ago: Be the first to read/react to my reaction.  Not about jazz, not about yoga, but about recognition.

         Outside Time: Hawking March 14, 2018 

No obit this,

But chance to memorize, memorialize,

Tattoo the size of genius,

How it comes to earth in time

Then goes god-only-knows how/where –

Knowing only: not damned here.

Yet ‘there’, by definition place,

Perhaps is space;

Maybe a ‘where somewhere’ in space –

A guess both uniformed and obvious.


Mister Hawking, master Hawking

Freed from chair and ALS,

Cells and intellect’s fine processes;

Mammoth efforts of all kinds

To feed the body,

Read the mind(s)

Of universes.


To record this day inordinately mixed

With sadness, pride, heroics –

That a man second to none

Has been an Einstein all his own;

Whose works we’ll clone (to yet go farther)

For ‘by works you shall be known.’’

God blessed the non-believer Hawking.

 Outside Time 3.14.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Revelations Big & Small; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Science II; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Corwin


Lying In Bed In Truth

Lying In Bed In Truth

I lie in bed.

I look down at this body.


Not very interesting.

I wish to feel the single this.



Separated and detached,

No past which want to show itself;

Just now.

Alone but not a lonely I,

For as a Buber labeled it,

An I and Thou,

All others also I and Thou

Surrounding and surrounded by…

Monads all.

Single souls.

Working on and out the hole

And whole of this existence.

Fingers typing,

Eyes a-skyping

Mind hard to describe

Where is it?

What’s it doing?

All and nothing.

What’s it want?

A knowing all integrally,


Unseparate yet separated.

This is mysticism underrated

In a nutshell.

Lying In Bed In Truth 3.12.2018 Nature of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality; To The Child Mystic II; Arlene Corwin


True Confessions: When I’m High

           True confessions: When I’m High

 You all know how one just loves one’s morning cup of coffee!  

 When I’m high,

And morning cuppa’s done the trick,

Slow-ish thyroid smart and quickened,

Then I start;

Choices clear, mind too,

Arms, legs, body knowing

What to do

And even how to do it.

‘High’ sounds utterly,

So totally, so wholly, awfully

So negative.

(Forgive the ‘so’ dear reader, dear.

Its hyperbolic overkill so clearly

The result of coffee).


Back to diplomatic understatement:

When I’m high and un-befuddled,

Elevated in an un-bemuddled way,

In optimal condition where

I share in

Energies that pick and choose

So’s not to lose a time so prime.


And yet, the wonder is,

The mind, which picks and clicks,

Multi-tasking, seeding shortcuts,

Riotous new recipes,

Old elements, new mergers.

Even quiet-less, no-fuss ideas

From made-up phrases that proliferate.

Remembering,  selecting, nominating:

High’s amazing!

And it only takes a cup of coffee to a-raise it.

Thus I praise it!


In conclusion:

If there’s been collusion between you and me,

And on some level you agree

I’ve reached the goal of vers-itry,

And these one hundred ninety

Really odd, God given words were worth it,

Then it’s worth, been worth the birth pains and the plod.

  True Confessions: When I’m High 3.12.2018 A Sense of The Ridiculous II; Coffee Book II; Arlene Corwin




From Popularity Comes Danger

I never remember what poetry I’ve put on Facebook or even on my own site, Arlene Corwin Poetry. And I’m much too lazy to check. (I suspect that that’s the danger when one writes everyday) If you’ve read this before well, read it again.
It just is what it is. The fact that Sweden’s smuggled weapon rate has skyrocketed since the Malmö-Denmark bridge was built – as has the crime rate. A good example of the dark side of the moon.
The dark side of the bright side.💭
From Popularity…
(comes danger)
From popularity comes hazard,
Risk of peril,
Boy or girl at danger’s call.
From anonymity comes shelter:
No one knowing you at all.
Every country loves its tourists –
Bridges, tunnels… easy access;
Weapons, drugs,
Lawbreakers, thugs:
In short, new foes;
New secret foes that no one knows.
From popularity come woes.
Self-imposed expansion low.
Moderation is the answer,
Modesty the balancer
Of friendliness
And isolation.
From Popularity 4.17.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin

When You’re Alone (2 versions)

                When You’re Alone

When you’re alone more than half of each day,

Can you make sure that it doesn’t decay?

I suppose

You could wash out the hosiery,

Dust, vacuum, chat on the phone,

Watch the tube

(Feeling much like a boob) –

I know lots who do that.

You could scrub walls and floors,

Pots and pans…

My own day has its plans

Which it forms from its hub,

Is its nub:

A lie in the tub,

A walk to the post;

Whatever shows up

Ends in verse anyway,

Which lipsticks the day

As it coiffures the gray

Of aloneness.




When you’re alone more than half of each day,

How can you see that it doesn’t decay?

I guess and suppose

You could wash out the hosiery,

Dust, vacuum, chat

On the phone, watch the tube.

I know others who scrub

Out the pots and the pans.

My day has its plans                                                    

Which it forms from the mail

And whatever shows up.

It all ends in verse ;

Some is good, some is worse.

But it feels jolly good

And it sure lifts the curse

Of aloneness.

  When You’re Alone1.28.2000 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; 1&2 (revisited, re-formed 3.6.2018)Arlene Corwin


Nothing is Sacred Anymore

I write everyday. This daily practice leads more and more to ignoring the past. Here is a poem – as newsworthy as ever, from one of my books published 2012 called Our Times, Our Culture which I happened to be going through this evening:
It’s page 162 of a 302 page book; was written in 1996.📢💭

Nothing Is Sacred Anymore

What’s sacred?
Internet is not, although it’s taking over.
Governments are not.
They’re only lots:
Persons without names;
Offices in frames.
What’s sacred?
Art’s unstable. So’s the food
And dreams meant to enhance the good;
Buildings meant to further faith –closed six days in a week.
You can’t get in
And so you sin.
If you’re the type who needs to speak
To God in such a place, you’re lost,
Tossed out into the street ‘til Sunday.

What is sacred?
Maybe nature’s underlying laws and change.
Maybe fire. (Not guns on the firing range)
But all the universes’ suns; first cause;
Laws of truth; you, me.
I’d hope that something’s sacred
Even though I cannot see it.
Something’s there that’s worth the prayer:
Something holy in the air.
Perhaps the problem’s in the word –
The nothing/something word absurd.
A thing with no- some- can’t possess
The ring of sacredness.
So why should I be disappointed,
Cynical or sad
When this world is an un-anointed
World, and going slowly, wholly mad.
Is sacred scared (of being sacred nowadays?)

Nothing Is Sacred Anymore 4.8.1996 Our Times, Our Culture; God Book; Arlene Corwin

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