The Way Of Things

Things start out simple, plain,

Get more complex.

All things start out minus blame,

Get more corrupt:

[It is] the way of things.


Non-beings, beings,

Gases, minerals, to stones

To seas become-an-earth

With complex life forms:



Shells carbonate and calcium;

The oldest animal

That swam, then crawled,

That walked, then talked → become-the-us!


Take note and make a list:

Life, rocks so meshed, entwisted

They transformed the whole: this planet.

Smut to hut to trade and product;

Industry and change of climate

(As we’re doing now, this minute)


Down to up and down again!

A long way either way. But then,

It is the way of things.


The Way Of Things 8.29.2016

Our Times, Our Culture II; Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin


And The World Gets Through Its Day

And the world goes on without me.

And the world gets through its day.

And you never start a sentence with an‘and’.

As I contemplate the boil on my gum,

The germ that could remove me in a night,

I take offense, collected sum

Of steam a dissipating stream

Which no one would so much as modify

One nano-second’s schedule for.

Earth without an Arlene in it

Without one self-adjusted minute.

Ants don’t change their habit-dance

Corroborating colleague ants

Who pass away, heads bitten off.

Gigantic are the forces

Pushing onward, forward,

Only nodding towards mortality.

This very day

My childhood friend rings up to say

His chemo- has been discontinued – insufficient.

Chemicals were not enough.

Stupid crab has gotten tougher,

Shifting upwards towards the head.

And the world gets through its day.

And the world goes on without one.

And you never start a sentence with an ‘and’.


And The World Gets Through Its Day 10.20.2006 (a little addition line 11 8.30.2016)

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Birth, Death & In Between II; Nature In & Of Reality;

Arlene Corwin







Never Finished: Always On The Way

How can anything

Be ever finished?

In its way nonsensical

That nothing’s final;

Always subject to revision, change.


Habit concrete, thought abstract –

Changed and changing;

Going on, evolving, processed.

Discontented and/or vexed:

A sign that’s fixed:

You’re moving on, non-judge-

or sentiment-al.


You willingly

Go with it.

(As they say, ‘the flow’).

Your poems your art, your language too.


Throughout your days,

Through all your years –

And losing fears you stay refreshed

Because you know you ne’er diminish,

Always sure you will replenish, be replenished.

Squeamish never,

Deeds and exploits never finished,

Still you end this life light-hearted,

Satisfied and fully furnished,

That too, no doubt, never finished.


Never Finished – Always On The Way 8.28.2016

Definitely Didactic; Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin



Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys (revised)


Sitting on the floor

Watching James bond overpower foes.

A complicated character with

A subtle ethic, ice-chilled wrath –

Most of all, a yogic path

Of duty and detachment;

Yogic while the villain,

Mega-bombs his own routinely –

Ligaments and muscles blown,

Royal houses overthrown!

And yet we have so much in common.


Villain cool, detached but mean,

Followers his kill machine.

Bond the Lancelot,

Jaw-dropping stunts his lot,

Fencing, boxing, crashing cars;

Fights and scars his calling cards –

And when in need of surgery

He heals quickly.


Evil lurks, Bond never shirks, and still

His life is filled with perks:

Hotel suites, girls en suite,

Dry martinis, Aston Martins (note the plural)

Sure of all

And unequivocal

Bond’s megastar, ideal and idol.


This poet rather fond of Bond,

Both yogis of a different kind:

He the running, driving soldier,

I, the yogi on the floor,

Each connected to a power.

Grinding skills the Bond-dynamic,

Mine the tranquil skill-iambic.


I give in to un-excitement’s

Ordinary daily yoga;

Bond the knight with right to kill

(Nice guy James with license, aimed at

Ordinary evil ogres –

There you see the box of riddles:

Bond the paradox in middle

Fighting off the oh, so evil bad guys!



Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys 2.10.2015/revised 8.28.2016

Circling Round Yoga II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;

Arlene Corwin


Trying Out Ideas In Form


Accepting some, rejecting others

You think thoughts (of course, what else?)

With mind that thinks in rhyme,

That sings internally in pulse or meter,

With the trying out idea

In one shape, length or other form,

A form poetic, form its norm.


It cannot help it, choosing not to,

Its intrinsic motto “Write!” into

The dead of night, the morning’s bait,

Some inward freight shipped in by nature,

Makes it make ideas clear – and that alone on matt blank paper.

Talking dissipates in air

While written piece is always there,

If only to be found in some museum cellar

Two damp hundred dry years later,

Made mature

By simile and metaphor-become-reality,

Affecting mankind’s then and future

Through the slow, low burn of poetry.


Trying Out Ideas In Form 8.15.2016

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin




Playing With Your Self

One’s mantra ought to be,

‘No people, things; no things, no people’;

Energy that’s wasted swishing

Thoughts around illusionary realms

That kindle wish and drive desires

Rooted in the mind, and of the kind

That should be cast into a fire –

Wish/desire that sways, that leads astray.


You ask, “What’s left when one’s bereft

Of thoughts of things and world?”
Two words:

Your self, its traits.

All other thoughts flung out to space,

Mind’s tissue

Focused on the one essential issue: you,

You! To face the real deal you

To play with self’s true


So remember,

Slow eradication of the need to talk,

Think worldly thought

Is to awaken from the slumber

Of illusion’s juggernaut.


Playing With Your Self 8.19.2016

Circling Round Reality; Circling Round Yoga II; to The Child Mystic II;

Arlene Corwin





Even the eyebrows lower;

It shows in the darned mirror:

Life changes constantly,

A going downward mostly –

At least physically,

For I, the inner I invisible

Am rising high,

Am rising high.

And so to hell with vanity

And negativity.

Life’s outer is a liar,

For I, I rise still higher.


Lower/Higher 8.20.2016

Circling Round Vanities II; Circling Round Aging; Circling Round Wrinkles;

Arlene Corwin

Basic Kindness To Bugs Imprisoned On Window Pane

Planting glass on window pane,

Sliding it to tiring bug –

A creepy-crawly stuck inside.

You slide it forward

Delicately inching toward

The anthropod.

Lifting glass you slip a card

To gather fly or bee or bug

Safe under glass,

Protected from a dire passing.

Lifting whole so carefully

So as to not crush head or wing

While bearing thing

To door and freedom.

It, a test, trial, task – a problem

Of the kind that gets you points in heaven

And, of which you feel well pleased

When finally you do succeed.


Basic Kindness To Bugs Imprisoned 8.11.2016

Circling Round Nature II;

Arlene Corwin


To Remember At All Times


You wake up vague, objectives dormant.

Focused on the now-ment,

In the habit of the moment,

Higher power to relate to,

Husband, friend or wife beside you,

You seek thought, goal, frame to fit in –
Any measure to begin a day serene

With something like a slogan:

“Everything that happens, happens for my best”

Whether lesson or reward: a grace,

A gift with not a price in sight –

Always in the air

In lives particular and singular,

You aim the morning self that was,

And turn it into self that is,

Its comforts and rewards.


To Remember At All Times 7.25.2016

Circling Round Reality; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin



What Happens After Death? (of things that interest me)


Bathing daily as I do,

Listening to the radio,

Emergencies, catastrophes,

Boats sinking or aflame or both:

What happens after death’s end breath?


‘The poisoned lung… the old, the young…

The fire set on purpose,

One hundred fifty-nine lives lost’

Through living skin I take it in:

Corrupted ethics, trials. Why?

August weather’s all but frosty.

I, with plethora of food in fridge,

Them there rigid,

Stench of rot.

I, desk full of paper, notes;

Money to buy more.

Stuff stuffed into each shelf and drawer;

The closet door can hardly close for all those clothes,

And I, asking ‘bout death and after.

Am I daft to wonder, wander into guesswork’s trap?

Or have I found a craft to cope,

Yoga’s science and art of hope?

For something must exist – a consciousness

Not here, but in a sphere somewhere.

It isn’t logical

That something can become a nil –

Something that has had a pulse.

What else makes sense?

This senseless chaos I sense is not chaos

But some inner justice

Somewhere, somehow in the universes

of creation!

In a sudden quickening of thinking

In the probabilities of speculation

Here I sit in bath’s ablution, asking questions

About what happens after death?


What Happens After Death? 8.9.2016

Birth, Death & In Between II; Circling Round Baths II;

Arlene Corwin



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