The Doped Olympics

Every 4 years I post this, hoping that the message will come across – albeit lightheartedly.

                The Doped Olympics

 Why don’t they simply create a new branch

And call it the Doped Olympics?

By the laws of semantics

It soon would come into the language, legitimized:

Youth forgets past.

Soon the word would have lost its original shame,

While the name of the game

Would be guilt-free and blame-free,

And those who would qualify

Could have drug deliverance, muscles defined, bodies divine.

If they dropped dead at forty

At least they’d have entertained millions,

Fulfilled their ambitions,

Made lots of folk rich

And set records untold.

Let those few or many spend hours in training;

Let chemists develop concoctions so new

That the pole-vaulter flies,

The sprinter’s a jaguar,

The shot put is sent into orbits of space,

The long jumper jumps twenty meters

While men become fierce

And the women grow beards,

Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.

A yes to the dopey Doped Games.

The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016re-revised 7.25.2016 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Don’t Write Nature Poems

          I Don’t Write Nature Poems

I don’t write nature poems.
My husband is the nature guy,
While I, I sit around
Bound by philosophies and wond’rings why.
However, last night, ten or so fifteen
The crescent moon
Outside my window
Turned from white to orange.
No mirage, I, on the edge of sleep
Sat up amazed,
The deepest part of this un-phased, rather blasé Arlene
In bliss.
How does one explain it, share it, do it justice?
How does one make clear magnificence?

Orange caused a drunken binge
Whose hangover
I had to share
With you, dear reader, reader dear.

I Don’t Write Nature Poems 2.22.2018 Circling Round Nature II; Arlene Corwin

Truth Will Out

            Truth Will Out

 If you’ve got a thing to say

A real thing, the words will play

Through synapses old/new,

The new unused, creating unconditionally unsaid

Phrases you alone invent unaided.

 

If you’ve something pregnant there

Inside the cerebellum,

You’ll be inclined to share

And tell ‘em.

Truth will out

Not shouted, but with clout

Deliberately aimed or not.

 

Then we come to something there

Called instinct’s intuition

To transport you far and near – everywhere

You need to go

To every place you need to know.

 

You must, gosh darn it, trust it!

 

Because all truths

Are there in places ‘neath the scalp

Beneath your hair, sculpted by the roots of roots,

By nerves that serve you night and day

Which tell you things that may,

Have what we call, the truth.

(Not every thought’s idea is true

Though it’s all you.)

A tricky thing this ‘God hath wrought’

Just always call to mind this thought:

Truth will always, in the end, want out.

 Truth Will Out 2.20.2018 Circling Round Reality, Nature Of & In Reality; Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;Arlene Corwin

 

You Have A Plan

       You Have A Plan

 You have a plan.

You’ve had it since the start of man.

You never pause, it being plan nobody knows.

You work through laws

Consisting of effect and cause.

And so, before I go

I transfer all my hopes to You.

Before the final bye, byes

I would like to know some certainties.

To understand the rest:

The key to and what is

The highest.

Or, life is a meaninglessness.

Instinct longs for happiness.

Even ignoramuses intuitively reach for this.

So in pursuit of bliss’ nearest,

I report to daddy dearest

Universes far from me,

Yet deep inside implicitly.

 

A force for good,

A force that make things all they should,

A some non-thing as source of all

Behind, in front and in the ball.

 

There is a plan

That was before the start of man,

And’s going on right now as you

And me

And all of mankind’s destiny.

 You Have A Plan 2.14.2018 God Book II; Nature of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality;

 

 

 

 

 

Writing In The Middle Of The Night

        Writing In The Middle Of The Night

 There’s something nice about the facelessness

Of  Internet,

The anonymity you get

Despite the photos and the instant thing

You hope will ring the bell

Of those around the global ball.

A kind of secret.

You needn’t tell your thoughts,

Spell correctly,

Use our mouth, make a sound –

Just sit there typing while the world goes round.

North, south, east, west,

You’ve got all the time to test your creativity.

Believe me, it’s the best invention

Since sliced bread, the paper clip,

The toilet roll, words ‘hip’ and ‘soul’.

 

For people who want name and fame

It is a trip to paradise.

The price   is shekels.

What the heck, it’s only money!

And for people whose agenda is pure vanity,

A dream (both fantasy and joy).

 

In any case, if I may say it once again,

There’s something I appreciate

About the gate that’s opened

Through the faceless anonymity,

Potential creativity and artistry

Implicit

In the Internet.

 Writing In The Middle Of The Night 2.9.2018The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Corwin

 

Coffee (AConflict of Values)

Sitting up in bed on a Sunday morning editing, re-writing, refining. A bit long but worth it in the reading – thinks I!

        Coffee (A Conflict Of Values)

Catering to a certain need for stimulation,

Even relaxation and the psychic high,

Coffee bean in cool, dark tin,

Fragrance and the oil in

The box or jar or bag’s supply

Of pleasure ought to make the drinker

Think a little about why

The bitter sweet is such a stinker,

In whose absence droops the mood

The energy, the good;

Whose undemanding look

In cafeteria or china cup and just a slurp

Creates the nervous, wrecked and hooked.

Symbol of that quiet urge

For pleasant conversation’s purge,

To say this has a feeble ring,

Insistent urge to reach a high, high as the sky

From just a thing

(to say this has a feeble ring),

Well, surely pleasure comes from means

Far less addictive than caffeine’s

Delicious smell and taste,

Java’s clutch (was Java Dutch?)

Conversation’s time-filled waste;

That needs no brew,

Nor company of two.

But then, an energy from what?

Oh dear, the will is weak

When pleasure lies within the cheek and coffee pot,

And one has never learned the art

Of keeping silence in the heart.

Bitter devil, wreaking havoc like a weevil

On plantations of the body.

To steal upon the cells by stealth,

Speed the heart, adrenals, pulse,

God knows what else;

Claiming vitamins and health –

And still the perils lie elsewhere,

Where habits have their hidden lair,

Vice/virtue, meet excess;

Battling for their piece of peace,

Posing as a social duty,

Threatening in bitter beauty.

Dear, oh dear, I fear that life (it’s clear)

with coffee’s here to stay,

My own cup one small hour away.

From Macbeth: the coffee oath:

Stir the sugar, stir the milk,

Make the coffee smooth as silk,

Help the migraine, the depression;

Be benign in our transgression.

Tranquilizing our confusion

Make gregarious the nation.

Cof-free or cof- fiend?

Or just plain coff… and what you make it be?

Coffee (A Conflict of |Values) 4.21.1994 rev 1.8.2011/2.4.2018Coffee Book II; Definitely Didactic;Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dangerous Place #1&2

A poem to show how the mind and thought develops and broadens over time.  In this case, four short years.

           A Dangerous Place #1

 

Not new; the world

A risky place:

Too many schools of thought;

Their base defective.

Schools, which in themselves are seeking

Thought that knows thought’s ever-rules.

 

Kipling’s twain which never meet;

Krishna’s castes all separate;

Towers fall on Babel Street.

Not new.

 

Impossibility out there:

Worlds of danger everywhere;

Dangers that we can’t escape

Except by staying put

Content with parsnips.

 A Dangerous Place 5.9.2004 Our Times, Our Culture; Birth, Death & In Between; Arlene Corwin

         A Dangerous Place #2

 

Two thousand four come/gone.

Two eighteen still anonymous.

Am I apocalyptic?

World the warmest since…forever.

Messiurs Putin, Trump and every nuclear dictator,

Arsenals as big as ever.

 

What we were afraid of then

Is now in multiples.

Viruses that won’t give up,

Fighting each development.

Small to middling large eruptions

Under, over, on the surface.

Coverings and dryings up;

Methane gas, folk that pass

Leaving matches in the grass;

Flarings unintentional.

My old bones susceptible

To substances and circumstance they never knew.

Nature duping us.

Boo hoo? Or ballyhoo?

Is there something new awaiting?

Something generating happiness,

Content with standing-stillness? Wellness?

Who can tell,

Things being as they are:

Not fine, with every sign

An indication

That we’re going in the wrong direction.

Sorry!

 A Dangerous Place #2 2.1.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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