It’s Only A Game

Hello everyone. it’s a terrible withdrawal when your computer goes down. Have you noticed? Here I am happily once again, new computer, new and timely poem called “It’s Only A Game”.
It’s the last day of the World Soccer Championship, and I wrote this days ago. But synchronistically, it, my new computer, the poem: all more or less coming at the same time.
Here:
            It’s Only A Game✍️⛹️‍♂️
 
The final days, public in hysteria
Uniting yet inciting.
They call it fervour,
Splitting apart the mind and heart
Of those disposed.
Collective but not necessarily reflective,
A fan not always fantastic but fanatic.
 
July, two thousand eighteen.
All the world’s a TV screen.
Football and the ball is round;
Teams running, bounding
On a spree
To reach a goal that no goal-ee
Can foil.
 
For 90 minutes folk will weep or cheer
Or anger.
Men will fall, miss the ball,
Cards of red or cards of yellow
Referred by referee to tell all
Players who will bellow at the other fellow…
 
While one side of the stadium’s in tears,
Air defiant, the other cheers,
 
Some will go their way in stillness,
Some will go in ´killing-ness`.
 
It is a game only,
Not World War ´bloody` Three.
No one has died.
Two teams have played their best with pride.
Life carries on without a particle of shame.
It is, will always be a game.
 
Only A Game 7.15.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Thinking In The Sun

           Thinking In The Sun

Preoccupied with origins and ends,

Our real-life friends –

One knows that what is left is means: the present tense –

Past gone, what lies ahead not yet in sight’s attendance. 

The rest belongs to speculation.

Reasoning has limits.

Also left: the intellect and character,

Not neglecting chance or grace;

Who gets what, does what, makes choices that

Put two and two together to get four – or not. 

Sitting here out in the sun

What better theme to think upon,

The senses dong what they do,

Interpreted by you-know-who:

Me, you.

 The eye sees change [wind blowing grass].

The ear hears wind [that’s blowing grass].

The arm feels sun [that’s growing grass].

The brain sees all as change.

 Where is the toot, toot of an absolute?

One would recruit an absolute

To make things stable

If one could/were only able.

 So one sits awaiting, cogitating,

Meditating, celebrating one’s existence,

Hoping, praying it’s not nonsense

In the end,

As its end,

At the end.

Thinking In The Sun 4.22.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Nature Of & In Reality; Birth Death & In Between III; Arlene Corwin

Thinking In The Sun

           Thinking In The Sun

Preoccupied with origins and ends,

Our real-life friends –

One knows that what is left is means: the present tense –

Past gone, what lies ahead not yet in sight’s attendance.

 

The rest belongs to speculation.

Reasoning has limits.

Also left: the intellect and character,

Not neglecting chance or grace;

Who gets what, does what, makes choices that

Put two and two together to get four – or not.

 

Sitting here out in the sun

What better theme to think upon,

The senses dong what they do,

Interpreted by you-know-who:

Me, you.

 

The eye sees change [wind blowing grass].

The ear hears wind [that’s blowing grass].

The arm feels sun [that’s growing grass].

The brain sees all as change.

 

Where is the toot, toot of an absolute?

One would recruit an absolute

To make things stable

If one could/were only able.

 

So one sits awaiting, cogitating,

Meditating, celebrating one’s existence,

Hoping, praying it’s not nonsense

In the end,

As its end,

At the end.

Thinking In The Sun 4.22.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Birth, Death & In Between III;Arlene Corwin

Why Mourning

     Why Mourning

 Do you know anyone who doesn’t die?

Who hasn’t died?

Who will not die?

Not I.

 

How to accept?

Not mourn?

Think through to not have pain,

(For pain seems fruitless), for

To not accept

Is like rejecting sun and moon,

Existence, proven, measured, seen.

Do I lament when atoms split?

Grieve, regret,

Have sadness that I can’t get over.

Nover*

Doesn’t.

 

Pain [we have] when others die –

That ‘other’ human, cow or dragonfly.

The local forester sawed down a fir

Which was for sure,

A hundred fifty years or more.

I mourned,

Stump and its rings all it passed down.

 

Is it absence or remembrance?

Is it longing for a something now a non-thing non-existing?

Is it clinging to a someone

Over whom we have no power,

Never had? Could it be wrong-er?

Fate and destiny his, hers or its

Through all of time and history.

 

I cannot think of one good reason

Vindicating mourning.

Were we meant for suffering?

Though I [clearly] cannot clarify,

We’re seeing wrongly,

Thinking strongly wrongly,

Wrought of ego’s braggadocio,

The hallowed hoaxer of emotions.

 

*Nover: me, born Arlene Faith Nover

Why Mourning 11.4.2017

Birth, Death & In Between III; Nature Of & In Reality; Revelations Big & Small; Circling Round Reality; Circling Round Egos;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

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