Ageing

                      Ageing

Ageing is the strangest damned phenomenon.

It’s sneaky, going ‘long

With universe’s basic law of change.

We hate it cause we cannot change the change

With choice, with voice in matters

Dealing with each atom looming over time.

You watch a documentary of a famous person you once loved.

What you see is change or interchange.

Voice now gravely, hairs now straggly,

Mind not gaga (maybe),

But the teeth, fat, skin itself deranged.

It’s all so strange.

Invisible the first half century,

(If you’ve been so lucky)

Then they come: the boom of bombs begun in womb.

The stealthy hum of failing health a-zooming in,

The forms of  everything you took for granted

Changed from light to odium

Enchanted idioms of youth now faint or quaint.

And the damnedest twist of all

Besides what’s going on outside,

Visible and tactile, 

Is that life has lied.

You thought it stretched ahead forever,

That it never stopped

And then you’re bopped on your old head:

You’re dead.

One’s left to speculate and ponder

Where does life go on from here?

Where and if…

Ageing 9.11.2018 Birth, Death & In Between III; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin

I’m often asked by readers whose native language is not English.  Here are a few words of which they might like to know the meaning:

odium;  general or widespread hatred or disgust incurred by someone as a result of their actions:

tactile;  of or connected with the sense of touch: vocal and visual signals 

bop;  verb (bops, bopping, bopped) [with object] hit or punch quickly: Rex bopped him on the head

Don’t You Ever Wonder What Life Really Is?

          Don’t You Ever Wonder What Life Really Is?

Don’t you ever wonder what life really is?

Why beings from the smallest ant,

Perhaps the even ‘smaller’ can’t

Resist the urge to stay alive,

All loving living more than anything.

Not just ‘living but a thriving 

And adapting in a hundred different,

Differing approaches,

Forging systems and inventing

Skills and all kinds of modus operandi.

Don’t you ever wonder that life is

Much more than cellular?

That consciousness seems to exist

In one form or another, 

And that wise, developed souls perceive

Each other forms as brother?

Don’t you ever speculate

That we’re more than biology?

That each inhaling thing has

Need to interface with other’s company

To be ‘in touch’?

It’s such

A many-sided matter –

That we’re matter and we love to live.

Don’t You Ever Wonder What Life Really Is? 8.22.2018 Birth, Death & In Between III; Arlene Nover Corwin

 

We Die When We’re Supposed To

On my way to teaching my lovely yoga class this paradoxical poem:✍️🤔🧘‍♀️
       We Die When We’re Supposed To
 
We die when we’re supposed to,
Karma chained in cause/effect.
One eve I lay there,
Sorry, sad and full of fear
When of a sudden, shocked, aware,
The snare of truth, as clear as day,
Told me that we pass away
From causes self-created
From our characters, our choices,
Gene pushed, situation fated…
 
You know, when you get these flashes,
(call them insights, revelations, mind disclosures)
You can sense veracity’s exposures crashing in
And you’ve no choice
But to believe
What mind and thought receive,
In this case this:
Death comes when it will,
And it is up
To us to give this hidden ‘reasoning’ a whirl
And take the pill
However bad the taste.
 
We Die When We’re Supposed To 9.18.2012/8.16.2018 Birth, Death & In Between II/III; Arlene Nover Corwin
 

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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