Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying for You

                 Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying For You

If he’d known

The world would mourn his passing,

Would he have overdosed on heroin?

How much self-love does it take

To break the habit?

Would you grab it, if you could?

I think I would.

Even kids and wife

Can’t make that change in life:

The skid, the slide,

The gliding down and down

And even more…

Until you’re on the floor,

A needle in your arm,

Unconscious of your heart’s alarm

Whispering “Stop

– or else your time is up!”

 

SPH, you never knew

They’d mourn your passing

As they’re doing.

That it would cry: the bylines, headlines

Sounding, bounding, ‘round the world in living print.

If you’d been more intuitive, more self in-touch, less self-indulgent,

Drugs might have been out-of

Thought and need, thought and greed, but…

Habit feeds on thought

And you were caught.

And so,

We throw

No stones at windows,

Even if and though

We know the world will not cry at our passing.

We’ll mourn

And learn.

 

Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying For You 2.3.2014

Special People, Special Occasions; Small Stories Book; Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin

God Bless You Mr. Ferrer

Coming home, turning on the Mac, tuning in the radio, expecting to see, hear the installation of the President-elect, I read instead “Miguel Ferrer Is Dead”. Priority is clear. Dear Mr Ferrer takes precedence.

         God Bless You Mr. Ferrer

God bless you Mr. Ferrer

Wherever you are.

‘My Father’s house – many a mansion’:

That you’re somewhere I am certain.

One remembers José powerful as Cyrano.

Now we shall remember you;

Compelling, formidable in your roles,

You unintentionally stole the roles

Becoming one with each.

And one is sad!   Nigh inconsolable!

Sixty-one! So young these days!

No phrase of admiration, value and esteem can reach you,

Few can match you, rate you high enough.

And I, engulfed in loss,

No grading high enough

Shall miss you.

 

God Bless You Mr. Ferrer 1.20.2017

Special People, Special Occasions; Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin

Our Tractor Man

Our tractor man is doing

What he really likes to do:

Clearing snow.

He suits my mental man-with-plow.

Trading pig and cow

For gear he likes to sit inside;

The tractor hut;

Tranquil woods to clear and saw,

Chop and cut;

Tractor wheel, forest smell,

Alone deciding what to fell.

Muddy potholes in the spring,

Flood and crud his tractor´s thing.

Nicely chubby,

Slightly tubby;

Sixty odd,

His tractor and the woods his God.

 

I esteem this earthy man

Dharma bound to seasoned stars

That fix the farmer life and plan

Unchangeable and stable.

Our Tractor Man passed away 2016.


Our Tractor Man 3.4.2003 (revised 11.19.2016)

Circling Round Nature; Circling Round Time; Special People, Special Occasions; Birth. Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

                                                     

 

The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed

         The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed

Trumpeting, he trumped and triumphed…

Did he, has he?

Thumping his way forward,

Jumping through the hoops of word and phrase,

Razing those that blocked his ways,

He dazed the lot.

Crazed, ablaze – or not. But hot,

He took a stand,

But didn’t seem to understand (and may not still)

That energy attracts a gangland:

Thinking not that crowds could form,

Become a throbbing, clobbering or bombing mob:

A swarming army.

 

Young we heard,

You can’t take back the caustic word

Once in the air it’s there!

So rather than lie down

Crowds gather,

Drawing to themselves an anger,

War uncivil,

Civil war

once more,

And monies that he’s vowed to earn

Will burn in costs for crowd control, police patrol.

 

The day that Trump was voted in

May not, in fact become a win –

For reasons manifold and sundry.

 

The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed 11.11.2016

Our Times, Our Culture II: Special People, Special Occasions,

Arlene Corwin

 

 

(Yet Another) Portrait Of A Friend

I have a friend

Who has a perfect memory.

You might think it’s a perfect gift.

We have to sift through thoughts –

That is, you, I – but he,

He pictures everything,

Recalls it all: dates, times, the history

Complete. What could be wrong

With knowing all the lyrics to each song

You hear?

Draw near, I’ll tell you:

 

He retains the good and bad.

He’s filtered nothing. Think if you should

Shoulder all the woes of life?

The sad, the mad, the wars, the strife?

Besides the perfect recall,

He sees everything in black and white:

It’s either awe-inspiring or shit.

I’d guess it’s vexing

To remember each and every second

And, on top of which, to have opinions strong,

Be never wrong: one of his ‘strong’ opinions .

Plus, he takes offense, pretends indifference.

Yet, we’re friends.

I always yield, always bend.

You see, I am indifferent

And I’m charmed.

 

(Yet Another) Portrait Of A Friend 10.19.2016

Love Relationships II; Special People, Special Occasions; Small Stories Book;

Arlene Corwin

It’s Always For Others To Interpret

I was reading, by some fluke, a book that’s been sitting in the hall waiting to be given away to some charity or other. On this day, I happened to pick it up on my way out to sit in the October sun. The name: The Nobel Prize for Literature 1901-1983.

 

It’s Always For Others To Interpret

 

Dylan’s won the Nobel Prize.

You write, you fall, you rise,

Or rise and fall

Pleasing none or all.

You’ve written self…part of…

Round themes of evil, good, dark shadows, love –

All universal;

That, despite the personal,

For I is always you is we

With never objectivity,

But always subjectivity,

Seeing what we need to see.

 

The ‘prize of prizes’ always questioned

While the choosers are sequestered, and

We never know their standard.

 

Be yourself! That’s a command!

You’ll never will, unanimously,

Be a star (though shining brightly),

Idolized by all the masses

(Think of Jesus).

 

You can just write for self alone,

Not cloning some source you admire.

Others will attire you

With clothes of their imagining,

Projecting who and what they are.

Your star will always be you

Till you die and after.

 

It’s Always For Others To Interpret 10.14.2016

Special People, Special Occasions; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Vaguely About Music II;

Arlene  Corwin

I’ve Forgotten (Entitlement to those forgotten)

I’ve forgotten

All the people I’ve been guided by

Whose I had impact.

I would say it was an army –

Some to venerate, to honor

Just for being who they were.

 

Teachers who reached out –

Or not.

Friend who sat in seat in front:

Third grade, long braid – precisely what

I longed for.

Comic friend, a hundred two this year.

Men who loved me;

Thinkers high above me;

Authors by the hundreds,

Women, men of all professions;

Holy ones…

My goodness, memories gone

And here I sit, result of all

That stands and stood to break the wall

Of ignorance.

They were my chance

And I’ve forgotten more than many.

I would gladly pay a penny to remember mem’ry

Unremembered, out of mind,

Left behind and unobserved,

Consigned to god-knows-where

Out there in limbo.

 

Tricky this!

I’d like to put a name or give some fame

To those who made me tried and true,

Who said, some way, that “You are you”,

Who gave or formed my values.

Give their due

To those who

Gave me mine.

 

I’ve Forgetten8.2.2016

Pure Nakedness; Special People, Special Occasions;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

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