Playing With Your Self 2013

Playing With Your Self

 

One’s mantra ought to be,

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

Chucking out what kindles wishes,

Thoughts dug deep in mind:

Thinking of the wishing kind.

“What’s left when one’s bereft of

Thing and people thought –

Where things and people are motif?”

Your Self,  its traits.

Other thoughts flung out to space,

You’re face to face

With you;

The limbs, connective tissue,

Thought, breath, death;

All that there’s left to play around with:

All that’s there to find

Inside a mind with which to frolic.

Symbiotically.

 

Playing With Your Self 10.1.2013

Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

Country Life

Country Life

 

You wouldn’t think much happens here,

But I’m reminded as I write

That drama of the magnitude

Of Shakespeare’s tragedies unite,

Not open to the public.

Frogs are flattened,

Deer are drowned,

Dogs go lost,

Trees are downed –

Magnificent, gigantic things,

Significant beyond their rings.

Fledglings never get to fly,

Snakes are dropped from out the sky.

Desperate bees glassed-in in pain,

Looking, never finding ‘out’ –

You’d never guess

That in the neat and cared-for grass

The cat that sleeps here as I write

Becomes the reaper of the night –

A Jack the Ripper, skilled and heartless

Stalking, lurking, lurching –

Never dream that cosmic struggles

Make their place right here

Where battlegrounds and contests jeer

At life’s apparent concord.

Country life –

The quiet life

Where nothing seems to happen;

Let me tell you…

 

Country Life 9.7.2004

Circling Round Nature; Birth, Death & In Between; Cat Book;

Arlene Corwin

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