Even through his blue
He painted starry night
His favorite chair
His favorite pipe
And a sealed up bag containing
Hashish
He could not smoke the pain away

A missing ear becomes a symbol
Only the madness of knowing
Ear lobe
His love
The way no one else does
*****
No numb could take the pain away

Van Gogh
Died poor
And alone
In a field that was
His last expression
He died by his own hand
It wasn't even raining

It should have been

the sun doesn't shine in your world, and i wonder why. perhaps it's because you choose to write all your poems in the clouds.

The time period between being awake and being asleep
This mystical place that so little beings remember:

It's the place that I could live in for the rest of my life
For it is neither reality or a dream
A time that is neither dark nor light
Neither good or bad
The world of in between
Everything is neutral
It is the world of calmness
Nothing to worry
Nothing to be afraid of

It's the only place I can find solace
The place without sadness and loneliness
But also free of the nightmares
Undisturbed by the morbid images my mind creates
And untouched by the anxiety, loneliness, and pain of this cruel world
A place where no person can take me away from
A place where no creature can lay a claw on me
Gates between consciousness and unconsciousness
Guard this place of sanctuary

I would like to stay here,
This, I would want to make my home
But waking is too demanding
And sleeping is too necessary

I wish my home would be Hypnagogia
A place where you never sleep
You never wake
And you never dream

Semi-Portrait Of A Friend
   (There’s More To Him Than This.)

I have a friend
Who has a perfect memory.
You’d have to sift through thoughts –
The you and I but he,
He pictures everything,
Recalls it all – dates, times, the history.
What could be wrong
With knowing all the lyrics to each song you hear?
Draw near, I’ll tell you:

He remembers all the bad and good;
He’s filtered nothing. Think if you could
Think back on all that wasn’t good in life:
The sad, the mad, the hurts, the wife?

Besides the perfect recall
He sees it all in black and white.
All is beautiful or quite unpalatable;
If disgusting, I would guess it’s frustrating –
To lash out, then to smothers it with, ”Asch!”
To bring to mind each second and,
To have opinions strong.
He’s never wrong –
(On of his ‘strong’ opinions).
Plus, he takes offense,
Pretends indifference.
We’re friends.
I don’t mean to offend;
I pretend I’m scatterbrained -
And comprehend.

Semi-Portrait Of A Friend 6.28.2016
Love Relationships II;
Arlene Corwin

When I’m Gone

When I’m gone
I’d like whomever,
To sit ‘round a table,
Read a poem or two or eight,
Tell a joke, a story,
Concentrate
On me with love the modus operandi.

Meanwhile I endeavor
To make this life a label,
Every movement something –
Health, a lesson, teaching.
Life is peachy if I let it,
Up and out and reaching.

When I’m Gone 7.1.2016
Birth, Death & In Between II; Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin

No Connection With Numbers

I have no connection with numbers.
Sixty-five or fifty-five, seventy, and suddenly
A person’s dead
And I am swayed
To thinking , “Gee, she was too young to pass,
At least these days”.
Lost track of what should, should not be,
It being all the same to me.
As teen, numbers relevant,
Forty ancient,
Frames of reference clear and few.

Digits now,
Are passcodes, pin codes, bank-cards, passcards.
As for age: eighty’s  the new forty, forty twenty;
Size eighteen is now size fourteen, thirteen now size zero;
Uni- multi- verses more and many; numbers leer,
And so unclear
That only new words suit.

Still unconnected and to boot,
It doesn’t matter – not to me, in any case.
I’m free, unfettered by the race, the chase.
In fact, it is a grace I [almost] note.
Glad I can vote,
De-vote my time to stumbling through
Without connecting numbers to
A thing
(except perhaps those few
I mentioned.)
Poems start out with one intention,
End up, well,
A tolling bell,
Telling all and nothing,
Ring! Ring!

No Connection With Numbers 6.10.2016
Numbers Book; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin