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Arlene Corwin Jul 2016
Inner Musts Must Be Obeyed

Not partial to my voice,
Yet sing I must.
Poetry morose or grandiose,
Yet write I must.
No longer questioning,
I simply follow
Roads that hollow out a special path
Tattooed into gene’s DNA.
What can I say,
And what was it I said?
Inner musts must be obeyed.

Inner Musts Must Be Obeyed 7.21.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II, Nature Of  & In Reality; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Whether we like them or not.  And still we choose.
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
v V v Aug 2014
I read enough to know that
a life of balance is ideal,
far removed from deprivation,
equally distant from excess.

Atheism is excess.

So is Theism.

But if you said you were agnostic
it would be easier for me
to swallow...

    I thought about a pink sky tonight
when the mystery of ancient man
didn't move me but
         the light from a dead star did,
and I realized in an instant why
your sky isn't pink.
Your sky isn't pink because
           following the crowd
is not your style, and
what they see you see right through
to depths a bit deeper and
          more complex.

                If I were a god
I would show myself pink
by painting the sky for the masses

                     but not for you.

For you I would do more because
I know you would need more,
and because I    (as a god)
would know you more than
        you know yourself.

I would meet you where you are
      because I know who you are.

You are the one
who walks into a room
full of strangers at a party
and in very short order
the world slows down
and almost stops
and you ask yourself
why am I the only person
conscious at this very moment?
and while laughter and gaiety
surround you, closes in on you,
the only way to survive it is
to escape it,
escape the constant chatter
of dysfunctional consciousness,
the volatile shifting from
yes to no,
simple things that should
be known you don’t know
because your boundaries are
un-defined.
You may very easily know
that her dress is out of season
and his Affliction shirt
screams *****, or that she
shouldn’t wear white
before Easter and for sure
he’d be smart to shave the
back of his neck,
while on a deeper level
you recognize every fear
and every failure in the lives
of these party goers,
you know who is hurting
and you know which ones cheat
and you know the good lovers
and the fathers and mothers,
you can pick out the sinners by
the look in their eye
and all of this is easy until
the spotlight shines on you
and It always shines on you
eventually,
and when it does
your fears and frauds
will be revealed
and the only way
to make it all go away
is to run,
run to the bottom of a bottle,
run to the white gold and pearls,
run to where the numbness sets in
and maybe you'll fit in for a bit,
but you know it never lasts,
and you curse yourself
and you look to the sky for
the pink(like everyone else)
but it never works
and why should it?

Its easy for them
to see the sky as pink.....

Its easy to admit it
because they want to fit in..

for you I would jump in
      and read your mind
and give your secrets to
a fellow poet who might tell you
           what I told him so
you might struggle with
the recollection of never
having told anyone.

Next I would show you
how I listen to your heart
by writing pink words like these
but I would make sure that
there was no other explanation
                      and there isn’t.

Or maybe, just maybe, less subtle,
I'd reveal myself through
another troubled soul singing
                  “Down in a Hole”
I was right there with him
     but he didn't see me
          and now he's gone,
but you didn't see me either
    because maybe
              I was too easy to see,
look again and see me now

youtube.com/watch?v=D-uN22sI4JM

                       I am
the pink hair on top of his head.

I have been there for you to see
                        so many times
I will be there for you
so many more

You have seen me in
the wrinkled pink palm
of Frank's hand,

you have seen me in flamingos
back dropped by a blue sky,

you have seen me in
grilled cheese sandwiches
and pink dandelions,
(yes there are pink dandelions,
you just never noticed)

you have seen me in
pink guardrails,

you have seen me in
the pink morning of
the day after you didn't
**** yourself,

you have seen me in the
pink and narrow edges
around the musts,

and how about your
estranged husband
touching the pink of
your bare knee?

Yep, that was me too.

I could go on and on
       but this must end
so I leave you with words
you’ve likely read before,

“If then, I were asked for the most
important advice I could give,
that which I considered to be the
most useful to the men of our
century, I should simply say: In the
name of God, stop a moment,
cease your work, look around you”


-Leo Tolstoy
Essays, Letters and Miscellanies


In other words,

Look for the pink in everything.
A much thought out response to Jamie Johnson's poem "Atheism (maybe now you'll understand)"
Viya Choudhary Aug 2014
Waves crashing into the sand
The light of the sun palpable throughout the land
Blades of grass whisper a song
Intimating it won't be long
Birds fly high high high
The afternoon musts be nigh
Listening quietly to the sounds
Although silence is more profound
Steps lead up through the gates
Saying "au revoir" where reality awaits
Straight-striving, a white
                    oak sapling bends
                        (it pretends) willingly
                            to the lapping of grey-
                               hound gusts. It knows
                                        the musts of a thin-
                                         skin (if and when,
                      it can endure) will loosen
             some with thickening. Then,
           well, the strength comes
         to laugh at always
in the passing wind.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Kabelo Maverick Aug 2014
Life, yours in the making
Your salvation is not another hand saving
They lied, you’re of no breed and born alone
That’s why you’re unique and somewhat forlorn

Explore my domain and find yourself
For once, you’re the Main and Man shall delve
You’ll find all elements, resources and money
to craft your elegance  and remorse to your liking
This is something of a must…
Coz’ in the end, it’s just you and no one to trust

What’s in it for me you ask?
I heard loneliness don’t last
The personification.
F White  Feb 2011
Register
F White Feb 2011
I can measure my life
in lists of things I
meant to do.

The bullets, the stars.
numbers, arrows.
Musts, maybes and
Laters.
All there in
the wobbly print
of my 9 year old
boy scrawl.

If I circled it
did it first,
Will this guarantee a
different fork?
Wil  walk down
my to-do, to
Prosperity
If I accomplished
it all?
or
would I start
a new way
perhaps tattooed on
my arm

would I start , then
cllecting boxes
of regrets?

Every lists is
a promise I pretend
to make for
myself.
my Beautiful
False Paper Trail
for a productive life
assuredly.
not the one
that I lead,
At all.
Copyright FHW, 2011
Life's a Beach Mar 2015
From the life they all had planned

Because I can feel every small death
In the sounds of grains of sand

falling away
sigh

A ray of clarity lights up
from within a sky of meaningless clouds
Their moisture stiffened on my breath
elasticity melting on my hands

wholesome
real

If life is a concept
Then perhaps joy can be the incense to burn round it
The light up ball pit of consciousness can be
What I choose
Who I am
Which I lose

A jigsaw of emotion
Want, desire, controlled, due, debt
I needn't let anything control

I'd lose it all if I wished it

Because reality is a waste when filled with musts
Anxiety placed tenderly down to rust in the grave
of oppression and dependency
I have a tendency for un-calm
There's no need for alarm

Mistakes will always be forgotten
As will trophies
Love
Revenge

Everything must have it's end
So don't sweat the small stuff

You needn't have time for that ****
If you don't want it :)
Breathe
R J  Apr 2013
Eno.
R J Apr 2013
Am I everything I said I couldn't be,
To see is to see is to be,
Apparently,

In the circle of life, this cycle
A recycle of bicycle tries and left behinds

i stayed behind?

Why should I mind the carnal bind between sin and mankind?
From birth to death
Defect
Affected the infected

US

us?

US
FROM THE LUST TO THE MUSTS
THE MUTTS WE'RE ABOVE SUCH SAID 'EQUALITY OF'
THE RUST THAT REPLACED US,
DEFACED AND ERASED US

THEY CAN'T TAKE US

they can't take us?
did you forget what this about?

your doubt and your bout with your 'is this all I can think about'

*and you call yourself a devout...
Arlene Corwin Sep 2018
No Man is A Victim

Can it be, and do I mean it?

It’s a phrase that came to mind,

And so I looked it up.  

One harmed or killed by so-called fluke;

One duped or tricked;

One who feels helpless faced with setback:

So I  chose the last to help.



There’s truth in fate that causes earthquake,

And one’s sole concern’s escape.  

That is a victim.

Then again,

One is alive, glad to survive.

Grounds to begin

Because one can!



But what about

The ones who feel useless in the face of sense,

Interpreting all happenings

With sadness, negativity and impotence,

Downhearted from the very start?

You’ve known a few. Me too.

Perhaps it’s you,

And what to do –

The problem philosophical, pragmatic, existential.

And, if one’s inclined, then spiritual.



Start a something, anything, for life’s a skill.

Good comes from bad, calm follows ruin;

Results come from what’s had or been;

And nothing lasts forever.

One’s endeavour is to strive,

For one’s alive.  

Remember that you’re clever!



Act as if you have a choice

And make one – with your tiny voice.

Summon up your forces,

For of course, they’re many.

Do not hurry.

Lives are scurrying around you.

Do not worry,

For the ‘musts’ and ‘oughts’

Are values of society,

Not boo-choo, cry

Or future you.

No Man Is A Victim 9.30.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II;Nature In & Of Reality;Definitely Didactic II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Arlene Corwin Poetry.com

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