i felt the great lake in the summer time
i swam beneath her depths
her currents rushed beneath my feet
the upwelling water refreshed.
i knew the great lake in the winter time
i walked across frozen waves
i saw her ice and destruction
her chill took all i gave.
i never met her in October
when her shores were cooling down
the west winds glazed over her churning surface
surrounded by orange, then red, then brown.
the world around her was dying
but she was coming alive
excitedly, she slammed the pier
warning all to step aside.
sand whipped across the naked beach
but now my body was not bare
i was protected by an autumn sweater
and i learned from the springtime wear.
we rode our bikes through forest dunes
the sun snuck through the departing leaves
the last remnants of summertime fell to the ground
air whistled through the trees.
nothing can last forever
no matter how sweet, how pure, how true
there is a time when it ends and falls to the ground
and waits to become anew.
the lake must let go of her summer guests
and spend the winter alone
the trees must release what holds them down
and with freedom they may grow.
i sit here holding onto something i loved
even though it is no more.
my fingers still gripping onto the strings of the past
like waves afraid to leave the familiar shore.
maybe i can learn from the autumn lake
maybe i can be like the trees
maybe i can release what holds me down
and step out into the chilling breeze.
it scared me once to be alone
to face the world with no one by my side
but when i let the cold air hit my face
i felt a tingling sense of pride.
we cannot fear what we do not know
we cannot live if we do not let go
a seed is afraid to fall on the frozen ground
but in the springtime, she will grow.

Writing In The Middle Of The Night

There’s something nice about the facelessness
Of  Internet,
The anonymity you get
Despite the photos and the instant thing
You hope will ring the bell
Of those around the global ball.
A kind of secret.
You needn’t tell your thoughts,
Spell correctly,
Use our mouth, make a sound -
Just sit there typing while the world goes round.
North, south, east, west,
You’ve got all the time to test your creativity.
Believe me, it’s the best invention
Since sliced bread, the paper clip,
The toilet roll, words ‘hip’ and ‘soul’.

For people who want name and fame
It is a trip to paradise.
The price   is shekels.
What the heck, it’s only money!
And for people whose agenda is pure vanity,
A dream (both fantasy and joy).

In any case, if I may say it once again,
There’s something I appreciate
About the gate that’s opened
Through the faceless anonymity,
Potential creativity and artistry
Implicit
In the Internet.
Writing In The Middle Of The Night 2.9.2018The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; Arlene Corwin

words all have their roots
ped = foot
saurus = dinosaur
photo = light

just like my love for you has roots
or like a tree has roots

and all these things are infinite

the power of language
the power of nature
and
the power of love

I want to write to inspire you, to show you, to lead you.

I want my words to take you to new continents and sail you across seas.

I want my imagery to paint such a masterpiece, you could reach out and feel the wind.

I want to keep you captivated by these letters in a combination no one has dared to try.

I want my poems, my stories, my thoughts, my dreams to be the ones you copy and paste, the ones you print and hang on your wall; not for fame and money but so that you see it every day and you are reminded that you are alive.

I want to show you how to smile again, how to face each day.

I want these lines to hold on to you, keep your tears from falling or help you let it all out.

I want my sentences to teach you how to love yourself again, how to be brave.

I want you to know, from my words, that there is nothing on this earth, in the entire complex universe, this endless sky of galaxies, that you can't be.


- t.s.

Week after week,
life drops the weak,
All of this strife makes us reek-
of depression, The Great Depression?
More of a depression of the Greats...
It started with Bowie, all these phonies,
mourn for something- someone they weren't around,
to witness or experience...