Who Would’a Thunk It?


Who would’a thunk it?

Fifteen books

Sliding piecemeal into six…

Other’s bibliographies

Whose credit lists go on and on

In pages worn

By use unceasing.


Here sit I

Noon sun high,

Ablaze with phrase

That turns into (most likely will)

Ideas instilled

With rhyme and substance,

Probing, pressing cortex’ lobe

Gushing, pushing out the job.


Who would’a thunk, in any case,

That it would form the base of hours

Spent each day as child’s play?

(Except that I’m grown up!)

Who would’a thunk it?


Who Would’a Thunk It? 8.16.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

Thunk; informal or humorous past a

think thought thunk!

Who Wouldn’t Mind Being Remembered?

Who wouldn’t mind being remembered?
It’s not the same as wanting fame -
Naiveté’s vanity its other name.

Who wouldn’t mind some impact?
An itch to reach out
Maybe teach, knowing one knows so little –
Naught at all – We are so small.

But art is there,
And impulse wants from within wants out,
Shouts quietly with word
When you yourself have disappeared.

Who Wouldn’t Mind Being Remembered? 8.16.2017
Birth, Death & In Between II;
Arlene Corwin

Think of all the burial & after-death customs.
alan Aug 12

hello
open door
I'm out here searching for something more
it's something that is in front of me
I know
but it's something that I can't see
hello
window pane
I'm trapped behind the chances I had
once
I'm stuck behind the dirty glass
peering through the broken cracks
because I'm stuck
in the past
thinking of what I could've had.

2:59 AM

why do I
spend so much time
thinking about things
that don't matter?
am I only
protecting myself
from something
I never think about?
why do I spend
so much time
getting lost
deep inside myself,
wandering further
from the path
until I'm too tired
to find my way back?

Words that cut heart but never heal. The sadness that over comes my soul
Left with only hope
I come back but with same ending
It just the same movie
You never understand me
My pain runs so deep
No love but negative outlook you see
I have break myself free rip apart those chains
Can you hear me or is my words so far gone.
By kenny diamond

there is something
about those wooden chairs
at the Jameson's Bar.

the way they consume the
yellow brights, I believe
they could have consumed the
sultry nights,the spilled whisky,
the cheap tips and the unspoken
stories.

it's like a polished reflective
demon,that asks me to sit on it
and begin the satanic act of
dissolution of liver.

the way it does so,
I might have lost a hundred stories
to it in the most painful nights
I saw and swallowed within, with only ice.

but I never regretted.
nor shall ever be,
for they have read my stories,
when no one ever could.

If the gods do will,
I shall create my own universe
my own earth for everyone

all your anguish and pains,
the cries and the vain,
shall be the red hot core,
that would burn from within,
untouched and unseen
forever for everyone

all the smiles and dreams of everyone
shall be the skies and stars
bright as ever be,
for we all shall fly once
to hold them close,
to embrace them in nights alone
no matter how far,

the memories and voices
of all our beautiful times
shall be the trees and the oceans
whose smells shall come to us,
when the breeze blows,
taking us to a time, we always wanted

and we shall live and die
within ourselves,with memories
with everyone and their lives
like we used to do,
and become memories or oceans,
stars or smiles
and be alive even after death
on this planet.

the fiery sun,
that sets the dichotomy
of the light and the darkness
has been veiled by the clouds
floating murderously grey
in the sky

In a final hope,
to embrace this winter
once again,
I wish for an end
for this bleakness,
for this monotonous silence,

the credulous hearts of people
are dying slowly in absence
of the lacking divinity in the sky
even the cracks in my windows
are thirsty to devour the lights,

as I lie within the blankets
staring the grey abode of the gods
in silence,
my dog comes and sleeps next to me,
and I wait more seeing outside one last time,

it is beautiful though I realize
like all ends are,in the very beginning.

It is up to us to choose,

whether these times we have
are going to be long wasted
and forgotten years,rotten with bigotry
and stinking of nothingness

or whether they shall stand
as a testimony for others to see,
when we burned our minds and souls
as the bright embers on dark howling nights,
to achieve everything we ever wanted
and as the time when we decided
to never ever look up in the skies,
or anyone's eyes
in search of a false hope.

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