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Persephone Jul 6
Her wings fell away
And she descended into the willow
Screaming for her laughter
And wishing for her hope
She warped into a free fall
Crashing into heartless branches
Grasping for a helpful hand
Engulfed in wordless fear
Forgetting to believe in herself
J Oct 2018
Despite the bigger picture’s fate
It’s endless fun to just - create.
No matter if it’s prose or code
Or the world about you ready to explode
To make your production from not a thing emerge
Can only make one’s spirits surge.

Remember the childish wonders set free
In giving into your every curiosity.
And the passion that not a soul can fake
About the things you did proudly make!
I think I like writing code as a result of liking writing in general.  There is so much possibility in both.
Arlene Corwin Nov 2017
Always In Preparation #2
          (a rather long simplification)

Always in preparation for an interview:
What will I answer? Never know.
- What do I like? do things I do, the way I do?
- Write poetry, play jazz, do yoga?
Body/mind my mental window in my mental interview:
And I must justify it all.
Some germ, some theme begins the whole:
The technical; word hurdles
When I write or sing;
All challenging,
Performing, writing or just doing.

T’ween two covers it’s official;
Everything grist-for-the-mill,
I’ll likely publish ‘til I’m still.
No special motive winks or flirts,
No motive hides behind my skirts -

My ears hear musically,
It all comes naturally, substance counting most;
Not tricks, not formulae, cliché -
If there’s a Corwin idiom
It’s in the DNA.
I work out tunes, -out poetry, -out ******.
The mind works out spontaneously,
I (wherever I is to be found) give in, give form,
Substance from-and-in the frame.

In short, I paint myself into a box
And creep around  
Until some [final] satisfaction binds.
A futile paradox:
To clarify and satisfy
The interview,
But there am I,
Always in preparation.

Always In Preparation 7.6.2014
Pure Nakedness; The Processes: Creative, Thinking,Meditative II; revised 11.21.2017
Arlene Corwin
I tinker all the endlessy.
grey grey grey Mar 2017
“those who suffer know the struggle”*

I am a broken tinker crying inside,
tending  to other people’s wounds
and letting mine open wide.

I cram my woes into  crowded mounds
then I sit on top of them, guilty and tired.

I feed upon the clamor of the sick,
and I thrive by making a living out of it.
My shoulders are for tears and for generous treats
my words are reserved for those in need.

I spend my days fixing people up real good in no time,
willing them to bellow their suppressed sighs.
And  though I might seem incontestable and bright,
good god, I’ve lost all my faith I once had inside.

Yet, I still dream about the day when everything turns around,
When somebody will hear the quiet sound of my shouts,
someone to do me the things I want be done for me
someone to whisper me what I used to say for people’s bliss.
And maybe it’s sad but it’s comforting to admit-
that I only stay alive just to wait for this to happen to me.

In the meantime, I walk as a tinker with a dying mind,
I feel as free as a man ****** by his own kind.
When i say ‘it’s fine, you’ll get better you’ll see’
what I really want to say is that
I just pray you don’t end up like me.
mark john junor Aug 2014
whom do you trust
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor....
what eyes see the meaning of the blind
what tongues listen...which lies
in the picturesque morning
beauty spins its deceptions with golden hued sunlight
weaves its hand puppet theatricals made of
fleeting wisps of smiles
kissing gestures weakly delivered
    solider,  sailor,  tinker,  tailor...
    they gather round the dead man
    some come to mourn the lost
    some come to rifle through his pockets
    some come to silently wait for their own fate
he sits in his worn chair
in a pool of lamplight
with a small hammer in hand
his spectacles on bridge of his nose
tapping tapping ever so gently the thin metal mask
tinker...tailor...sailor...solider
the uniform of his mind shifts according to his lie
his tool is always the deceptions and misdirections
a sly smile...firm handshake...a signature style
'to whom do you trust' is a phrase that troubles him
her perfume lingers in the air
years have buried the cold war
but not its warriors
not their handiwork
     they dress the dead man for his burial
     with his decorations and platitudes
     with his shiny sword and neat uniform
     with honors they lay him
     with truths his secret they bury him
     why did he do thus....to whom did he answer
     to the tomb with his truths and lies
     to the tomb
he gathers the long coat
and the umbrella
walks out in london's chill spring night
to a bridge
and throws a small box into the river
long years after the cold war died
these men of shadows still play
these keepers of the gate still watch for hannibal and his horde
solider,  sailor,  tinker,  tailor
whom do you trust
(reference to John Le Carre's novel)
Poetic T Jun 2014
She was the glittering fairy
In the books,
But those who knew
Of the fairy
Tinker Bell,
Told another truth.

For hook was never after Pan
He was to hook a fairy,
Was his plan.

She had them hooked
On Dust,
Each morning
They would snort the glitter,
Then once again
Before dusk.

Those of weak soul
Could not take the toll,
Blood would seep
from there,
Eyes
Ears
& nose.

Feed to the croc
With a clock ticking,
Also addicted to
Lost boy flesh
Glazed,
Glittered,
Eyes,
Of a hunger untold

Peter Pan  
He flew to our world,
Not for
Friendship
Or for fun,
But to replace those fallen
Dismembered,
Hacked,
carved,
All by tinkers wand.
They were
Feed to the croc,
When all were asleep
High on dust
They never did ask,
Where the others had gone.

Enticed by a far away land,
Those who were taken
Never again to see home.
The lost boys
In a far off Land.

Peter her protector,
From the man,
The one with a hook for a hand.
Stories sing a different tune,
For it was tinker bell
Who magically removed
This limb called hand,
To quench its hunger,
Fed it to croc
Now the beast has a
Taste for the man.

No ill does hook hold
Against Pan,
But a sword
Must be put  
Through this child,
Who thinks he is man.

For hook is the only one
Who can rid this land,
Of the twisted dealer
Of dust,
Who wishes
To enslave this land.

— The End —