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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
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
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
I wanna write a poem for TODAY
not an urge nor because of other “musts”
just wanna say it is The Anniversary of The Day
from long gone years of love in a most passionate way

i must confess now with heaviest pains-process
that Day was definitely our mutual YES
our hearts, minds and soul, I was his Princess
still innocent and filled with the greatest zest

a diligent type, “shy” but a hardworking man
an unimaginable male blend
so it be our marriage tree
grandest with equal alls, oft filled with earnest glee

for many years it could stand tall
the correct and perfect mutual choice
but also made my eyes oft moist
the jealousy kept peeping under his skin
he inherited an odd type of familiar sin
´t was there all the time under his skin
entered with the smallest blowing wind

to be honest this was never our mutual promise
let’s say our mutual choice was a perfect bliss
as kids born with an empty aura
he never accepts any pose of the smartest Femina
well that goes like that several decennia

my fierce belief in the Lord
kept me constantly going up aboard
it was his religion i have jumped into deeply
still, i acknowledge this fervently
due to my beloved Mum,
i as an evangelist-to-be
this humble me has gathered the Biblical wisdom

this is my witness and i must confess this is not only my utmost zest
these are true solemn mutual events of our best
through all the years of kindest process
indeed in a unique way, i am his princess
in abundance God's Bless....


solemnly created
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected
AD. Wednesday the 20th December 2017 as republished for HePo @ 6.25 hrs.W.E.Time
AD.Today the 19th December 2017 Prime published in PoemHunter
@ 15.37 hrs P.M. West-European Time
The weather: grey clouds but no slippery nor frozen spots on roads or randoms
RJ Days Jan 2016
Soft flakes are held aloft while drifting down
to keep those splendid structures quite intact;
Then up from pavement–piling on firm ground–
they halt all urban bustle in its tracks;
Strong plows have tried their best to push snow back,
but once this weather starts I’ve lost control;
It’s time to settle in, hear branches crack
and with my quilts and ***** I'll fight the cold.
How odd that every day has such a hold,
hurling the musts and shoulds with all its might,
until those tiny flakes conspire to scold
nice days for their mad toil and grant respite:
Sometimes it takes the ice and slush outside
to truly feel the warmth from which I hide.
This is my first Spenserian sonnet. I'm getting behind on my sonnet game. I know Shakespeare won't be writing anymore, but that's no excuse for dawdling. 155 or Burst!
Michaela Ferris Jun 2014
"It always has to be about you,
Don't you ever think of anyone else?
You're so selfish, you're so stupid.
I've got to do this all again next year."

I'm the eldest child and growing up fast
University soon and you won't help.
You taunt and mock me
Tell me I can't make it,
Now you don't even want me to go but threaten me if I don't.

Struggling to find a way to manage my time,
School, cadets, open days, all the musts.
You tell me you won't help me get there,
I'll just go on my own that's fine.
But no I'm too selfish to be worth your time.

I'm not worth your time I know,
You often tell me that enough.
I'm selfish and don't realise you have other kids you say
I do realise that but I need your support too.
I'm not as strong as you presume I am.

"It always has to be about you,
Don't you ever think of anyone else?
You're so selfish, you're so stupid.
I've got to do this all again next year."
Lord, if you exist and have ears
(neither of which
proposition is entirely clear yet),
let’s make a deal.
(I know prayers ideally aren’t
supposed to involve bargaining,
but this is really a poem
so I’ve got some wiggle room to ******.)
Bring a little peace to these instruments
who call themselves your kids,
and I swear by all things you deem holy
(since you made everything,
I guess that’d be the whole shebang)
to give myself up to your wills and won’ts.
Of course you’ll have to clue me in
where there’s a Will,
(the won’ts are pretty well covered)
whether buried in endless musts
****** thus by musty books,
or hidden in plain-sighted laws
governing the broadest range of spirals
from when the first shoot knows
it’s time to poke its budding nose
above an earth that’s lost the frosty bite
to when our yellow dwarf explodes
and grows a giant with nebulous arms
stretching outward to catch its dying breath.
(I’d cast a vote for the latter,
but my still-small voice has long been
to the far reaches, outnumbered.)
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
know thyself Aug 2014
please* take a wide look at this now
at the present where you could stay
and attention may just slow down
the time experienced by brains

find peace of mind within your self
on the way you could live your life
there's ups and downs, but there's no hell
if there's a way where you don't strive

for useless things that you don't need
for senseless meanings out of reach
believe in hidden ways that bleed
beyond your very deepest grief

but there's no guaranty for us
that there won't be another truth
where we stay lost to ***** lusts
we are still the ones that may lose
although it seems it's us that choose
still dreaming within unknown musts
and without any valid clues
driven by (so far) dialectic cues

but take a wide look at this now...
WJ Thompson Mar 2017
The question respirates
the acrylic aperture
behind the eardrum.
A responsive tongue to the palate
taps out the consonant.
But before the note descends
with musts in the glass-
The cathartic statue
refracts the
synapses stretching
continuums
to grant a
minuscule autocracy.
Already charting north,
fingers fluently gather
ego between the
sundered reverb of the vowel.
Already twisting key,
pressing restive feet
to acquiescent gasoline.
Working on my vocabulary.
Del Maximo Jun 2016
so many times I’ve stood alone
without friend or family
family or friend
although we’re all connected
like blocks in a Jenga tower
with fate’s choice pushing and pulling
after the collapse
we stand alone and rebuild
so many dictates in the re-invention
holing up for a while
caught up in ‘musts’ instead of ‘cans’
‘needs’ instead of ‘wants’
limited resources finding a new path
instead of creating one

the front door ajar
ideas breezing in coolness
a yellow porch light
illuminating the climbing tendrils
in my mind
manifesting the cosmos
with blue and red pizza boxes
brown rice and beans
tastes like chicken

communication holds many keys
but which one fits the lock?
so many unexpected turns
so many pieces in life’s puzzle
but I’m good at solving puzzles
every time I fall
I long for preparation H
to soothe my **** hurt
but sometimes when you think you’re drowning
you only need to  stand up
and remember that you’re good
but that’s totally up to me
as it should be
although we’re all connected
we stand alone
we stand alone
although we’re all connected
so don’t leave me in my cave, baby
hit me back to the moon if you have to
hit me back to the moon
©06/13/16
Martin Narrod Mar 2014
Nothing is right, everything is permitted.
If I was the king of the world, I'd make more things round, nobody's
Baby ought to be put in the corner. Nebraska full of skyscrapers for earthquake And hurricane victims, the soybeans and corn there is a machine of mutually Exclusive syrups that taste the same. We could go back to calling sugar what it Is, sweet.

I could make you a prince, her a dutchess, myself just another worker among Workers. This hive society is getting old, and Britain holds half of our honey in gold bullion. I would make stone soup, and make it Special on Friday. Acorns would be exclusively for dendrofied alum, and not for raking or Rattling. We could call the bad sick, because there is no bad; and we could Eliminate the goods and musts, and mustn'ts as they just make people feel low. No one can feel fat, they can only think they are.

We too could have an organized society of writers and editors and critics Whom decide what words we allow into the English language. Commercials Are poisoning our youth, our mainstream, our middle-American allies that Rebel against us with their extra-laminate NRA cards. My right to bear arms Allow me two, a left arm and a right arm. That should be plenty for many of Us.

I would call the president a model citizen, since he only models. Change Fitness Journals into Fashion magazines- everyone would like to dress Similarly enough as it is. The costs are high, and the big cities have rifles and Shotguns aimed at us over their shoulders. Data sharing, wi-fi could come With high-fives and we could all use one cable for everything, and one Password of password that unlocked everything.Perhaps we could begin Banishing people to live outside of Rome again. The hunting is better in the kept gardens. so we should allow this.

I've done something wrong, I've been rendered invalid by the bell, cowardly When it comes to giving advice, and if I was the king of the world I'd make More 24hour pizza places in Chicago, following the outdoor food-styles of New York CIty. Given names should serve as middle names until people are Old enough to choose what to call themselves.

We should reward more nobodies, and depopularize all of these "somebodies," leaving a little room for the poets to do their work.

If I was the king of the laughter, I'd package laughter and ship it Internationally, bottle up messages and send letters. In fact I don't have to be The king to send letters, I just need some postage and an envelope. One for Every person on the planet, to send a thank you note for being alive, a flower To bring them comfort, a quarter, and a bottle of pear nectar to nourish and Show them that I care.

That I care about we and not just me.
The mileage added up to just a grand
Not a lot for 20 days,
No crossing of a dateline
Or a continent’s divide.

But still that world seemed somewhat foreign
and I saw streams of amazing things,
That were echoes of my teenage self,
As different now as I was then.

A hazy forest, dark and damp
Where the mist turned into fairy snow
And we walked on in muddy shoes
To learn the mysteries of falling water.

A midas treasure of wave-borne findings
Spilling from a cavernous hall
Pieces of so many lives found
Floating on the morning tide.

Stories of a Nippon sailor’s life
From things that got thrown overboard
Images of fishing boats
In round glass ***** and floats of cork.

Carve the circle with a line
That led to a reunion of
The ones that I grew up beside
But never quite was welcomed in.

A rounding up of recollections
Shared at tables set for eight
Where those left out still don’t fit in
And bonhomie was the music played.

To the ocean of my childhood days
Waves that tell me who I am
And fill up all the empty spaces
City life drained out of me.

A shining tower with ninety steps
That wound around like pizza slices
And tripped me up to ******* blood
As balsa airplanes spiraled to the ground.

No time for wounding on the schedule
Shedding blood but never tears
The leader of the band played on
Admiring a Tsunami boat

Come all the way from far Japan
With cargo of the local fish
Still swimming in the unspilled sea.
A miracle born from true disaster.

Another beach, not like my own
A warmer, calmer span of sand
With jutting rocks in shallow surf
That dare you out to climb them.

Drawn once more to city lights
And the grassy ***** where mother lies
There were other gardens to enjoy and
And contrivances with just two wheels.

How quickly we grew shuttered in-
Just two days in big city life,
The restaurants and funny shows
Still told us it was time to go.

Longing for the beauty of the Gorge
We were met by smoke and blackened stumps
And exits blocked to waterfalls, ravaged
By the fires of hell, and ugly now for 50 years.

A teenage boy with fireworks and no sense
Destroyed the loveliest drive on earth
And bragged to all his awestruck friends
That all the news stories were about him.

With fingers crossed at Mount Rainier,
The sunny weather turned to slush and
Fell two inches in an hour.  I ate fresh snow
Off branches as we hiked, and froze my tongue.

We wore the heavy coats we almost didn’t bring
And cheered when sunshine took the snow away
And we could walk in forests once again
On trails we never knew were there.

A wonderland of cast off parts and metal bits
Became giraffes, seahorses and other marvels
In the hands of a roadside welding artist
Who sold a giant piece to my home town.

A visit with a sister who shared my youth but not my soul
Who grew one way and I another
Leaving not a thing in common for us
Except the love that comes from blood.

No way to avoid the final city
Hellish place of one way streets
Endless detours and construction
Pay all you own to park two hours.

Yet there was the comedy and
Segways once again to ride.
A troll under a hulking bridge and
Poor Rapunzel in the tower.

Passing up the tourist musts,
Visited in journeys past, we saw
The small and quirky things
That make a foreign city yours.

Twenty days, almost no rain
Unheard of in that rainy clime
A lot of sun, some cloudy skies
A bit of snow to frost the cake.

Twenty days to drive a circle
On the map of who I am
And where I came from
To bring it all back here with me.

To this place so vastly different
I wonder how I found a way
To fit inside this giant tumbler
And plant a seed that actually grew

A would-artist long ago
I wonder how I mixed the paint
To make a life so changed, in colors
Blended from Seattle’s soils.

Painted on a Portland canvas
With a brush of Longview bristles
Wetted with Pacific water
To present my image to the world.
                       ljm
Should anyone be curious about our route, here it is:  Fly to Seattle, pick up car, Ferry to Kingston on Olympic Peninsula, drive to Hurricane Ridge and Sol Duk.  To Forks (No interewst in Twilight locations) to Beachcomber museum, and Hoh Rainforest.  Aberdeen (skipped Curt Cobin park) and Longview.  Class reunion.  To Long Beach  (the only REAL beach on the west coast), To astoria to climb the tower (and fall).  Maritime museum and that tsunami boat.  Seaside, Canon and Red beach.  Tillamook and the cheese factory.  Portland.  Mom's grave.  The poor mutilated Columbia Gorge, to Umatilla.  Then through Yakima and Ruchland to Mt. Rainer Nat. Park.
To Puyallup (properly pronounced pew-al'-up) to see sister and on to Seattle for the last 3 days, then home.
*** - I've just done a boring vacation letter.  Be glad you aren't on my Christmas newsletter list !!
A collaboration of
Lori Jones McCaffery & David Hewitt

Clouds of grey, forboding loom
Over hillsides cold and sere
I long for walks twixt summer bloom
Under skies turned blue and clear

Lightning cracks as thoughts return
I cannot leave them far behind
Scorched upon my mind you burn
With no escape that I can find

'Tis love I crave not solitude
But love is often hiding
I search beneath my smbre mood
To seek for one glad tiding

And grant the heart my life pursues
Should find in me a perfect mate
So cleanse me of my woeful blues
That I may earn a happy fate

Yet time musts ee me ride this storm
But I'm without my trusty steed
So here I bunker down till dawn
When I can better meet my need

Fissures of red stirs morning sky
Promising me a path to hope
Upon the clouds my wishes fly
For help to climb this rocky *****.
#
David wrote lines 1 and 3.  Lori wrote lines 2 & 4.  All done by messaging.
John Marsh Nov 2011
I must need only desire one release
But too many other musts and needs
Get in the way of my desired life
So my soul tips on the blade of a knife
Oh how sad the human condition
One big mess of love and perdition
Yet sadness drives us to change it all
To lose ourselves in Love’s faithful fall
We fall into that gentle embrace
Removing our mind from that sad place
Bringing us something new and unique
Not of the world, but what we truly seek
To repair our hearts and mend our minds
That needed release we desire to find
Pearly dusts
Crashed musts
Vengeance evocatives
              Perpetual blasts !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!--!!!!!!!!!!!!!!****!!!!­!!=========#=!!÷!*!!!!!!!!!!!!-!--------------- **-yyyyyyyyyy¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥'¥°°¥°¥°°°°¥°°°°°°°¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥':'( :')









<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<3{{>33333333}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}<3:')33333333
฿฿฿:'( ฿฿Ω฿Ω฿:'( Ω:'( :-\ Ω฿฿฿฿฿฿:-\ Ω:'( :' -( Ω:-$ :-$ :'( :-$ Ω:-! :'( :-) :-) :'( :-( :'( ;-) θ:-( θ:-D :' -( :-D :-$ :-( :' -( :-! :' -( θ;-) ฯ;-) θ;-) :' -( :' -( Ω;-) ฿:-)) :'( :' -( :-D :' -( :-D :-D >:) :-D >:) :-D :-} :-$ :-D :-( 3:-$ ฿:-$ :-$ :-\ :-} :-} :-\ :-D :-D :-D :-D :-D =:O =:O :-D ++++:+"+"@"@"@";.;*;×;₩₩₩€!!!!!!!!!!!!!<<<<<<<<<<<<<3<<<<<<<<<<<3{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{
€&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I'm a eternal lover love bone

Circumference not obligin
Maria Etre Feb 2016
Why
I looked in the mirror
I nodded at the inevitable of what I see
my skin stamped with judgements
my hair braided with musts
and my eyes glazed
with how comes

WHY?
Adonis Yerasimou May 2020
I've watched you countless nights and days.
Don't know your name but seen your face.
I've seen you cry and smile and laugh.
You are the One, my better half.

I know your likes your shoulds and wants.
Your musts, your wonts, your oughts and donts.
Your dreams and fears, your tears and hopes.
Your ups and downs, your slippy slopes.

I've heard you breathe, choke up and sigh.
Listed the things that make you cry.
I've watched you work, and rest and sleep.
I've felt your pain like bones deep.

To you I 'm not a that or this.
I won't be a thing you'll ever miss.
A mystery only is what I am.
For you I'm none I'm just a ****.
Put some effort into making it creepy. ;) (hehehe)
Am I asleep in this pretty daydream?
Thine eyes, thy smile, thy laugh, each thing bout thee
Turns I complete and rejoice with the stars
Hard ’tis to believe we have love like ours

A brawling love, the people offered us
Tell thee lies who I never, ever was
They wanted to fill thee with loving hate
Declared, decided, them, our very fate

If the capulet would hate me for wealth
I tell thee one thing that wealth won’t buy;
Love! true and pure that from thee, I have met
Thou, who have shown me the love very right

Never fades away, that smile thou’ve entrust
Never separate, ever would we do
Ne’er would be tempted with the demon’s “musts”
Center, is the fearsome between us two

O Juliet, love, I’ve seen thy tragedy
Stand still, I do, trying my best for thee
But it seems I can’t wipe thy tears away
Thou’ve found someone who’s better, I would say.

Promised and swore, I, to only love thee
Now, seeing thou shatters me far apart
But It’s thou, my love, I’ll have to set free
'Tis not I, who’ll, in a hutch, keep thy heart

So before I go and say my “byes”
Just promise me so, in peace, I could die
For it’s not what my mind would only create
Please, wake me not from this dream I have made.
I wrote this poem while reading Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.
Julie Butler Aug 2015
being seen from inside
your ice-green
eyes that started fires
in-between blinks, you looked to me
is something I admired

now whiskey brings
evening company
unfurling what's desired

what you left
still inside my chest
smoke signaled love & tired

tried to have your eyes simply-see
my love for you is breathing
haven't seen such colors as these
since sleep beneath your ceiling

lost in trust's muffled, rusted-musts

but lying there was easy
A Mar 2020
I just feel so small and everything else is so huge and it keeps piling up on me, smothering me, until all I can see and breath is this wall of musts and responsibility and endless tasks and emotions that won't stop pressing up in my throat and I can't cry, I just don't take the time to do it, everything else is too demanding that I can't even do that, and I don't remember anymore how to relax my shoulder or unclench my jaw and I just can't see any pause ahead, no oasis of breathing deeply again in the near future, no space for just me to be.
Here’s to rebels, misfits and outcasts
Here’s to those that never turn ‘shoulds’ into ‘musts’
Here’s to individuals; unafraid to tear off the masks-
That society dictates one must wear to make the cast.
Here’s to weirdos; those round pins in square holes
Here’s to the stand outs; pearls in pebbles
Here’s to those who break rules and test laws
Here’s to the black sheep in a people of no flaws
Here’s to the fearless and the brave souls
Here’s to those willing to dare and fall
Here’s to those not happy with the status quo
Here’s to friends of change and mediocrity’s foes.  
Here’s to game changers; Forces that cause life-quakes
Here’s to those not raising glasses before they raise stakes
Here’s to those more afraid of reluctance than heartbreaks
Here’s to visionaries; dream chasers in a land where the ‘self’ never wakes
Here’s to you if you are tired of being on the wrong side of circumstance
Here’s to you if you decide to seize opportunities and fight for half a chance
Here’s to you if you choose to live while others settle for existence.
I’d raise my glass to you. But there’s more stakes to raise. Now get a stance!

Keep Smiling
Nade V Apr 2018
As a missing hat or an
Empty plate there is
Always musts such as the wine of
The heart after her.

As one follows two and as
I count down to the moments that
I am no longer blind
I realize that I am speaking with my hands and feeling with my chest as
The letters come together to
Spell the fate in the blue skies when
Just as I expect, the sentence is completed.
The chapter is done.
But the book is just beginning.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
i wouldn't call it vitriol... although:
if push came to shove... i probably should;
looks like i won't be rhyming: again...
free-falling once more...
no, i wouldn't call it vitriol...
god... what a powerfully sounding word:
i'm guessing its etymological
beginnings are intact and
the word has been elevated
without being... "revised" over time
to some cubist monstrosity...
yet it's a word that almost begs
to attract: tautology...
a simple tautology would be...
a crimson red... x...
   vitriol aspires to tautology:
with this demand...
after all... what's a culinary "adventure":
if it isn't subjective?
objectively the sensible round-up
of "troops" of raw goods...
but the subjective reality of
the cauldron...
the spices und: rain-bow...
                    ah... ha...
             best in deutsche...
  rain: regen: no... half reign...
regen-
            -bogen...
   literally two nouns together...
or a noun-verb complex
regen-neigen
              regen-beugen    (sich's a summary
and some, elsewhere)
regen-verbeugen...
unlike a bowtie...
                  a butterfly-try...
what's the actual rainbow
in ol' deutche?
   regenbogen... bog's the standard: no
praise...
while bowtie is: krawatte...
among the Wends & Veleti: mucha / muxa...

a history beside the ape: genesis...
a word in the context of use
that's similar to a hammer...
but what has to be be accomplished:
with a hammer is...
a hammering...
so there's a plot for nail
and two pieces of wood
for... at least a scaffold fixture...

now: i'm not a terrible cook:
i do own a specification that allows
me to gravitate toward: pasta al dente...
and rice like: "uncle tom's cabin"?!
whatever the hell that means...
but when i spectacularly good ****...
i can also cook...

and hey... i can almost figure out
a way into excess 'indu heat
of a vindaloo...
i can understand this excess...
although: point me in the direction
where i misunderstood:
fenugreek seeds...      

fair enough...
   i rhyme i freefall more and more
it' not like i'm a journalist worried
about: what to do with when
it's all column and i'm having ambitions
for paragraphs (etc.)

   when i cook good i cook:
towering infernos of oyster slobber
tongues...
when i cook:  bad (not the least of a lisp
o' shy tongue of a Lee)
i cook like a demon's worth of
revenge...

not understanding certain spices...
you can misunderstand fenugreek...
that's a certain...
chilly too...
you can misunderstand
chimichurri and say:
it's almost a salsa...
but then there's no coriander...
it's mostly parsley...
but there's the acidity of the red wine
vinegar....
somehow the British soldiers
asked for a curry: "give me curry"...
"chimichurri"
in Latin America i guess that's
the prop-up translation...

misunderstanding spices...
Achilles had at least four legs...
toes that towed hoofs...
and hair that smelled of...
plum blossom and sunshine...
maybe a tease of tomatoes...

but i have... vitriol...
i have... "concern"... i have...
   almost 340 grams of leftover
beef roast and peppers
and noodles...
and hoisin sauce etc. that was...
wasted, ******: wasted...

said recipe...
and see if you can spot something, awry...
i didn't use mince beef
i cut up a roast rack...
but... to be honest: no hail mary
of a ******* difference,
nonetheless: the rubric:

1tbsp olive oil
340g of beef
2 garlic cloves
1 red chilli
1 tbsp chinese five spice
2 tsp sichuan peppercorns
1 tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp hoisin sauce
2 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp crunchy peanut butter

pak choi: sorry... peppers instead...
spring onions, yes yes...
noodles... yes yes...
coriander yes yes...

website? deliciousmagazine.co.uk...
the "cook"?
hence my concern for vitriol
since i will name him...
a... DONAL SKEHAN...
a sing-along pride dancing leprechaun
of a ******* paddy...
has as much knowledge of
foreign spices as i have
giggles having discovered
gunpowder... yeah...
"discovered".... did my China "thing"...
forgot the trap of fancy lights...
brought back the extension
of the crossbow... increased the speed
of projectile...
Spain allowed itself a Reconquista and
3/4 of the h'american continent...
but i am not: of the lineage...
to itch with "pride"...

- a bit glam this culinary adventure...
cooking as if it's homeopathy...
misnomer...
this is not a taste of homeopathy...
i would not ask for diluting a drizzle of
honey in a glass of *****...
although: that doesn't sound all too bad
to begin with...
but it's like... misunderstanding
the use of fenugreek seeds
is like misunderstanding
the use of sichuan pepper...
2... hello?
is that tow too?
yes... two teaspoons of sichuan pepper...
grinded down...

off your rockers... aren't you?
no... but 2TSP of SICHUAN PEPPER?!
you have to be "joking"... no?
ask any European what happens
when you use too much
dry thyme or oregano...

get drunk and ride a bicycle in the middle
of the night:
what the ****?!
my lips, mouth and throat
were trembling: murmuring...
vibrating with something that wasn't exactly hot:
it wasn't camel jockey proud either...

Donal Skehan: former boyband member....
has as much knowledge about food
as i have knowledge turning cow **** into
gnocchi...
honest criticism...
you can abuse a spice, once...
there's a reason the british cricket team
are dubbed the tourists....
you come back with a *******
chimichurri, excesses of fenugreek...
sichuan peppercorns...

             we know salt: as nearest to
the fabric of the Baltic Sea
as musts must be met...
we know salt and salt
is implicit: for / of anything that's ever
to be cooked... no? tenderised? no?

if i were gagging for a stake tartar...
i'd also be drinking horse blood...
mind you: there were a people and
they were denoted by history as Huns...
and they invented the stirrup...
so: hey presto...

detailing the itch of a knife...
by the edge of the least: fathomable scrutiny...
i don't like cooking something
that's... inedible... Donal Skehan's
use of 2tsp of sichuan peppercorns is...
probably enough for comparison
to stage a ******* ****...

honest to god i'll sooner whip up a
whiff... no best kept project beside
"that one" of...
the refreshing "allure" of horseshit...
in a hazy morning hour...

this Iroshman can cook for horde:
and wise-*******...
null!
         2tsp of sichuan peppercorns...
for 340g of beef volume...
no...
            nein nie niet no ne: nem!
it was a terrible idea:
towing brick in rubble, a brick...
now this...  revival sequence of
events and least narratives...

       mea culpa? all the self-help gurus
seem to mind this dimension...
i abhor it... like i abhor the infectious demands
of the "hard work" of psychiatry...
the usual chemo-brain-fizzle...
cocktail of non-events: are "we"?
i thought you concerned yourself
with... politically correct lingo usage...
you... ******* worth of use of a cushion; no?

i was lied to...
stupendously adrift on a raft of bogus...
this bleeding sea of last, frothing...
2tsp of sichuan peppercorns...
you want your lips trembling...
vibrating with an overload
of how to best, overdose...
you...Irish.. squat-****!

              *******... Paddy...
come ****** Sunday:
let's extend it toward keeping it blue
and plum Monday...
******* "cosmopolitan"
of a lost Berliner esque Rilke...
this ******* of a ******* of a Dublin...

even some U2 won't save
your ******* northern itch...
i have vitriol...
i am vitriol...
    i have wasted 340grams of beef
that i might as well have...
butchered: thrice...
than having attempted to cook it
once.
Ravanna Dee Dec 2016
If you peel her skull back,
And look inside her mind,
You will find cases filled with memories,
That she keeps labeled and organized.
There is a small one for her dreams,
That has gotten covered up with dust,
For she is always putting off herself,
For those that never cared about her musts.
Then there is another shelf half filled,
That she has labeled "The love that I learned",
And it's been being slowly emptied out,
By those that have borrowed from and never thought to return.
Then you will see one very large,
That is packed more than the rest,
It is labeled, "All that has hurt me",
And she knows every one of the titles and their context.
There is more smaller ones scattered here and there,
With faded titles and broken shelves,
But they're all hiding in the shadows of her silent self torture,
Because we convinced her that there was selfishness in loving herself.
Claire Ellen Jun 2016
Must be a leader, a go getter, a finisher,
must have wifi...
Enjoy coffee and tea
   more or as much as me!
The outdoors, adventure and explorative nature
    are mandatory.
Never curses or calls me names.
Must be fatherly material, with a wild side of child.
Must love God and Jesus.
Also have 3 passions besides me.
My future man shall support me and his dreams.
I'm really not asking for much, the "musts"
are top of the list!
The last wasn't all bad,
but
this list was created from his mistakes.
Why would you want one frustrated?
Aren't you too kind and beautiful?
Why would you want someone unhappy?
Aren't you brilliant?
Why would you want someone myserable?
Isn't that jealousy telling a story too Old?
Why would you enjoy some one's wrong doing?
It must make a broken heart feel good.
Manish Purohit Jan 2016
Wake up O’ Soul
Arise from the slumber
Liberate that ******
Let loose the encumber

Re-kindle that fire
So eager and curious
Spread those wings & flutter
And experience the brilliance

Unleash those thoughts
Be wild in wanderlust
Make all the crazy moves
Pursue life’s Trivias & Musts

Dive deep within the heart
Explore that which lies asleep
Unravel the thread layer by layer
Demystify the enigma that lay so deep

There’s none but only You
Who can defy the clouds, dark hued
Hanging motionless on the thoughts
Searching feeble excuses to elude

There’s none but only You
Who can really triumph the world
Burgeoning ahead amidst ravages
And bloom like a Bud

The realm of darkness
Glooming within and outside
Will succumb to the Light
Of the flame that will ignite

So come and Wake up O’ Soul
Let the ashes of the past deride
Surrender to the brushfire ablaze
Annihilate thy identity and die

Resurrect again the phoenix within
Stronger & wiser thou arise
Cease being a derelict soul
Proclaim the world “You are Alive!!!”
Published at http://musingsofawanderingheart.blogspot.in/

— The End —