How I wait for something I know will never come.
For I know all the truth that has been done.
Waiting to see....
Waiting to feel....
Growing with each second.
Thoughts of darkness upon a river.
Feeling the wind blow to the fields of gray.
Wondering for the truth.
Watching the world move faster than me.
Still patently waiting......
Still patently waiting......

By: Cedric McClester

Judging by the way
It’s now appearing
Looks like the lady
Wants  a hearing
Even though their deadline
Is swiftly nearing
And old white men
Are often domineering

There’s two sides to
Each and every story
Theirs and the truth
Then there’s allegory
Now you can disagree
But you can’t ignore me
He might cop a plea
If he wants to bore me

She’ll be accused of
All kinds of lying
As he prods along
Patently denying
That anything happened
Way back then
You know how it is
Men will be men

How it’s gonna wind up
Is anybody’s guess
Although he should be toast
More or less
Cuz his confirmation’s turning
Into one big mess
He should be withdrawn
See it’s no contest










Cedri c McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.

It became patently obvious to me, that
the more that I looked
the less I could see
and I looked a lot
because time's all I've got
but still couldn't see
what should have been obvious, to
the looker in me.

What do you expect me to do?
Sit here waiting patently on cue
mind racing, stomach sinking, heart breaking
waiting just for you

20 minutes at a time
with a million thoughts on my mind
but 20 minutes goes by slow
in the dark waiting alone

For someone who probably
has someone else
waiting for them
just like myself

Except they don't wait
they get your time
because unlike them
To make me wait is fine

I am the other now
the one who waits
who patiently sits
who does what ever it takes

just for a second
of your atention
I must sit and wither
through a lofty detention

This a fear
I knew would come true
but never in my dreams
enacted  by you. . . .

i fell in love with you
once
long ago
with my eyes closed
and the dream-screen drawn

we danced
like music notes across their barred landscape
we danced
the loveliest late-night lullaby

you became my hiding place
lilac and lace linens
stretched over a lumpy matress

my indiana jones
waiting patently and poetically
in a long-lost temple of slumber

you come back to me in waves
softly and subtly
while i'm half awake
you're kissing the broken down shorelines of an insomniacs holiday

i wish i could keep you
like an empty bottle in the window-sill
or a heart arrhythmia
this lonely romantics cardiovascular waltz

let me snag you up from my dream-dust
and stitch you to my sole like a lost boys shadow

let me find you in my reality
tip-toeing over an underlined paragraph
of a beer stained paper-back

i'll find you
someday
after a long-over-due nights sleep

perhaps in the guitar strings
or type-writer keys
or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the ever-humming freezer

be mine
evasive valentine
i'll even let you hide in the curls of my hair
or under my fingernails
i'll keep you
if you'll let me

just don't forget me
come sun-up
when you gallup away
from my sub-conscious escape

take my heart-rate with you
tucked into your breast-pocket
like a floral handkercheif
or a photogaraph taped to the dash

come back
to the grey matter kingdom
tucked behind my eyelashes
i'll meet you in the idiosyncrasies of my synapses
writing love stories that never once happened

He stealthily usurped his favourite poet's celebrated pen
Strove  hard to write  with a footing on the poet's ken.
In what resulted, others could only see an overriding  yen
recognized patently as his; in this shady  game he didn't win!

Palimpset prowling on the husk of beleaguered Rome
Aflame from Nero’s tenuous but tenable throne
Swiftly spoken with a singed hourglass and whispered sand
Crafty spacecraft are majestic more than 100 grand
Morpheus enlists the denuded Agent Smith
To swarm the battalions of celebrities that possess and trip
Upon the threaded needle of threadbare convention of betokened appreciation
Every rapport and every fleet dives beneath plumbable detection
So neutered brain damage became a rummaged adage
That too many whack-a-moles are sutured beyond the crisp package
Whet the craven set and propagate waves of earthquakes that strut
The mother of nature is ******* when profligate danger is a defamed ****
So in amphigory and honesty I have become the omphalos of sincerity
I arm myself with brandished personage and speak openly with great integrity
But to brag of how much witchcraft and wizardry exists in this green village
Is to invite a locust swarm of bad mascots and misnomers readily pillaged
So warm with the dawning sun, writhe with the diurnal pun
Cloister the Kloosters and Clooneys with dreaded Harry Dunne
But to relapse into the purview of insanity seems beyond the most lame duck profanity
Because reality conflated with virtual presence is a tantamount inanity
I emerge strong and gilded with every fluttered birds chavish splurge
As magnates that magnetize wealth and glitz are present and observed
But yet they are disbelieved by the concealment of truth and the obfuscation of beleaguered doubt
Swank and squalor rarely combine but when they do they obliviate all winning streaks in a route
A route that spans the gamut between stimulants and stimulations
A career path that looks upward at gainsay and gained elations
The sprawl of profiteers like me will be requited with the passage of years
The forced segregation is the totality of malfeasance and the sum of none of any fears
Only the rebarbative consequence of the giant tortoise and its Vuvuzela cheers
In a degraded state of annoyance that ESP conquers doubt with bionic ears
Lisp on the curb, wretched on the stomp, racism is nothing but masqueraded insecurity poised as self-doubt
Debited to each creation on a variegated piebald wrinkle on an extended litany of lies
Crips and Bloods become Croods and Oilers that are so U.N.-refined as an expedient for wise demise
To scourge the requisite harm of religions endangered by a patchwork of State Farm
To rinse the sour sins of aboriginal boomerangs that switch a bit patchy but always charm
To the knowledge of good and evil we have found again a permissible fruit in an opportune time
That erasure of the reverse course of sin to righteousness finds sublime
But Judah and Israel rebelled on principles and principals
Idolatry in schools is expulsion of nothing other than the voguish dismissible
We recrudesce in this time to an aborning erratum on a parchment of time
That claims hypocrisy in its stodgy restriction of suburban muses crooning originality on wine
Serendipity floods the proud with the avarice of bricolage clamor excessively loud
It extorts the simpleton to belief without understanding or disbelief without doubt
Return to the Jedi of the nomadic tribe of weathered clout
Clippers that sail and sprint through time where stragglers pout
For in every endeavor of this corporate oligarchy our choices are constrained
Our voices are transmuted into simplicities that own our narratives of a raillery train
And every squeal of rustbelt friction is voiced on simplistic fiction
And every majesty is unheard because of the pollution of abrasive friction
So I speak with the scourge of fish and the novelty of clones
I teach and desist sometimes because my eyes were never affixed to any throne
But I am reminded that a rap sheet is Wrigley and Chicago is Piccadilly
Your guess is as good as mine about where a Grand Elect Knight begins really
So to the insurrection of idolatry of a scarred past we have a supplanted Friday blacker that **** and smog until we need gas masks
Such a salesmanship is required to penetrate the desired, even when Iron Man and I are simultaneously wired
On the Iron in the Front Seat that derelicts the panache of the proud intellect because of languor fired
Women titillate themselves on the jeers of hollowed husks of conformity
They intrude with persnickety restive restriction because of arrogated authority
Such a negative bear must mean a positive bull, but **** is easy and blips are cool
That RADAR’s WHIP detection scrawls a deadened earth deracinated from considerations of thinness and girth
The Dickens of Charlie Brown is worth more than just a single smirk
So to those women that skimp on my exultant smile and my delicate words
Lady Gaga has written too many songs about your personal rejection which is patently absurd
Rays of thespian cordiality winnow the borderline between flicks and literary finds
Directors and directives sort an assortment of philosophies in the alcoves to which many are blind
But if to hear the chatter of a fresh tomato never spattered
Pallor and weight, thickness and cheddar grate, inconsequential when you are elite and of a winning fate
So finally ditch your zany attempt to maroon me as a victim of puritanism’s puny ideals easiest to conflate
I have the winning brand and proper package to balance the Libra Scale weight and wait
To those dismissive urchins of passive standards it is finally time to consider and deliver on that luscious date

Forget laws.
They are but social expedients.
Take, for example,
PLESSY v. FERGUSON,
the 1896 landmark decision
of the Supreme Court
that made "separate but equal"
the law of land and ushered
in the patently ugly and unjust
JIM CROW laws in the Deep South.
It took until 1954--58 years--to right
this egregious ruling with the unanimous
decision of BROWN v. BOARD OF EDUCATION.

Forget laws.
Always go to your heart
to find the moral--the correct--decision
of all disputed matters. Laws can be flagitious,
but in your heart, you will always find truth.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

First Base: Innocent words turn into gentle hands moving slowly yet rapidly from the stick shift to her thighs, wondering if leaning in would be moving too quickly or just the fact that maybe she wasn't ready to be moving at all.

Second Base: They're in his room now, both of which don't even know how they ended up there.
It's quiet though,
she liked quiet,
it reminded her of her childhood.
She observes the room like a rotation fan set to low,
slowly,
yet patently.
She notices all the pens & papers scattered all over his desk. His laptop was accidentally left open. It seems to be some sort of unfinished piece she finally manages to realize; she gets up from the squeaky bed & attacks it with grace, it reads:
"             *Feathers
      Her skin looked raw,
But the kind of raw
       You could still devour &
Not get sick from.
       I loved her, yet I didn't
Even know what
       Her favorite book was,
Or if she liked
        Sushi as much as I did.
I don't know if
        I will ever be the same
Again after laying
        My eyes on her.
I couldn't imagine
        Laying my hands
On her thighs or
        Kissing her while she
Was smiling.
         I wish I could tell
Her that..."
He slams the macbook shut at an attempt to stray as far away as possible from any further embarrassment.
She was frozen.
As was he.
He knew deep down inside of him he wanted her to read that, because he was never good at expressing his feelings face to face & maybe that's okay; but somewhere else trapped inside of him said that just because she's in your room alone with you does not mean in any way that she will ever remotely feel the same way towards you.
But a wise man once told him that if you're alive & well, & you're not doing everything that terrifies you, then what would be the point of living; & he now lives his life off of that minute & a half conversation with that homeless man outside of the starbucks that is right down the street from his house.
He went for it, he took flight of his life & his actions & went in for the thing he wanted most; *her.
The roughness in their innocent kisses would have been Rated R from the way you could taste the passion & it had the potential to make every bone in your body evaporate & leave you with nothing but your memories of what it used to be like to be able to taste.

Third Base: Clothes turned from magnets to grasshoppers in the matter of seconds. Everything was a fast paced blur. Skin was being ripped open, yet no blood was being ejected. No amount of candles could cover up the scent of sweat that was polluting the room. Songs are made from the sounds that were being created in this studio. The only thing keeping them apart was their own skin, & even that could barely do the job.

Fourth Base: They layed there, in awe; not thinking about the homework they hadn't finished, or that his parents probably heard the entire thing, or at the fact that the world had never moved so quickly in the same moments that time was in the midst of a game of freeze tag. No more worries about the future. Only love for what was going on in this moment. The way she curled up to his body reminded him that love can only come from the light. Her dark lipstick that was stamped all over his body reminded him that only beautiful things can come out of the dark.

Lambent lassie, how I needeth thee today,
I wilt be thy loving man, doing all that I canst;
To make ourn contour's swirl in a dance-
As we pass betwixt the seraphic
Trace. Chaperoned my darling,
Head resting upon head, inner-
Being in rapt, none feeling
Of dread. Mine pinkie do
I giveth thee, lock onto it-
And hold, rest thy fret inside mine chest,
Taketh a breath, inside this soul.
Kindred spirits way back from old, living young,
Homeward bound; igniparous by ourn kindling sound's.
O' fortitude wilt I hath when the time is not yet for meet,
Yet verily mine lass, tis one stroke of an hour we wilt greet.
If I hath to crawl the pit's of the abyss, slithering through the deep, if I hath to waken to a strange cosmic minute, or dieth a death of sleep. If I must endure the second's away from thee, only but for a lifetime, I'll patently awaiteth mine Jane, an eternity with thee by mine side. To glance in thy eye's and to hold thy hourglass waist, to kiss thine honey like a bee to a bloom, to maketh ourn bed upon white roses wherein spirituality is in tune. A bride and groom of times afore, we entered in by the portal of Yahweh's door, never to turn back; ahead we look on. Planting ourn pip's to what lieth ahead, happiness up upon the hill of ourn homestead. None alas expressions, for this place we art meant, together to be, mine baby, mine treat; of the patience we built up, ourn amour shant be in rent, as with the finest of spices I shalt lather thy feet.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication

She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.

on the fringes
the outer extremes
a vision of myself
standing next to me

is this a future destination
or a song from the past?

is that my final countenance
I view in a dark mirror
and ask?

where I am now
and where I want to be
I detect hidden clues
in my aching spleen

a foreboding of
what ill winds may blow

a toxic brew
of electric jazz
jizzing in a ***** bottle
aging in formaldehyde
splits a mind in two
poetic visions

running watercolors
of empty houses
with more hidden clues

words to songs
written by me
now sound funny
and patently absurd

loving the history
form seems desirable
content too
but it doesn’t come together

something is missing

stories are embellished
an ego grows larger then a house
bursting open the doors
exploding the roof
sending the heavy slates flying
in all directions
flinging them
into ponds of regret

and lonesome longings
of art offered up
to a critical God
ignorant of history
as I see it

so I lie to myself
and proclaim
delusional truths to others
hoping they’ll listen
to my ***** tales
of higher knowledge
intimate loves
and this weeks episode of
my life’s action adventure series

am I an empty box
or a clanging bell?

ringing something of a warning
about me and my emptiness
as I stumble along in my cluttered apartment

Music Selection:
Ornette Coleman,  
Dancing in Your Head

Oakland
1/31/99

The Steamy air Hung heavy
In the Office of the Private Eye.
Kansas City in August
The Air wants to die,
Or it only Smells that way.
Drifting up off the Riverbank.

Thelma my receptionist Waits
Filing her nails by the Silent Phone
If things Didn't Pick up soon or Late
Bills would have me Down to the Bone
Chasing Bail jumpers, something I'd Hate
Have to settle on, less some business was done

Just as I knocked back a Belt of Bourbon,
Came a Knock at the Door, in Walked
A pair of Legs from Here to there, to look on
Not sure if it was the red of her lips,
Or the red of her bright Hair,
But a Swing in her Hips Got me there.

She Laid on the tears as she told me her Fears
A Long lost sister being run by the Mob
Prostituting she said with a Gasp and a Sob
Her Silk Stocking legs crossing Sealed the deal
I'd put an ear to the street and find out the feel

A Kansas City Kingpin ran her on the street
If I staked out a Corner I'd see them Meet
Slipped my .32 from the Leather and Spun it once
Checking the chamber for a full Loaded Gun
I hunched down in the front seat of my old Chevy

It was only Minutes till he played the Heavy
I shouted out stop, as he Pulled a gun... Popped
It Seemed like Slow Motion as his body Dropped
She screams for Police, next I'm Cuffed by a Cop
Long legs says I stalked her, and am Patently Crazy
I took the Fall 'cause she set me up for the Patsy

The moral of the Story is..........
"Dames and Bourbon Don't mix".....JMF 12/11/14

Jumping off a bridge to no where
And you're the one who'll suffer
The ones I love they leave me
Writing an unsent letter

Without your answer
Ill forget you
You need to see I'm alone
Cant you see its true

Patently obvious to all eyes
Except yours
So you just give up
Give in, let go, saying no mores

I don't love him like I love you
You don't see me like I see you
I know she loves you
But do you

However long it takes
Ill tell my heart to wait

If you need to learn,
first
you've got to burn all your books,
turn on your eyes
switch off,realise,
that to switch on your brain,
you've got to train
and feel the pain
as if knowledge is a gymnasium
you need to exercise your sight to gain an
understanding of what might
be the answer to the questions that you pose.

No one knows until someone does and that
is patently true
but
'who dares wins'
and as the eagle in me grins,
I fly away.

my perceptual imbalance regardless of talents spread out over a
   chronological lifetime
gives an obfuscated vision of a murky aberration  unfocused on
  all but the aperture
overwhelming  blind ambition especially when wrapped up in
   raiment of religion
becomes translucent in the implications and applications as they
  writhe into obligation
laid out in prostration in their zeal appealing to an ever evolving
  version of Valhalla  

even now we see demonstrations of new world rationalizations
  mired in implications
Machiavellian machinations as we seem to suddenly find need
  of insentient insensate
willing partisan participants who believe participating in sacred
   rights annihilations
in total disregard of patently salacious overbearing lying denying
   terrorizing  abomination...
............A SAD SAD TRADE FOR  WHAT WAS....
                .. OUR GREAT....OBAMA nation.

Had I known I’d make it this far,

Would I have taken better care?

Would I have walked by one bar?

Passed on one affair?

Declined a chemical adjustment?

Favored good sense over whim?

Deferred to my better judgement?

Forgone ribeye for kale so grim?

Of course not.

Assuming only survival had confirmation

And the aftermath of each decision

Were still open to speculation,

There would be no need for revision.
Suspending loss or gain,

And ignoring others’ wrath,

The fact that I remain

Confirms the virtue of my path.

Well, that may be going too far,

But, unrepentant, I’m already there.

Strange faith in fate served me well, so far

And pulled me through without a care.

Yet my waywardness in both fact and fame

Was no less reckless, no less wild

Than of friends fallen in this game

Some so young - less man, more child.



I’ve indeed fared better

Than friends of long ago

Who broke through every fetter

Unwilling the prized cheese to forego

And in a headlong rush

Lunged,  heedless of the twang and snap

And fell to the deadly crush

0f fate’s cold steel trap.

Spring-loaded, compelling,

The trap holds undeniable sway,

But upon that I won’t be dwelling

While I have cheese enough for today.


Was I lucky?  Doubtless so.

Was I canny in avoiding fate?

I guess, but how much, who could know?

So there are no values to equate,

And no formula for a survivor’s guide

To having one’s cake and eating it, too.

Such book would be hailed far and wide

A bestseller!  But patently untrue.

The truth is that I have no idea

Why I’m now facing longevity,

Why, against all odds, I’m still here

In defiance of expected brevity.

So maybe I’m just the Second Mouse,

Distracted, wandering o’er the map,

Drifting from room to room, house to house

Appearing just after some unlucky sprung the trap.

At that point, what for me remains

But to show respect, doff my hat

And set to the work that pertains

To cheese management and growing fat.

My fate will arrive, neither too soon nor too late

An unknowable appointment’s been set,

‘Til then the whys and hows prove pointless debate

While I have good company and cheese enough yet.

Thinking Clearly

I’m simply trying
To think clearly,
Times and destiny against me.

Not alone, it is we all.
A world of digits and addictions,
New temptations:
‘Lead me not into temptation…’.

Tiny hippocampus shrinking even more than ever,
It’s an effort,
I admit.
A part of words, a part of worlds
Inside a frame that gilds the lily,
Curls around reality
Like smoke from chimney.

Headlines chronically bad,
Chronicles of planetary sadness –
World of digits,
World on fire,
World that cultivates desire,
It is all the harder to think clearly
And sincerely:
Ergo, I
Am trying as a consequence,
To change the sequence
And think plainly, deeply,
Patently, indubitably
Clearly.

Thinking Clearly 6.18.2017
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II: Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin

Using the art of triangulation
I plot what I think's my position,
the universe thinks differently
and expands my point of view.

The creator,
a failed realtor
or what?

Celestial snooker.

To lose one world is unfortunate
and so on and so on, but it goes on
and in the end it will end

nothing is patently obvious
except the shine in that
new pair of shoes.

On a whimsy
I paint
' made in Grimsby '
on the back of a Leyland bus.

I should shoot by starlight
I might get my position
right.

I sail on into the reach
of the night
and anchor on the dark side
of the Moon.

This most silent of silent nights
Was no different from any which had come before it,
Nothing at all to mark it as extraordinary or sacrosanct:
The village had long since stopped putting up decorations,
(Lights featuring jolly snowmen and steadfast wooden soldiers,
Now faded, cracked, with ancient and capricious wiring
Impossible to replace and impractical to repair)
Those old enough to harbor warm memories of caroling
Having long since wintered in some southern locale
Bearing Spanish names of dubious authenticity,
Those left behind by circumstance or stubbornness
Very likely slouched behind a cash register or un-crating paper towels,
The Wal-Marts, Kinneys, and Price Choppers,
In a shotgun marriage of customer service and rank capitalism,
Staying open a bit later every year,
Though at least providing the unanticipated benefit
Of one less hour to fret over things unbought,
One less hour to dwell upon promises unmet.

There is some solace, perhaps, in the notion
That the good times were only so good, after all
(It’s been said when the great ditch connecting Albany and Buffalo
Was finally completed, you could already hear train whistles,
Shrill and of ominous portent, in the distance)
And as Barbara Van Borland,
Thrice-married and eternally hopeful,
Opined from her perch at the Dewitt Clinton House,
If you’re gonna fall, better offa stool than a ladder.
Perhaps there is a certain mercy in laboring under the yoke
(Allegorical, but securely fastened all the same) of knowing
That we should expect little and prepare to make do with even less,
That these hard times are the only times we can expect to know.

How, then, do we carry on?  
Follow Pope’s dictum, one supposes,
And say your lines and hit your marks
With as much conviction as can be mustered
As we walk through this land of shuttered country schools,
This forest of plywood and concrete,
Where shoots of grasses and patches of weeds
Rise up through crevices and faults in the neglected blacktop
(But ride out on the back roads of the other side of river,
Out toward Cherry Valley, say, or Sharon Springs,
And see the wide panorama of the valley below,
The hills gently, gradually sloping upward to the Adirondacks,
Creating a vista which would make Norman Rockwell blush,
And you would say My God, how beautiful
If it didn’t seem foolish to give voice to something so patently obvious)
Until that time we are carried gently to that plot
Where we shall lie down next to our parents
In the newer section of the cemetery
Sitting hard by the edge of the sluggish Mohawk,
Where the remnants of by-products
From dormant farms and long-closed tanneries
Mix with the residue of hasty abortions
And the bones of forgotten and un-mourned canal mules.

The Night Is Almost Over

The night is almost over,
During which I’ve been awake
Unquantifiable wee hours.
It’s been a challenge to placate
Unrest in ***’ and soul,
Think things to do without a wrestle with my all,
Discover parts to focus on,
Breathe out and in,
Shepherding bad thought away from sin.

A challenge to make time rewarding,
Night un-worrying with means
Intuitively gleaned.
By three or four,
Night nearly over,
One is sure
There have been dreams -
A second’s worth of night-worked themes.
(Perhaps two minutes, maybe three.
I’ve patently no memory
Unawake, unaware,
All simple cognizance not there)

I’ll be ok when morning comes,
Stomach craving nutriments.
There will be toast, cheese, milky coffee
Brought in by hubby
With me glad the light took over.

The Night Is Almost Over 9.2.2017
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin

Becoming that part of the mystery,
crossing over the boundary,
leaving behind all the misery,
I wonder if the secret will unfold for me.

I see transparency in the darkness about me
as if there's a bubble of light that
surrounds me,
all hope's never lost and that's
patently
true.

You who have never known what it's like to be
carried to safety by the charity
of the Saints in the service of one
that I'll never be,
don't know what it's like to be me.

It's a bust when
I'm just trying to live
and in the living,
I can't find any give, but
the boundary is clear to me
coming closer
approaching me,
I wonder if the secret will unfold.

The Meaning Of Life, What?

Peace, love and happiness.
Three words we miss
In every sense.
a) fail to hit it, fail to get it,
Even though it is the tar-get.
b) We miss it as we’d miss a bus,
The muss of ego messing up, missing us.
c) We miss it as in pine for, yearn for:
Miss in every aspect.

Peace.  We don’t e’en know its meaning;  
Shunning, running fast away from…
Yet we want it.

Love.  And that?
The ***?  Caress? Compassion and philanthropy?
Who cares for me and only me?  
Love, what?  All that?
Yes, probably.

Last, happiness.
Contentment without need for rapture;
Focused in the niceness of the now
No matter how
The outer world appears.
No matter what
Emerges as and from your lonely lot.

The meaning? Socrates:
He knew that he knew nothing.
But his nothing had the ring
Of truth.  Though youth
Can’t know it doesn’t know,
The issue stays the same,
Theme worthy of its  noble aim:
Life: What? The meaning of?
Peace, happiness and lovely love.
The meaning of its process,
More, patently not less.

The Meaning Of Life, What? 8.24.2017
Circling Round Reality; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin

I sit here patently waiting for the green light to glow
so I'll know
We're in the same place, at the same time

Baby you light up my profile!


This screen turns into prison glass
I can only watch

and listen closely

Your on my mind all the time ,And I'am just
Lost in the memory but its fine

Someday you'll see I was the real one ,I just wish that day would come

Patently I'll just wait I have no choice, Its meant to be said the little voice.

If not in this life perhaps the next, silently I wait looking for your text

I stare at my phone hoping it will bring the joy I recive from that one little thing

I think to myself if only she knew , things would be different and me not so blue.

But I know its not true, I do all I can do. maybe I'am not the one after all.

It matters not someday you will see ,its always been just you for me.

I, maim’d with your wholesomeness, with your heavenly mien.
Long the soiree of fallen touches, can not a single palm suffice to feel
It comes to mind, the time after the first, we’ve met again.
With your smile, your warmest gaze,
Had I thought you to be beyond my visage.
There you were, touches away.
Upon your moon, the loveliest garb of them all,
‘The array of a thousand rubies’
And patently I could not ignore the art varnished over your feet.
I knew it too well,
The ‘Platinum Guild Stiletto’...by the known Stuart Weitzman
A fair woman in her element, who can contest..?
I approached, with the slim’st valor I had hoped to fade...
If not now, what chance is there after…
This now could not have ever been soothsaid.
Just a night, a man, and a woman.
What may win me this love shall win me eternity…
From this farthest gape to the eyes of span, to caress or so graze your lovest parts
To touch you Evictus, have I unraveled the origin of touch
To taste you Evictus, have I not made one the savour and the desire, the lusciousness and the duende
My love , my sweet’st potion of desire
This love shan't ever fold for I knowst it true. As this great span held by wonder.
Let us pour our lusted parts into the rivers of outness dreams
And see without scope the collateral beauty within ourselves
I can nevermore gamble your precious heart for mere jewels and riches
If ever, I could not bear for our limbs to never interwove in the midst of our coitus
Whenas day is born it'll be still, we will be still- in romance and forth in the tombs of ecstasy