My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:

The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana.                                                                                                                                                               The manana of Africana black star is Ghana                                                                                                                                                                                  A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.                                                                                                                                       
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature

We are black reflecting our true beauty.                                                                                                                                  
And we are packed with captivating ability.                                                                                                                                       The typicality of our nationality brings unity.                                                             Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?

This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage.                                     About twenty-four million are surviving in our age.                                                               Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages.                                                       There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.

In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity…                                                      Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity.                                                 But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community.                                                        The variety of our morality and privity builds our society

Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous?                                                        We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources.                                                                The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses.                                                                      The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces

Our democratic government is an African paradigm.                                                        Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime.                                      Who of course would help us measure corruption?                                                The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.

If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer.                                                                                      Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter?                                                     Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy                                                        our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ

Changes
As people we are always asking for changes;
Spiritual, politically or just spontaneously
During the election a number of folks asked
and some even vote for changes
We hate, we love, and we deplore acts of violence
then and now:  Now it haunts most people:
Some even would still consider shaking his hand:
Some got what their asked for, and some still undecided:

Let Us Not Become the Evil We Deplore.” By Amy Goodman

He never goes under the covers: he just love to be exposed
A ***** is a *****: in his eyes: He might asked to see the
Birth certificate, but not the death certificate:
but never the **** kit, the yearbook inputs or the
country clubs initial membership lists:
Birth for him meant still in control: death gone from one’s sight:

I was chatting to a friend one day, I said to him imagine
that everybody on this earth woke up one day
To find zillion of dollars in their procession:
What would that meant to others: the loss of the power:
Money is the leveler that runs the world
The bad things that we done in our youngers years
Will one day comes back to haunts us

The statutes of limitation is just the statue
Time will not be forgotten: Memories lingers
The pain, the shame of being in a humiliated situation
we are living in a divided country
Because, of so much greed and bigotry:

A change is coming: and it's coming soon
who run the worlds Girls!!!

Master bedroom

It would have been nice
If it could live up to its name
Knowingly, the master couldn’t
Even handle his business in any room
Why called it the master bedroom,
The master haven't mastered any role in any room
until his compassionate flower,  the ladywith a heart of an angel,
Made a deal for the people, , as history was told
Her love for the oppressed citizens of Coventry would never be forgotten:
A Yellow Lily not to be reckon with:
Lady Godiva the people's choice

I will not follow in the paths of day anymore
back when our thoughts  were not entirely intact,
we must not make the same mistake we made last year.

The hours were long, our wages were small
Somehow, we need and wants were getting greater
Like mines, I wanted more boxes of lobster tails from Maine
But instead I purchase bags of rotten potatoes from the local grocery stores
Did the customers get the most nutrition out of Idaho Potatoes?
Hell no!

I had to make the connection with the dots to connect to the future
It wasn’t an overlooked of the payroll mistakes
It was the greed of the political investors,
But those classes of people, unions, lawyers, and businessmen
Those ******* laboring class of upper people rob us.

Time has passed and hearts were broken
So many innocent lives were taken away from us.
Either by drowning in the rough sea or they got hit by the city buses

They tear us down on every side till  we were numb
They uproot our hope like a tree
Some of us fought with our body to rise,
But encounters dark passages on the rough seas
We shall not follow on the path of the day anymore
A new year, a new beginning, a fresh wipe, a clean slate

Littérature et Politique

(Prose poétique en  souvenir de la lecture de Carlo Levi docteur, peintre, militant antifasciste  et écrivain)

Je ne pourrais assez remercier mon père, André (Candria en Corse),  qui pour me permettre un jour de comprendre la langue Corse qu'il n'avait pas eu le temps de m'apprendre car il enseignait déjà l'anglais,  me fit choisir l'Italien, en seconde langue au Lycée Raymond Naves.
Cette classe d'Italien cristallise les meilleurs souvenirs que j'ai eus de ce Lycée qui n'était pas d'élite,  au sens  social de ce terme menteur mais bien plus important, jouait alors,  ce  rôle de creuset social dont nous semblons avoir quelque peu  perdu le secret. J’eus la grande chance d’y connaître  mon meilleur ami, Roland P.., qui aujourd’hui, hélas, n’est hélas plus  mais dont l’Esprit demeure et qui  fut  l'ami si compatissant et fraternel  de mon adolescence tourmentée,  quelque peu Rimbaldienne.  Mes Professeures d'Italien étaient toutes des passionnées et si nous ne nous mîmes pas suffisamment, par paresse, à la grammaire; elles réussirent, tout de même,  à nous  ouvrir grand la porte de cette langue somptueuse,  l’Italien,  si variée et l’amour  de la civilisation Italienne qui a tant irrigué l'art et le bonheur de vivre. Parmi les romans que ces professeures de ce Lycée Laïque  et quelque peu «contestataire» (encore un terme qui s’est évaporé sous la gangue de l’aigreur et de la passion funeste d’une nouvelle intolérance pseudo-jacobine et pseudo « nationaliste »  )  nous firent connaître, il y a  dans ma mémoire et au plus haut de mon panthéon personnel, «Le Christ s’est arrêté à Eboli» écrit par le docteur de Médecine,   devenu rapidement, peintre et militant antifasciste de «Giustizia e Libertà», l’ écrivain Carlo Levi. Son  chef d'œuvre incontesté : «Christo si é fermato a Eboli» («Le Christ s’est pas arrêté à Eboli.») a fait le tour du Monde.

Envoyé  en relégation par  le «Tribunal pour la sûreté de l’Etat» créé par les fascisme (dans ce que l’on nommait le  «confino», dans le petit village d’Aliano en Basilicate,  pour le punir de ses mauvaises pensées et  de ses quelques minuscules actions politiques menée sous la chape de plomb totalitaire en ce  lieu, si perdu que même le Christ, lui-même,  semble-t-il, avait oublié, tout au moins métaphoriquement de s’y arrêter, Carlo Levi, au travers d’un roman presque naturaliste fait un véritable reportage ethnologique sur la condition des paysans et journaliers pauvres que l’on nommait alors : «I cafoni», (les culs terreux, les humbles, les oubliés d'hier et  toujours).

Contrairement à trop d'écrivains contemporains qui fuient les questions qui fâchent et surtout la question sociale  ( il est vrai que j’entends dire même par nombre de mes chers amis d’aujourd’hui  qu’il n’y aurait plus d’ouvriers, ce qui est inexact ;  il est  hélas bien exact qu’il n’y a plus guère d’écrivains provenant des milieux ouvriers, paysans et plus largement populaires. ) A l'inverse de notre littérature européenne contemporaine, laquelle s'est très largement abimée dans le nombrilisme ou,  pire,  la rancœur racornie et nihiliste, Carlo Levi,  lui, a réussi à atteindre la profondeur la condition humaine  et la véracité des plus grands peintres de l'Esprit ,  tels les écrivains Russes comme Gogol , Gorki , Tolstoï et Soljenitsyne, dans «le pavillon des cancéreux» ainsi que les écrivains Méditerranéens à la « générosité solaire » comme le crétois Nikos Kazantzakis  (dans la liberté ou la mort), Albert Camus, dans «la Peste» et  Mouloud Feraoun  (dans son  «Journal»).  Bref dans son roman, Carlo Levi va au plus profond de la tragédie intime et collective des êtres et ne masque pas les ébranlements sociaux,  et les Révolutions à venir qui font tant peur à notre époque de «nouveaux rentiers» de la finance et de la pensée  sans jamais verser dans le prêchi-prêcha. Ce sont de tels écrivains, sortis du terreau de leurs Peuples,  le connaissant  et l’aimant profondément,  qui nous manquent tant aujourd’hui. Ces écrivains furent d’irremplaçables témoins de leur époque comme Victor Hugo, avec «Les Misérables» avec ses personnages  littérairement immortels comme  le forçat en rédemption,  Jean Valjean, la touchante Cosette et bien sûr le jeune et éclatant  Gavroche. Ils restent au-delà de toute mode et atteignent l'Universel en s’appropriant la vérité profonde de ce qu’en Occitan,  l’on nomme nos  «Pais» ou la diversité de nos terroirs. Encore un immense merci à mon père et à mes professeures; il faut lire ou relire : «Le Christ s'est arrêté à Eboli». Car si nous regardions un  peu au-delà de notre Europe  tétanisée de peur et barricadée,  il  y a encore bien d'autres Eboli et encore tant de «Cafoni » méprisés, brutalisés et tyrannisés dans le Monde d'aujourd'hui !
Paul Arrighi

the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies

NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs

from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead

YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping

through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting

twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes

BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers

Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?

Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?

Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?

Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?

the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world

Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World

Oakland
3/2/12
jbm

Narrative Reportage for 8/2/2018

Home is the word we love to hear:
The dreams are never over,
They are always a break through: after the tears:
An x is lodge in our heads was it the,
rock, a tree, or the hidden board,
Time welt serve: time to cash in
Time uproot the rocks
that tree and those loose boards
would this be a happy ending?

You had choose the life of crime
The crime didn’t nail itself
Every day a black man
Under the age of twenty
Pulls the trigger, they turned off the light
He longs to return to his mother womb:
I see the love of their mothers
While she holds their hands at age three
at age twenty three I see the replacement :
the chrome bracelets: the resentment
Neflex the new society wants us to believe that orange is the new black:
“Our ancestors have invented, we can at least innovate.”
― Amit Kalantri

**“Oh Child
Look within
Find your ForeMothers
Find them
Find them”
― Malebo Sephodi

Blessedly, funerals,
don't have to go to too many,
though went to one
just this day,
for our next door country neighbor,
the nicest dour-looking,
rascally dearest man

The Catholic church full,
the hymns lovely,
the priest spoke
simple and beautiful,
about the paschal lamb
and the
Judeo-Christian Heritage
and
Life Everlasting,
an interesting concept,
that I had long forgot about

Must have conjured up
three minimum ideas
for poems,
not even including
this reportage

maybe I will write some,
tho the normative jelly of
Manhattan bus shaking
mine own recipe for inspiration,
when combined with
my peanut buttered
sheltered island by the Great Peconic Bay,
both, will be my swirled
inspiration everlasting

Can't write about
moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies,
the way I write is
just the way I think
writ out loud

so to the essay at hand,
funeral of a man,
mine all planned,
the invites ready,
awaiting the correct postage stamp
of a future time and place

the date, more or less sketched,
the poems, selected, notated
for whoever shows,
pick a read,
win a free trip to the cemetery
and maybe one back to his "parlor"
where food, drink and bon mots are
vous parlez'd and his spirit,
now a parolee, will be watching

smiling, for funerals are camaraderie,
so longs and fare-thee-wells,
and the hands of friends embracing,
celebrations in their own way,
and a time to tell stories of what
treasures they have left you,
silver linings of a life well writ,
and tho someday,
they'll be time-tarnished,
even half forgot,
the stories and the love poems
are the seeds of life everlasting



Passover/Easter
March 2014

When there's a crisis, we'd like to think
The president would certainly know
How to unify the country--
To take the high road and NOT the low.

But, alas, Trump just can't
Seem to manage to set aside
His grievances and obtusely delivers
A message filled with cyanide.

An act of domestic terrorism--
Pipe bombs being sent through the mail
To Obama, the Clintons, Holder, and others--
A heinous act that's not small scale--

Is an attack on democratic
Values--a dangerous threat to peace.
But when Trump blames the victims, such
Acts of violence will not cease.

Yes, he said the deed was despicable,
But then he blamed CNN
For negative news reportage and lies.
And so here we go again!

Even though his words ring hollow
When he tries to stay on script,
We can see his true feelings
Come out whenever his mouth is unzipped.

Accepting no responsibility
For negative things he says or does,
He stirs up his crowds against other people.
Such behavior gives him a buzz.

Regarding the telling of lies, we know
That no politician ever
Has lied to the people as often as he.
But will he admit that he does it? Never!

Both fans and critics know that for him
The strategy is always the same:
Berate your critics, denounce the truth,
Incite your fans, and pass the blame.

Hopefully, the future will bring
A president we can respect again--
An honest one with integrity.
We have to put up with this one till then.

-by Bob B (10-25-18)

There once was a Prime Minister named Winston Churchill
Who during the war years suffered with the black dog ill
The British people knew not of the personal cross he did bear
No reportage of his bouts of depression ever went to air
Churchill's ill was never allowed to publicly spill

my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets

every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,  
from  September to September inclusive

but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!

“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents

wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running

it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes

we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of  a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that

cannot cure nor disinfect

1
What do mornings regard but
  the night refusing to budge?

The Sun a progeny
there must be room for days in
   this revenge

2
I   fold   I
in this exquisite manner

I  dream of  my  fortune
    as  rash   before  this I  slid

underneath the cleft
like  an  epistle

   unopened,  stamped  by the dearth
of another

secured   in this  absence
  black like a cummerbund

3
The   bed shook.
     enough  to  toss me out of

but not  inherit me  into  a dull succession.

our  places  nominal.
we have   a sum  if  syndicate
  but  still  impotent

they   have  made  this a reportage
of  a miracle  read  from a  gauche script:

This is
the morning that
was becoming no
less than a champion
over you |  vacate your  body
      while you  are still  able  |

the body confesses
I am constantly awakened
  by  this  futility.

Falling as recalcitrance of movement – seeks completion – yet the ground
   ballasts.
            There is no path that leads forward as I live backwards.
    There is poetry in the way
              a woman carrying a bilao moves away from the vicinity.
       Sound departs.
I took a deep drag and fell into a thick web
    of smoke, recoiled to fetal nature, into the womb of my unbecoming.

       What seems to contain endlessness: dark.
What punctuates this claim: moonlight.
      In a house that continuously aches,
I am grateful for windows.
                             Night-erased repeatedly, the dance of blades of grass.
       There is more stasis when words flay
                 themselves to pass as something more resolute than there is
     the kinesis of life’s steady abbreviations. We shorten like this,
                             when we curse the destinations upon movement’s mindless
                approval.

We collect ongoing afternoons
                         and cohere to trees. Say falling like you mean it,
     the way we commit to breaking though unwanted, feared.
                 Feel the hands accumulate warmth when propped
  into the sun’s permanent daze – face becomes glare,
                            a day becomes a scar.

This    is  where   I do  not know   what moves   to become fully   stationary.
     Days crumble like this.
   In a poem that is not a poem.
   In a sound that is only sound and not music.
     In a dance that is not life, but stillbirth.
   In notes that are purely rambling, not reportage.
     A voice that champions a fiasco.
                             This is where the   throbbing  afternoon becomes   a part
       of me    that falls   into   a chasm of   a fateful night,
                lassitude    of   debris in  tow,

                                       starting     measures  everywhere  we   left and   returned –

My Reportage for 10/8/2018
When I was a child, my mother and the neighbors
would sit on the front stoop and gossip
about current events: ones would pretend
to be reading her book, but ones ears were like
cable vision indoor satellite: broadcasting
Christine Blasey Ford and Judge Brett Kavanaugh
Stirs up a lot in me this past week
About my childhood memories,

I felt unnerves, about topics that old folks chat about back then:
I remember the villains, child *** predators and ****** fathers
the child's entrapment and powerlessness era in our small village
Where the old folks buried the secrets under the rugs
And prayer about it on Sunday morn

Flashing back to those stories,
too often is nerve wrecking
I called them the gossiping sundown moments:
Shilling was a clone of Brett Kavanaugh: he drank and he forgets:

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! /
The world forgetting, by the world forgot. /
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! /
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
'Eloisa to Abelard', Alexander Pope

Those gossiping sundown moments,
Never dies when it enters the ears of a heedful child:
I was always one of those children,
Who was so careful about stranger’s looks?
the friendlier the neighbors sweet talk tones
I would take off with speed like the swarm drone
Odd! but that was all it took:

All emotions, even those that are suppressed and unexpressed, have physical effects. Unexpressed emotions tend to stay in the body like small ticking time bombs—they are illnesses in incubation.”
― Marilyn Van M. Derbur,
:

My Mothers obsessed with fine wines fine clothes and ***'s(she loves the Garden)
and myself I'm obsessing over sticking powders up my nose(Sinus Troubles)
As we all look back, on a life of Achievement, Deceivment and Bereavement,
It's still hard to find the right words to say what I mean but...

Stay with me, on course, put the Dog Star to Port-
put the Black Dog behind(he and Satan can play hunt and find),
another way we should live, the attention I give...

To each detail is vast, my brain's swift, my tongue fast but...
Lately I find a vast gulf left behind-by the Daily News Grind of,
Poverty and Fear, deaths far away and here, its invading my Monkeysphere and...

So I shy away from news at 6-1 and their miserable fun, reportage from Ghouls,
self obsessed ******* and fools who fail to see they're the tools-that...

Keep us all depressed, hearts thumping in our chests,
"we're close to Annihilation"-
they scream with a weird Jubilation-I keep changing the station-as...

Each ululation of echoed deep fear reverberates in my ear, I say "**** IT,STAND CLEAR"
Then take an axe to these ropes that have ******* our hopes,
then the Ship starts to float, I cry gaily(steady now!)come on, get the Boat!
Throw your hat and your coat on the deck and lets dance as we float,
on a river serene, leave behind the old scene,
lets move in cadences stately,
switch places politely, keep smiling-
move lightly we swoop on like bird flight as we...

Move from River to Sea- got new places to be,
no time now for misery,
keep the tension on Sails as we weigh on the Scales of this vast deck-I say...

"**** it to heck", "there's the devil to pay, and not a pinch of pitch hot"-but the...

Rations are fine, we've crossed the international misery line so...
lets Dance, move your feet!-
you'll soon pick up the beat, it's melodic and sweet and we...

Really should check the Mast-
but the Quadrille is so fast that quite frankly I'm past...
Caring...

New Captain I Sing as I toss the hat in the ring of fine poets,
(some are, but don't know it)
so come on take a chance, take over the dance,your turn at the wheel as we wheel and I feel...

*Somehow better, less gloom and less doom, move over make room!,as more folk board the ship,
and effortlessly trip into place and we move in a groove that's eternally mine,yours and Smooth.

TIME IS ON FIRE

the girls scream…

…the world is on fire…tomorrow is burning…
the bombs scream….the living now the dead…
mere reportage…footage…pixels…talking heads talking…
time is on fire…the world twitters and facebooks…
…only water offers a chance to see…the shore approaches…
the new day dawns….
upon eyes that can no longer… see

the gulls scream

the gulls scream

should have gone deleted. you went and liked it, commented.



now is done,  we are  as exposed.

we are responding to the prompts.



reportage.  write again, tomorrow.



we are witness.

nothing is as it seems. there are enough disturbances in the world,

without another. stay under glass.



though it is a secret, we have none



sbm.

I was watching a reportage about the strong possibility of a war between Iraq and Kurdistani Kirkuk.  I don't consider myself a political person, neither politically aware nor politically active.  But sometimes, I'm moved on a deep level at the futility of and process leading up to war.  This is one of those moments.  I went directly to the computer.

        You Can’t Have A War

You can’t have a war

Unless you have weapons;

You can’t have those weapons

Unless you have industries;

Can’t have an industry earning no money -

And money means profit,

For who runs an industry

That doesn’t profit -

Profit the carrot.



Weapons-to-profit:

The distance is multi- or many small instances

Building the one upon other,

Easy to disregard,

Turn a blind eye to.



Oil or real estate,

Access to coast,

Minerals, labor:

Possession and use.

Passions’ abuse

And war is the certainty.



It’s terribly sad,

This fighting for terra;

A sickening error

Pretending it’s doctrine or canon or righteousness.

Overruled, conscience.



You can’t have a war,

Restrain it,

Unless there’s this chain of re-action,

Everyone playing his part.

It’s breaking my heart.

Ain’t it yours?



You Can’t Have A War 10.14.2017

War Book II; Our Times, Our Culture II;

Arlene Corwin

With a cup of steaming
muddy coffee

much

like what is splashed  
up from the street

and what rises
from a manhole cover

I'm sitting on a stool
at the end of the counter
and reading a newspaper

just the facts
nothing more

and nothing less

Whit Howland © 2020

Extract from a letter answering a friend about my productivity:
     “I have neither habit nor stamina - at least not consciously.  It’s more from laziness - the writing, that is.  I see, hear or read a phrase or reportage and I’m off!  That’s it!  And  because repetition creates habit, be it smoking, biting your nails, or quilting - then if you have a particular talent, well, there it is - the automatic stamina and habit..”


           A Poet’s Rationalisation

She writes daytime and night.
She’s neither stamina nor habit.
It’s because she’s lazy.
When she’s complimented (as she’s been at times)
The only word that has occurred’s tenacity.

Reading, seeing reportage, message hitting the right the spot,
And lo, she’s hot!
Computer open, blank page there
And she is where she ought to be,
Comfy, lazy, some ability
Wakened for the sake of…
Nothing!

Prolific - she’s aware of it.
Gazillion ideas make her sit.
And when she sits and pushed to write,
She writes because it’s what
She’s pushed to from within, without,
Stimulation like a clout from heaven -
Happy as sandboy,
Seventh heaven’s brand new toy,

Theory, philosophy, hypothesis,
This, her only explanation
For the many extant stanzas
Published and unpublished
With no purpose whatsoever.

Thank you to whomever
Pays a tribute or has praised
Or lauded and applauded reveries,
The fantasies that intellect can cover.
What more can one ask for?

A Poet’s Rationalisation 12.6.2019
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

I was watching a reportage about the strong possibility of a war between Iraq and Kurdistani Kirkuk. I don't consider myself a political person, neither politically aware nor politically active. But sometimes, I'm moved on a deep level at the futility of and process leading up to war. This is one of those moments. I went directly to the computer.
March 27, 2019 Just 'found' this -'found' in the broadest sense since it's been on Facebook all this time. It seemed weaker than it must have felt when I wrote it in 2017. I've tinkered and re-written - with hopes that it's stronger.
You Can’t Have A War

Van Gogh ensconced

to a yellow journal.

whose reportage

curls the toes of stars...

something like airliners

coupled with the streaks

of speeding boats.

carving sediments.

hecklers occur...

during a live poetry

reading.

as it's put down.

amplitude's broadsides--

lined.

reportage of faces, peppering

porousness.

popping out of ziploc bags--

with the refractions of a

magnifying glass.

shaking off the feathers of a

crow.

free diving on emulsified

leaves.

whose skeletal remains

live up to the legend of

other Crows.

It's nice knowing
you may have kept your words

the famished farmers are busy
sowing seeds on tarmac and concrete

please titter not they sowed on diamond
and swear their seeds are germinating
we looked with a microscope and saw not a spec
though unused, the diamond still shone dazzling as ever

so say nothing and lets praise the farmers
persistence is the key, it''s all about working
it's difficult losing their attached chains and they've got to vent
nothing grates more than excellence to mediocrity

let's see if they can wheedle it out of you
but so far, I know now't for now
No sign, no dropped word or reportage yet
Not holding my breath, but so far so far
they are still on their toes, let's help them to stay on their toes.