Ah, so stately art t'ou, my prince-
prone as th' night, comely as th' moon.
And wakeful is my sorrow;
for waiting for thee-
is not at all th' same
as greeting him soon.
How all t'ese senses remain so numb!
Love, as 'twas first fierce ye'a living dumb,
now as insignificant as a thumb,
and th' fame t'at surrounded was breath
beforeth turning bald and corny as death.
I figure t'ou art now out of my air;
as nothingness like t'is
tears and usurps my hair.
Pursuit of falsehood, pursuit of greed,
is but a seed t'at makes my heart bleed.
Leaves t'at art fake within my torso,
art now crying-and pleading
Just like a cheeky little girl;
unreal as we were,
as t'ou but still t'en-belonged to 'er.

And just like our former sins,
silent but threatening-
thy goneness hath parted me
from my dear'st everything.
Ah, my limbs, my shins,
my lungs, my spleens,
art but now scanty and unawake!
And since t'ere's no give,
thus no more t'ere's take!
How t'ese shadows t'at our hearts made,
now alone and whimper and fade;
startling all over t'is notorious silky winter-
silly as our dear laughter,
but satirical-and edgeless as fate.

And bland, bland, bland;
o-how severely, and dreamily bland!
Thy ever gallantry and morning wit-
so well as charms t'at hath left my cheeks lit!
And with a smile I found so sweet,
to my long black hair t'ou would flirt!
But wherefore art t'ou, now, o my love?
My Russian gem, and prince alike!
Would t'ose mountains in thy Moscow-
be as dazzling as our tomorrow?
And be th' chamber of our dreams-
whereupon thou shalt rolleth into mine,
singeth and reciteth altoget'er our tales
with a glass of ****** wine-
tasty and delicate as our daring gales,
but complicated as we might dwelleth-
and be lost in one anot'er, in our shell.

And ah-comfort, comfort, comfort!
Our dear passion t'at wasth stopped short,
but hath now replied to me
within th' circles of its own balmy nakedness-
and see, my love-how canst it just not, conceal its bareness!
How on one morning shalt tread our foot,
beneath th' sun t'at shines, undereth daylight t'at shoots-
and across our greyish moors and t'eir roots-
all our charms, woes, and reveries-
canst but unite into one again,
as I hath thus dreameth 'twixt yester's rain,
and alloweth our smot'ered course to remain.
Ah, Vladimir, and of course as plainly but sure-
I still long to turn thee to my treasure;
but love is bold and far too inadequate
to our desolate dreamland;
and might be too cynical-
thus unbearable; to just my dearest, dearest friend.
How sometimes I wish to be free!
And obediently disentwineth my hand;
'fore to thee I gratefully bend.

But desires, desires of t'ese, canst only be despair;
and 'till now our meeting hath just been too late.
Tragic as our souls shalt re-main alone, and not ever pair;
as I hath now one else 'ere to date;
as innocent as we wert-could hath he been unt'ere;
whenst I gazed but into thy shadowy eyes-
ones so full of comical mystery, and manhood t'at lies!
O, Vladimir, but still-tears cannot be our pale answer;
whenst our hearts could but suffer;
and secret love; our sole-ye' joyless matter.

And tough, tough needst we be, just like t'is poem-
just by its battered hands on a piece of paper.
But strong, strong and guiltless my heart may be-
dreams of which it cannot lower-
as t'ou art here not with me, o dear lover!
Ah, Vladimir, th' skies above
art still my beauteous, but neglect'd view;
trifling to my veins, as it never knew.
And thus, Vladimir, as it shalt again glow
my heart shalt be with thee in cold Moscow,
as thou danceth and befriendeth
our triumphant tomorrow.

Returneth t'en should I into my clock,
drencheth myself in my best frock;
and waiteth for on my door his knock.
Ah, and whenst later t'is be over-
shalt I but dreameth of thee again-
a guilty, but flawless-as how
a waking dream should be!
A dream, ah, andeth with it still,
a peaceful dream-
in which I canst feel thee against me-
teasing my soul and rubs my knee,
and weaves thy love, into my veins.
Poison me-o, poison me, my love!
And riseth thou t'ere-as my own knight;
within our dark; but stainless night.

Stand on letdown point
And check out the view
Can you see beyond it?
Those that can seem few

I hoped you would be one
Seeing impermanent shores
Able to speak of the possible
But you've left me here once more

The darkness,
Realities boundless, harrowing void,

What exists beyond unawake dreary eyes,
What resides upon burdened hollow souls,

An unrighteous detriment of prophecy,
That sublime goddess of allure,
Withered into such a lifeless thing,

Its you that embodies that void,

Veiled in that desolate space,
Its relentless pain inscribed across your face,

Obscured to this subjective dark,
This world forbids my light to touch your heart.

I. Death of the Phoenix
Dear Mama

Falling stars, moonlight dark, red torches spread
Ere dawn of day, far over river deep
When in the lads the dares of fancy fame
Oft they quested to waking fortunes’ sleep

Sweet aroma of summer breath afar
Soft waving hair and likeness sunny guise
And stillness in the gaze like ocean hues
‘Twas lambent Pearl, the radiant crown ‘neath skies  

‘O rose of blues slowly drained the silent seas
When looting’s Muse had wed the maiden Pride
That raged against the rising of the sun  
To fall and fall in servitudes denied

Down empty streets where humble stations stood
Though heads bowed down, the broken wills undone
Hailed supple hopes, but midst the hopes, avowed
The oppressed bride and aim that cannot run

Ah, the sky is clear, Oh, the mourning doves
Out of the seas came out the knightly steeds
With faces stained red and blue, rode amain
The crimson shores of those in wants or needs

Then came the billows’ mists o’er unrest land
With thunders’ roar and freezing cold decades
Lone in despair, no Beacon, close or far
Alas! Alas! The unloved lost in fades

‘O gleeful hymn once roamed untrodden grounds
Beyond the gates of wraths and shades and fears
Now skims the air whilst nightingales diffuse
Lest fetter to wills of avarice’s Peers

‘O swirling darkness, drowning bleakness state
Like waves of tears that burst from heart of ache
On pyre of flame delight, by now grows dim
Consumes with shameful scorns, doze unawake

‘O woe betide my dream and I
My aim, my soul, my credo die
                                                             ­                Your Dying Daughter

II. The Phoenix Shall Re-Rise
My Beloved Child

Let heav’n light rest upon twin rivulets
And cast returning glow on worried cheek
Let lively hope return sweet virtuousness
And stop the weeping weep of small and weak

Whence softly rave the words the leafy grasped
Whilst few amid rich flowers, woods, and fields
Summoned daydreams in oppressed sleeps to wake
In painful stoic with neither swords nor shields

Methinks if this had happened not, perchance
That beauty rare would echo still in tune
And wits like wings in varied raptures ‘d fly
With idle dread ‘til reach the waning moon

By the placid Rivers, like ores of rare
That made the riverbeds mirroring sun
The crafty trails, the vermeil meadow pawns
Where hostages to priceless glints had fun

Ponder awhile on those invective Streams
When weary hopes sought access into soul’
Which knew no moist, but moist of falling tears
Arose amid sweet rainy boon parole

‘O brave Angel to whom the homage paid
When shades of freedom, death, unity, strength
Aloft the hills, albeit the odds were few
‘Til resilience and prowess at full length  

‘O silent mute on which misery lies
The brazen proud, the humble roots stretch still
Whose keen presence the flood and storm esteem
So firm and deep, anon to aims fulfill’  

Tree that blooms from river blood, time is nigh
For solitude that hides near shimming lake
To burst aflame from remnants of the now
Like phoenix sunned in ashen dust awake’

Oh, then, I’ll dream that dream once dreamt
That latest dream few've ever dreamt
                                                          ­                                   Love Ma


III. One Moon
Dear Beacons

Come midnight ghosts that slide along the yards
Call exiled forth, and haggle for their quests
Where leering eyes at nightfall gate ignore
Arising slain yearn newness’ lives abreast

From tortuous routes and wave to wave to shores
Where skies no longer bright and glad deceive
No gentle fair nor answers to hold dear
When pride depressed to swirling hopes believe  

Relume the gold of havens found
Cast shadow aping’s frowns to ground

Then, from sweet unrest, twilight world will rouse
To peaceful fields, and cool of breezy night
O’er which clouds float and run, whilst dancing stars
Adorn. And lo, the moon is full and bright

                                                         ­                                     Amor Fati,
                                                           ­                                   Alkebulan

Sunrise explosion!
Sneaking up on no one
But the unawake
    At life, at the day
But to the awake...BANG!
And the planet we are on in all
    its Enormity
    and prism power - atmosphere
Separates the radioactive
    explosion
That is traveling
299,792,458 miles per second
From 93 million miles away
    (a whole 8 minute journey)
From a hot body
With a 432,288 mile radius
of glowing
    exploding gas
That, upon reaching us
Is recklessly
    Smashed
Into all potential tertiary shades
Of cerulean and sapphire
Of marigold and sandstone
Of shades beyond identifiers
    (we all experience them
    differently anyhow)
And for these opening moments
    of the day
All masterpiece paintings
    appear as preschool throwaways
And as quickly as the calm chaos enters
It stage exits
    On account
        Of the 432k mile monstrosity
            That will blind
                Any
                    Who dared look at it

Good morning.

As I have aged, my body’s become a full moon –
a thing to howl at
unable to hide in the dark (a dark so dark
it swims from beneath me, and I glow like light).

The years have had a refractive nature
and I cracked the eggshell, the first crescent and

the second
supposedly a silhouette holding hands. I am told
beauty is symmetry
so I must have two of everything to make a
                                  whole –

but by dawn, I seem dull
unawake (the thought that no one needs me
on my back anymore, there are

rounder things than me). Without needing to be
reminded, my peel wades to the next
month of sprouting
       pallid craters who match those before them.

Some days no words worthwhile wasteland
of a page before me barely
will to carry on weather
report mental fog emotions
on the ebb the moving
finger writes not so much
wit unawake more
pathos less
piety bereft
of self empty
vessel

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

I knew a girl once
Pure to the pinch of a petal
But lust filled fiends found her
Unfazed to the thought of intimacy
and so distorted intimacy to twisted turns
claiming her sweet nectar as she lay unawake.

I knew a girl once
Pure to the pinch of a petal... no more.
...
Pure to the pinch of a petal;
the twisted turns did burn
and the ashes and embers cast away
into the winds as though no fault to find,
I knew a girl once
who knew of the world;
I knew a girl once
who knew of the future;
I knew a girl once
who smiled a slanted smile;
I knew a girl once
...But not anymore, do I know her.

May god find her the peace she never found.

No musings, complaints or sorrows
can carry their weight and depth so well
as those turned to poetic rhyme or pose.
For much else fails to swell
the heart of the listener in sympathetic plight;
words scraped in the meat
of meaning rather than the surface sight
of understanding. The hands and feet
don't tremble or still; the heart doesn't quaver;
until you learn to bear another's ache,
or from your views uncertainly waver.
I fear many of my generation lie unawake
to the joys, and what could be
if they could settle back to read
their hearts into another's chest;
and by sharing again, find inner rest.

Slick Slimy Inky Sickness for 25 years have gripped my mind, swallowing every last bit of joy I ever knew.

Every week was a new project to find a better way to end it. A morbid hobby, it's true, but anything seemed better than this wasteland of broken thoughts and heartache.

Then the fear gripped my heart.

The absolute fear of death, of the void, of the end of conciousness and all things.

An eternity unawake, not graced by even dreams as aeon passes by, unaware of the fear.

As the Sun dies and swallows the light, and the Earth freezes and crumbles, long after you too die, we will still be dead. Unawake. Not even dreaming.

I am terrified of the absolute nothing.

But it still comes for me.
And you.

At the base of a hill, a grass bank
unripe daffodils poking through
beckoning spring, while curious crows
hop around unkempt, a corridor
with a kind face, lights overhead
taxiing towards departure?
the raindrop running down
window overhead, like a tear
images you can’t place,
flit through your mind
skip, pause at random, while
the clock, relentless, counts down
hours, minutes, to an unknown time...

The waiting room, unawake
rows on rows of beds, sheets
unsettled disarray
save the few, clean, pristine
and in the shadows, collared,
for more without a clue

The end? a new beginning?
, some kind of vague middle? thoughts
muddle through the semi-conscious
chains of command to a general,
lounging back, cigar in mouth,
whiskey in hand, triple distilled,
“You’ll be fine, just count to ten,
nine...”
a soft laugh, echoes
and, as I close the door
peace at last.

She doesn’t look like me.
Too pale, too naked,
Too ****** under her own surface.

Well I don’t want to drown.
I won’t get pull down because part of me is too
Pathetic and plucked to fly

She can’t be me,
But she’s the only me that sees,
Herself seized up


By the time I’ve flapped the fervor back into me
Shaken off a soft sagging skin
Taken flight

I’m away, unawake, unaware
Weightless as thoughtless
Till I fall

I only learn about myself when landing
Roused by faded echoes of euphoria
Rippling with the hypnic drop

I won’t say I don’t know
About the bullet or predator
Waiting to slink out of my blind spot

But I need to be a bird again
And there’s always an again
Or an until

Until the bird stops returning to be me
No idea why it does
Until it’s killed,
So I can die,
Without being anyone who’s dying.

On that divine-like hands and laps of thine, my grandmother, each moment I embraced the new learnings.

Well, in that tranquil Spring night when the wave of stars washed away my eyes, I cried for them to have in the small hands of mine. Since then, I learnt to cry.

In order to soothe my longing cry, thou hast sung me the rhyming lullaby that spreaded the formless form of smile on my face. Since then, I learnt to smile.

At that cooing rhythm of thy song; thou hast energetically swung me high and low in the air, whilst my body seems to have lost its weight so light. Since then, I learnt to get thrilled by the melody of song.

A feeling of overflowing on an edge of the wind has brought the word of excitement to my unawake mouth, ehh.. since then, I learnt to speak a word.

That morning, Aye, drunk by the golden dawn, the wave of my eyes reached to the falling leave at the distant height. The very curiosity to catch hold of it has burnt my little heart. Since then, I learnt to curious about the things.

Slipping away from thy hand, I ran to catch the falling leave. But O fie, I couldnst catch it! I followed its flight — but the wind took it farther away. My eyes couldnst reach to it anymore, as it gradually disappeared at invisible sight. Since then, I learnt to walk.

Thou art my model, my grandmother!These all childly learnings alighted from that holy-like hands and laps of thine. I regard thee.

Just because you don't see my face everyday
Doesn't mean unawake am I
The sun arises everyday
So do I

wallowing in self hate
swallowing mine own tears
sadness over mine own fate
madness from mine own fears

chained by mine own anxiety
claimed by the arms of melancholy
tossing and turning to grasp mine own identity
crossing and burning bridges cowardly

this life shows no bearing
this strife feels like God's mistake
surely, suffering should see ending
purely, i wish to be unawake

i would run up to the depths of the earth
i should then be alas free
maybe, a gun to mine own head shall reverse the date of mine own birth
lately, when i call upon the Lord, He does not hear me