Arlene Corwin Poetry

         First Poem Of All

Something’s happening inside;

I think I’ve just died.

I’m going home to see.

Feeling is unreasoned,

Rather like unseasoned squash,

Or a ghastly recipe:

To three cups salt add four grams goulash.

Disinterested, uncontrolled field of flounces

Sloshes like a slattern in the rain;

Inane pattern

Of windrowed plain.

The definition of cumulus cloud:

Abraham Lincoln, looking so proud

Becomes a dog. Preposterous!

So I’ve died without a fuss,

For life plus I equals feeling, mood,

And all is verisimilitude.

©First Poem Of All 59.10

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; To The Child Mystic;

Arlene Corwin