God Created Coffee Too 2010

Just a thought during this Christmas  season 2010             

          God Created Coffee Too

Why is it I think favored thoughts

With coffee as my cup of tea?

Meditate and contemplate

The many sides of You; for


This brain’s poor,


Ruled by sloth,

Confused and unintuitive,

Unmotivated, insufficient,

Wanting, cloudy, low IQ’d.

All when I’ve not consumed

A cup to wake with,

Take a break with.

Must I live dependent on caffeine

In order to commune

With You?

Inane, I ought not to complain,

For You created coffee too.

© God Created Coffee Too 12.23.2010

Coffee Book; God Book;

Arlene Corwin




Here’s another Christmas poem from Sweden. That day was so magical I just had to record it. The mentioned “Kent” is my dear heroic husband who’s bee out with the tractor shoveling snow, widening the road, chopping more wood, feeding the fire, keeping it going… in this record cold 2010 winter.

Here’s another Christmas poem from Sweden.  That day was so magical I just had to record it. The mentioned “Kent” is my dear heroic husband who’s bee out with the tractor shoveling snow, widening the road, chopping more wood, feeding the fire, keeping it going… in this record cold 2010 winter.

          Christmas Day On And Around The Lake  

  Stora Härsjön.

For future generations

Of the English-speaking world, pronounce it

‘Hairshern’. One of God’s creations

Which they named Big Lake.

They’re skating up and down, zigzag, across.

From far three specks come into focus:

Man with dogs, parading toward a thin-iced dam.

Fear subsides – he’s local clan.

His kind knows every deep edged plane.

Kent is sweeping snow that dusts

The ice – in preparation for a skate.

I wait,

          Brooklyn girl at window, while Viking

Feigns a shoe-drawn figure eight,

The outdoor rink scant meters from the house.

Enchanting bay-cum-pond embosomed in a wood.

We have a life uniquely good:

Biscuits in the oven; sitting, watching

While they brown, snatching, catching

Surfaces that rest on life this day,

A perfect way to view it.

The atmosphere is peerless

And I want it down for always.

Neighbor Hammer’s built a fire on the ice

Where Kent and Hammer’s sons

Build branch by branch, a flame, the highs

So bright, so red it could be called flamboyant (get it?)

As a day-short sky grows dusky and I watch,

A scone already spread with butter sampled

In my mouth.

©Christmas Day On And Around The Lake 96.1.31

Circling Round Nature; Swedish Book;

Arlene Corwin

Calendar 2010

     The night before last, as I lay in bed writing small notes in my almanac/diary/daybook  and noting that the little book was coming to an end, I was moved to write something/anything to commemorate the fact.  You see, I’m always interested in the passing of time, the repetition of patterns  – the in between of birth and death.

Coming to an end
Between two covers;
Buy again/begin again.
Small, leather registers;
Diaries, memoir’s squeezer-in;
The daily note, the planned appointment,
Observation. Holidays in tiny print.
Lives arranged in line and font –
And empty!
Possibility’s potential.
Optimism’s hope between two covers.
This year
Will be better.
© Calender 12.19.2010
Circling Round Time II; Birth,Death&InBetween;
Arlene Corwin

Two Husbands & A Manager 2010

It isn’t often that I write directly about myself, but I am a kind of historian. I’ve noticed that.  I write to record lives, insights, events – and always in poetic forms.  The other day I received a mail from the wife of my onetime manager, (my profession being music) who had died on the 5th of December. 

In this year 2010 two of my former husbands have passed away – and now my manager.  I hadn’t seen him in years – but still, an absence is precisely that – something that was there that is no longer.  and an absence of those who have been in one’s life is an absence felt in that mysterious compartment in the brain that records personal existences.  

So I wrote.  Partly to examine, partly to honor and partly to make sure that I remember.  Poetry is my mnemonic aid par excellence.

The poem: still a little raw, parhaps.

     Two Husbands & A Manager

Three deaths this year.

The probability when getting old;

I thought that eighty was statistically

The modern seventy.

Karmic preparation detaching me

From those held dear;

Does Time do me a favor,

Taking savories away

To dull the taste buds of existence?

Preparation? Possibly.

Traveling different roads

That lead to Rome,

Correction: I mean Home.

© Two Husbands & A Manager 12.11.2010

Birth, Death & In Between; Pure Nakedness;

Arlene Corwin




In A Caffeinated Mania 2010

          In A Caffeinated Mania

In a caffeinated mania

I know what it is to be bipolar.

Words, ideas, take hold

And one is stuck at the computer

Or the nearest piece of paper.

It’s quite fun

And pity those on lithium

Who have this feeling all the time:

Rhythm, idea, words and rhyme.

Sounds like a witch’s chant.

I’m Shakespeare, Dostoevsky and

I’m grand,

A giant,


(to rhyme with Dos…)

I had a friend

Who had this syndrome.

Now he’s dead.

He’s home,

I hope.

Thank goodness this condition




As coffee

Leaves and one is sane


And dull.

I believe

It’s leaving.


ow –ly.

© In A Caffeinated Mania 12.7.2010

A Sense of the Ridiculous; Coffee Book;

Arlene Corwin



Is There Anybody Out There? 2010

               Is There Anybody Out There?

Entering my goodies into sites,

Self-publishing, etcetera, today, I quietly

Feel desparate.

Just today and just this minute

I am yearning for a reader – maybe two.

It’s the strangest curiosity,

This urgent need for you.

A thoughtless teen?

Must I be seen?


I am seventy and six.

And over those pretentious tricks.

What confirmation do I crave?

None – when I look inside

Myself, I’m riding waves

Of aptitude. I write.

This calling-out is quite


Perhaps I’m being ruled by ghosts

Of incarnations past

Whose needs unsatisfied

Are in my pride,

Pride being, as you know,

Impedimental to the most,

In this case to the host.



© Is Anybody Out There 12.7.2010

A Sense of the Ridiculous; Circling Round Vanities;

Arlene Corwin





Not An Old Song 2010

            Not An Old Song

Grr, to platitudes – like gratitude –

That lose their punch,

Bunched into

‘The Worn-Out Department of the Brain.’

A lodger lovely and essential;

A sweetness liking everything

That comes its way;

Everything a favor.

Twisting, turning,


‘til you find a reason why –

(lawyers do – to win the case).

In this case, if you’d win it:

To feel grateful every minute.

Fresh and cool;

Not an old song –

A rule.


© Not An Old Song 9.15.2010

Nature Of & In Reality; Vaguely About Music;

Arlene Corwin

Riding Life 2010

                   Riding Life

Never knowing what comes next,

The unexpected taking shape,

Forms worked on, almost uncontrolled,

I carry on. If no one cares,

Who cares? I don’t.

Mentality and habits

Listening more


No matter what;

A good time lying in a day

That keeps surprising

Only because I keep finding

Small things that keep changing;

From the letters in the alphabet –

The cryptic changes in the brain

That force a w to be re-written;

To the visible and in-,

Obstacles ignored,

It feels as if I’m going forward –

And I like it.

© Riding Life 12.4.2010

Circling Round Reality; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II

Arlene Corwin





Blueberry Season Has Begun 2010

                   Blueberry Season Has Begun

Blueberry season has begun.

I treated myself for the first time

In a hundred

Years. I stuffed and fed

My fists and face

Until I could not face one more.

Am I sore?

You bet.

A good bit sour-er

Than berries from New York:

Smaller, tarter,

Brooklyn’s structure


I love ’em.

Antioxidantal pow!

Today, instead of gathering them in a cup

I ate ‘em up,

Not waiting to accumulate for guests and freezer.

I am freer now.

© Blueberry Season Has Begun 7.7.2010

Circling Round Nature;

Arlene Corwin


Every Day That Passes 2010

         Every Day That Passes

Every day is one day closer…

TVs going day/night long

Kinships growing global round – not stronger –


Bags of sand that weigh us down,

We are conditioned beings

With no meaning in

The breadth of meanings;

Non-constructive, non-productive days

To steer us towards a netherworld…

We dither

And we wither.

It’s just me the poet

Talking from my room – a nightime gloom –

A silliness. All death and doom.

Don’t share it if you won’t.

Each day may open faith to one.

© Every Day That Passes 11.28.2010

A Sense of the Ridiculous; Birth, Death&InBetween; Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin

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