Imprisoned In Jeans 2013

Imprisoned In Jeans


Legs in the highest of high heels;

Shapes paid to wear

the rags

Of some big deal

Whose name commands big money.

Girls willowy, who saunter

‘Cross our TV screens

In jeans

Of every width and breadth

But there, there in the secret part,

The part that has to breathe

Confined, restrained, constricted, trapped

They sit

Tight, tight,

No single centimeter left in which

To fit

A finger in some slit.

A sweaty thing, to say the least.


Imprisoned In Jeans 2.25.2013

Our Times, Our Culture II; Circling Round Vanities II:

Arlene Corwin


Seeing Everything Through Eyes Of Death 2013

Seeing Everything Through Eyes Of Death


I see everything through eyes of death.

Another friend has been informed:

Disease.  Disease mestastisized.

I turn the television on –

A program about nature.

Not much – nothing unfamiliar;

Still I see,

Through eyes in me,

The end of everyone, the transciency

And all I think is, I must meditate,

Pray, contemplate

And change more [quickly]

Than I have before.

It’s death.  If not that

Then, it’s fading.





Then I forget.


Seeing Everything Through Eyes Of Death 2.27.2013

Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin



Good Yoga 2013

          Good Yoga

(Secrets of a 78 year old Yoga teacher)

Good yoga lies in details; yes,

The insignificant:


Stuff you never pay attention to,

To which you never pay attention.

You, the organism

That consists

Of teeny, tiny-nesses-es,

Each of which you must detect.

It’s you – why not?

You are the only you you’ve got;

You’re what

You’re made of,

What you’re based on.

You have nothing better than

To know it

In its wholeness-parts:

Abilities and limitations,

Weaknesses and strengths:

Its opposites.

Good yoga:

Everything you do.

Good Yoga 2.26.2013

Circling Round Yoga; Definitely Didactic;

Arlene Corwin

Broken Sleep 2013

Broken Sleep

It’s noon, that’s right, twelve noon,

Tired to the marrowbone,

Still in a nightgown,

Definitely lying down

In bed – a gossip mag-

My sister in-law throws my way.

Here, because at seventy-

(poetic license) sleep is dear;

Here, a tray

of red,

Milk, honey, bread

Precariously balanced

Between multi-pillowed head

And glossy magazinéd thigh,

The daily start retarded.

Fallen angels fall, most likely,

From a lack of energy.

(Any way you cut it,

It is luxury.)

Broken Sleep 12.5.2008 (revised 2.23.2013)

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Circling Round Energy; Circling Round Wrinkles;

Arlene Corwin

Words I Love 2008

Words I Love




Put together

I feel

Nothing’s ever

Going wrong.

That it’s timed

And working out;

All timed,

And most of all,

A gift from nowhere.


Words I Love 8.4.2008

Love Relationships; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;

Arlene Corwin


I Cannot Come To Grips With Time 2011 2013

      I Cannot Come To Grips With Time


I cannot come to grips with time.

A Wednesday can be Sunday –

I don’t care when I don’t know –

And I don’t often know or care.

The point is, it keeps slipping by.

If only I

               could slow it down

By always being in a now,

The focusing the magic potion

That apportions sensibility.  


I Cannot Come To Grips With Time 8.4.2011 (found on a scrap 2.9.2013)

Circling Round Time II;

Arlene Corwin

Inner Laziness Of the Mind 2013

Inner Laziness Of The Mind

I blame myself: tamasic, slothful

In the subtlest, most deceitful ways,

Secret ways,

Hard to describe

And sneaky too;

The slight unwillingness to move;

The small decision not to do.

Postponement; working ‘gainst improvement;

Expertise, technique and not


What it means to be a being

In control;


Who can explain

The nook

Inside our brain,

As if it all

Were nonsensical?


Inner Laziness of the Mind 2.9.2013 (2 poems found unfinished on a scrap date 6.15/17 2003)

A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

Book Of Numbers 2013

Book Of Numbers


Did you know you were born

On Tuesday, nineteen thirty-eight,

At ten past midnight,

Dear Linnea knew;

At her happiest with you inside

Did you know she

Considered it

The finest

Of her pregnancies;


happy months, a Kent inside;

Her pride,

Her joy,

Her second born,

Her tranquil boy.

So many things one doesn’t ponder:

Life before the now & here.


Can you picture

Digits seventy & five

Now part of you?

Your cue to live

Defining who you are & what you do,

Refining these things too.

Remembering the happy birth that just a few

Have been as privileged as you.


May all your days be filled with jazz,

Mastering the longest phrase

And playing faster with each hand

On your white glossy Kwai grand.


May your tender heartbeat beat

Until you are one hundred eight.

The happiest of all the birthdays

You have had to date!


Book Of Numbers 1.29.2013

Birthday Book; Numbers Book;

Arlene Corwin



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