The Art Of Being In The Kitchen

       The Art of Being In the Kitchen

 

In the library of my mind, I stand,

Knowing that I must make lunch.

On no more than a hunch

I riffle through the freezer, fridge,

Bridging tastes.

Going through from A to Z, standing quietly

I taste and test, investing time

To form a meal that will fill.

Maybe I rotate a bit, but really, I’ve not moved my butt.

A meal is forming from within;

Splendid, or so-so, I have no way of knowing, for

Like all good genies,

This one’s free to come, to go,

Its will

An individual.

I may review a recipe,

Then alter strategy;

Start out with one intention,

Ditch it on the kitchen bench and

End up cooking something new –

(Something you might least expect)

Cooking at its very best!

This is just

A form of art

That all too quickly turns to fart,

The start of which

Is simply being in the kitchen.

 

The Art Of Being In The Kitchen 4.28.2015

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin

Sick 4.25.2015

Awake.

Sky opaque.

What is the meaning of it all?

No special plans to follow;

Nose stuffed, ache or two.

Sky thick, you hollow.

What to do?

Go out

Into that mystic spot,

A cryptic universe –

Converse as if there’s someone there,

Then leave the bed.

A little later bed’s still better.

Cup of coffee, cereal.

Radio – the world brought nearer,

Real’s realer.

Media in eye and ear –

(a TV’s also in the chamber).

Drained of energy and weak,

Fatigued, fagged out, concerned and sick.

One bug and she’s an underdog.

A categorical, outrageous drag!

The scalawag!*

* scalawag; a rascal

Sick 4.25.2015

Defiant Doggerel; A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

Gardening The Forest: A Work In Progress

I garden the forest.

Walking everywhere – like Johnny Appleseed –

I keep my excellent Swedish clippers at my side,

And when I eye a roadside tree

With branch too low, so’s I can see,

I make the lower branches go,

Prune and clear selectively,

Clip high as I can reach,

Which

Being five foot one

And using muscle of the female kind,

Is always kind to undergrowth,

Seduced by ‘further’,

Blazing paths that never were,

So light can filter through.

It wants for sun.

It makes for light.

The woods and I are one;

But I can’t tell a soul.

Wandering on until de-celeration

Starts to take me over,

Signs I’ve learned to recognize

When fervor starts to waver

And observer me says “Rest!”

Works in progress never cease.

It is a forest,

After all.

Work In Progress: Gardening The Forest 11.28.2006 revised 1.18.2014/again 4.20.2015

Circling Round Nature; Circling Round Nature II;

Arlene Corwin

How People Survive

How People Survive

 

Survival

Is a miracle.

Each morning waking

In a cloud of plans –

Plans a cloud,

Anxiety and hope all one;

Vague, unshaped, a whole-in-one.

 

Time’s passage there,

You unawake and unaware,

More behind you, less in front,

“Don’t!” you tell yourself.

“Don’t worry, think ahead –

Reality inside your head

Is expectation and interpretation.

So, in waking’s dread

And day’s confusion

Stage is set.

You’re out of bed, the wager

Of survival

Is whatever follows,

And you take it.

 

How People Survive 4.18.2015

Circling Round Reality; Birth, Death & in Between II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Listen Husbands Out There

Listen Husbands Out There

Listen husbands out there,

Who ignore, disdain

Vagina’s brain,

Emotion’s need,

Emotion’s brain,

Vagina’s need;

Romance without the penis,

Lovely garden, a lovely house;

Ignored, the little mouse down where

It counts.

I’ve heard about you husbands

From my lonely friends,

So hear my warning:

One grey morning

After nights of stone

She’ll up and leave that all-prosaic penis,

Yup, alone.

Listen Husbands Out There 9.23.2013

Love Relationships II; Circling Round Eros II;

Arlene Corwin

Dancing In The Bed

Dancing In The Bed

 

It’s 8:15 a.m. I’m still

Asleep when you come in the room.

The radio’s been on since five.

You modestly and unassumingly

Creep in. I slowly come alive.

My neck is slightly sore, the symptom

Of a migraine. You massage it.

Then because the body needs it

And you’re sensitive, your fragrant hand,

Like a corsage, begins to find,

Explore my spine.

There’s music in the background and,

Before we know it, there we are

Moving, dancing in the bed.

Lovely and exciting rhythms

Form our future memoir.

Up and down, the rose bedspread

Awry, we minuet and smile,

Closely dancing all the while.

And, oh, how we enjoy the time

Willingly exploited, using

Hands and even feet to prime

The other’s total health, the boozing,

Bruising done by others non-existent.

How we’ve laughed! Now I’m awake.

I feel like a griddlecake.

Or eggs and steak?

The dance in bed not inconsistent

With the need to eat,

The music’s beat

Now slow, now fast, the background broadcast

Perfect prologue to a breakfast.

 

Dancing In The Bed 5.5.1996

Love Relationships; Circling Round Eros;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Dust On A Mirror

Dust On A Mirror

 

Bad art, good art:

Rembrandt, Schubert painted, wrote

Works even mother wouldn’t like…

(and you know mother loves it all)

They had to, driven from within.

We all do – driven from within.

Good, bad, mediocre,

Spurred on one time or another

It’s all dust upon a mirror.*

 

*The Gita says that mistakes belong to humans as dust on a mirror.

 

Dust On A Mirror 3.18.2010/revised 4.13.2015

Definitely Didactic; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin

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