Don’t Look Now But Poetry Is In

If you’re reading this you know it:

Poetry is in.

Read and written

By those one or two aware or metaphysical,

Those more than few in love, depressed,

Oppressed, repressed;

Just pressed to write.

 

It’s right to write a stanza,

A romance -a, spectacular extravaganza

For whatever and wherever

There’s

A public where

There wasn’t.

Rhyme, no rhyme,

Minus meter,

Syntax less or more,

Ignored.

It matters or…

It doesn’t.

The objective is to say it,

Think it

In no special order,

Murdering the word

Or helping word to smolder

On a reader’s shoulder.

 

Poetry is definitely

Back in

Fashion.

 

Don’t Look Now, But Poetry Is In 11.29.2016

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Our Times, Our Culture II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

Recurring Themes, Recurring Dreams

         Recurring Themes, Recurring Dreams

 

It’s all projection.

 

Have you noticed that

From art, to food, to clothing, all

Are cloaked in style

You’ve carried with you for a mile;

A thread in common,

Background shared.

 

Through life, if you’re aware,

You see the common motif there.

Some dark, dark matter

Smattering the whole of you

And all you do

To permeate each, every hair.

 

Holding to the non-dogmatic,

Real, empirical, pragmatic

Of each day’s encounter,

Nameless through the daily banter,

What can it be called?

Can one explain an undercurrent so obscured

Without a mind to find it?

 

Then you see the undetectable:

Theme, variations

That define the line you’ve drawn throughout.

Back again, again, anew.

In art, in food, in points of view

Recurring themes, recurring dreams

The title running through.

 

Recurring Themes, Recurring Dreams 11.26.2016

Circling Round Reality;

Arlene Corwin

Facial Hairs Mystify

Facial hairs mystify,

Growing how and where they will,

Which partly sheds light on reason why

They call it, willy-nilly.

 

White, black, silky, coarse,

All on the selfsame surface –

Growing inward, shooting up and outward!

It’s ridiculous!

At times I curse the space

They call the face.

It shows no logic.

It’s not magic, not strategic,

But some feeble plan of nature,

Some chaotic plan inscrutable

Whose structure is a stricture

On a want of one thing or another.

Keeping tweezer handy

Without ever understanding,

I surrender

To a power

Higher than…

And I give in,

Say a prayer for some unwitting sin

I must be paying for.

Follicles win

Hands down, I mean,

Face down.

 

Facial Hairs Mystify 10.15.2016

Circling Round Nature II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Circling Round Vanities II, Circling Round Woman II;

Arlene Corwin

 

.

 

 

I Like Looking Like A Boy

I like looking like a boy.

Those massive locks

That locked in looks

From boys and men –

Well, that was then

And now is now.

 

I’ve thrown out needs

And taken in

Convenience, suitability

Which looks as nice – e’en twice as nice

To those bystanders’ gawking shoulders

(Appeal’s molder in the eyes

Of the beholder),

 

Now it’s time for short and neat,

Just as cute

When coexisting with a sweet,

Kind, loving nature;

Character,

Persona’s self charisma

Which as hypnotic, gives off honey’s own melisma,*

Charm’s attraction which,

If used correctly

Does more good

Than all the ringlets ever could.

*a group of notes sung to one syllable of text.

 

I Like Looking Like A Boy 11.24.2016

Circling Round Aging; Circling Round Wrinkles; Circling Round Vanities II;Circling Round Woman II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

The Cold Revised

A prophet’s never known

Among her own –

Especially by one she’s wed to.

He’s abed.

He’s got a cold.

She’s got hold of techniques potent:

Pressure on those points oblique,

Baths and steam,

And as I speak,

Gone phlegmy pangs

And reams of snot

From sinuses and nose and throat.

Alas, alack, he’s stuck all stuffy, prone,

He and his cold,

Alone.

 

Words in the air

Don’t reach his ear

Or mind, and certainly not intellect.

He doesn’t want neglect

But can’t accept

The profit of the prophet.

So he coughs and sputters,

Spews and suffers.

She, not known

Among her own

No matter how ‘spot on’

The common Sense.

 

The Cold 11.15.2016

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Love Relationships II;

Arlene Corwin

Our Tractor Man

Our tractor man is doing

What he really likes to do:

Clearing snow.

He suits my mental man-with-plow.

Trading pig and cow

For gear he likes to sit inside;

The tractor hut;

Tranquil woods to clear and saw,

Chop and cut;

Tractor wheel, forest smell,

Alone deciding what to fell.

Muddy potholes in the spring,

Flood and crud his tractor´s thing.

Nicely chubby,

Slightly tubby;

Sixty odd,

His tractor and the woods his God.

 

I esteem this earthy man

Dharma bound to seasoned stars

That fix the farmer life and plan

Unchangeable and stable.

Our Tractor Man passed away 2016.


Our Tractor Man 3.4.2003 (revised 11.19.2016)

Circling Round Nature; Circling Round Time; Special People, Special Occasions; Birth. Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

                                                     

 

The Cold

A prophet’s never known

Among her own –

Especially by one she’s wed to.

He’s abed.

He’s got a cold.

She’s got hold of techniques potent:

Pressure on those points oblique,

Baths and steam,

And as I speak,

Gone phlegmy pangs

And reams of snot

From sinuses and nose and throat.

Alas,

Alack,

He’s stuck

On sofa prone,

He and his cold,

Alone.

 

Words in the air

Don’t reach his ear

Or mind, and certainly not intellect.

He doesn’t want neglect

But can’t accept

The profit of the prophet.

So he coughs and sputters,

Spews and suffers.

She, not known

Among her own

No matter how ‘spot on’ the common

Sense

 

The Cold 11.15.2016

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Love Relationships II;

Arlene Corwin

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