Arlene Corwin Poetry

It’s 2am and I awaken.

Thoughts break in

And I begin:

I write the books.

Charming, informative.

They do not sell.

Carefully worked on and out until they gel,

Spontaneous but ne’er pell-mell,

Tight, concise, the format small;

Life’s storms,

Its call to arms,

A bawling at our time’s alarms,

Wailing ‘gainst life’s wailing wall,

Admiring the beauty of it all…

What e’er it is I have to tell:

They do not sell.

So what the hell!

But what is hell?

The poet’s railing wall?

Perhaps the tiresome need to sell.

^{The Books I Write & Thoughts At Night 7.12.2017}

^{A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Our Times, Our Culture II;}

^{Arlene Corwin}