You Never Know

You never know

What phrase will take you

To a place – what shall we call it:

Your mentality,

The frontal lobe,

The hippocampus,

Heart or soul?

It’s hard to say in words & sentences

Conventionally milked, been said,

And you don’t want to be a part of it:

The hackneyed, trite, cliché, banal –

Repeating news old hat and stale.

You have the need to speak anew,

Speak up in ways that freshen,

And you never know what sparks a notion,

Crumb, soupçon, a healing potion

(oxymoron opportune).


What matters is that it,

It comforts by the letting out,

The routing out

Concealed crypts of knowledge.


You Never Know 8.20.2017

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Revelations Big & Small;

Arlene Corwin




Four Hours A Day

     Four Hours A Day

Four hours a day:

A title to portray

What has become a way –

Of life, of being and transferring

Life’s impressions and opinions –

Most ignored or blurred.


All that happens has an impact.

In the body – though unnoticed.

In the mind – through the times,

And in the case of moi, the rhymes.


Four karmic hours,

Evidence of karma’s powers,

For I had no thought of ever being more than

Life’s beholder; passive, on the sideline,

Witness unescorted by reflection.

Now it’s done and I’ve become

Salted in the brine of verse,

Guided by an inner sunshine that’s a beeline

To the mental universe

Of poetry,

Its balladry.


Effortlessly here I sit,

Mac upon and in the lap

Of luxury;

Passivity has never left me.


Involved in passive ways dynamic

Without taking part in antics

Of the present day,

I spend two, three, four hours in play,

Feel contemporary, up-to-date,

Elated by the process as an inspiration.

Quelle elation!

Quelle sensation!

A gold spun

Of twenty six straightforward letters,

Mixed, homogenized and married,

Occupying hours a day.


Four Hours A Day 8.17.2017

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Revelations Big & Small;

Arlene Corwin



Bemoaning Similes & Metaphors

Bemoaning Similes & Metaphors

(the lack thereof )

I cannot think in similes or metaphors.

I can, but it’s

An artifice.

A gift

I’ve not been left with.

Of course,

I’ve got Thesaurus –

My old pal –

To push me

In the simile





To see,

Their inner eye

Comparing parallels unconsciously –

A gift of gene and DNA –

Overwhelm me.

While I moan about my lack,

They sit with throne and luck

Expressing with an ease,

Anything they damned well please

In metaphors and similes

I lie in bed,

This running through my head.

That’s why it’s here.

Bemoaning Smiles & Metaphors 1.13.2010/8.17.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin


Who Would’a Thunk It?

Who Would’a Thunk It? *

Who would’a thunk it?

Fifteen books

Sliding piecemeal into six…

Other’s bibliographies

Whose credit lists go on and on

In pages worn

By use unceasing.

Here sit I

Noon sun high,

Ablaze with phrase

That turns into (most likely will)

Ideas instilled

With rhyme and substance,

Probing, pressing cortex’ lobe

Gushing, pushing out the job.

Who would’a thunk, in any case,

That it would form the base of hours

Spent each day as child’s play?

(Except that I’m grown up!)

Who would’a thunk it?

Who’da Thunk It? 8.16.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin

*Thunk; informal or humorous past and past participle of think.

Who Wouldn’t Want To Be Remembered?

Who wouldn’t mind being remembered?

It’s not the same as wanting fame –

Naiveté’s vanity its other name.


Who wouldn’t mind some impact?

An itch to reach out

Maybe teach, knowing one knows so little –

Naught at all – We are so small.


But art is there,

And impulse wants from within wants out,

Shouts quietly with word

When you yourself have disappeared.


Who Wouldn’t Mind Being Remembered? 8.16.2017

Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin


Do We Own?

Do we own?

Own what?

Parents die;

Friend, enemy;

Ones we have never known

In circumstance we’ll never see

In lands we’ve never been.


What do we own?

Goods heaped up over years,

Stored in a wardrobe or armoire,

Or locker somewhere

Because life has changed-cum-rearranged –

Or we’ve lost interest – period.


Do we own?

Appropriated from life’s providence?

For providence means helped/provided for,

Sustained, maintained, endowed, supplied.

It never meant forever.


We alone are what we own.

I too. And you.

(Though there are some who say we are on loan.

But that’s another story).

Do We Own? 8.10.2017

Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin




How Are You: The Unpredictability

They almost always start the conversation

With “How are you?”

You say “Fine”.

It is the norm.

Time-honored, automatic, form expected.


Yet, you reach an age

Where you no longer fit the norm accepted,

And you hesitate,

Waiting just a little bit

‘fore voicing back.

Unpredictable tomorrow:

Routine ailments, triumphs, sorrow;

Unpredictable around-the-clock.


Is it wrong to linger?

Wait to answer?

I think not.

To blur convention, slur cliché,

You spur [real] candor

For the day.


When they ask you how you are,

Think of instability

And take a second to reply.


How Are You: The Unpredictability 8.9.2017

Circling Round Reality; Definitely Didactic;

Arlene Corwin



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