Can It Be?

I never intend to write and then…. reading something that moves me, I write. Maybe that’s the secret behind this poet’s produce! Reading, hearing, seeing, thinking, reacting…🧘‍♀️✍️❤️

While not the least politically
Inclined I have to query why
In my beloved country,
Pentagon (I read), spent (needlessly),
A coinage even I, without a medical degree
Could cure an awful lot of disabilities!
Imagine what the pros could do!

Wait ’til you hear the nuttiest of items yet.
You’ll soon be fainting on the parquet:
Two million of your hard-earned cash –
Wait for it! On lobster tail!
While railing rashly against Medicare
And Medicaid for all! (Oy vey, I’m falling).

Simplistic me! It isn’t hard to see
That government and body
Have one aim, and one aim only:
To help make this world a better place
By lacing, facing, gracing programs
With suggestions and investments
That will help the mass.
Straightforward as transparent glass, yes?

Climate change, free schooling from the bottom up.
While cups of money runneth over,
Billions go to wars and guns – all means to death
While I sit hear and hold my breath,
In harrowed sorrow.

Can it be that my beloved country
In its cherished form, democracy
Is sailing straight towards lunacy?
Denials and reprisals and…
All sorts of imbecility?

I do my bit, and this is it!
(at least a part)
For it’s my heart that’s breaking.
Can It Be? 4.13.2019 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

More Bits Of The Puzzle

Now that we’ve captured,
More than pictured
One small hole, one little black, galactic hole ⚫️
(for after all
it’s only fifty-six our suns) –
One wonders:
“What is black hole knowledge good for? And,
“Where do we go from here?”
I answer in my inexperience and ignorance –
My lack of information, cluelessness and innocence:

All knowledge of that kind must lead, by definition to more knowledge of some kind;
Putting more and more bits of the collage, bits that we find
So that we understand more of the whole.
And isn’t that the goal?
To understand the whole?

More Bits Of The Puzzle 4.11.2019 Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin

The Perfect Comment

      The Perfect Comment😍🎹👩‍🎤✍️🎬📚
  (a continuation of ‘Comments Versus Likes')

I love it when the reader can identify
With what’s been offered, what’s been done.
Love it when the quality that make you ‘you’
Helps you come through.
When the quality of being true is felt or shared
By someone somewhere, anywhere,
And shared in some root way.

Film, poem, painting – any form of word or picture.
Any work that represents an effort on the part of a creator.
That’s the aim. Always the same.
To comment with some sort of affirmation is the game.
The perfect way to utter
For it is the perfect footnote. Closure.

The Perfect Comment 4.9.2019 Our Times, Our Culture II; Definitely Didactic; Arlene Nover Corwin

Comment Versus Like

This is a standing consideration of mine:🧘‍♀️
Comment Versus LIke

I do appreciate a ‘Comment’ as opposed to ‘Like’.
It is much supportive, justifying and confirming.
There is sloth in Like.
It says, “I’ve seen your work, but lack the drive
And will to analyze or criticise.”
I myself make efforts to do either/or or both.
It is a way to honor writer, painter – anyone whose entry
Rates a thoughtful, grateful, grading,
Not the least, a kindly greeting.

Maybe Facebook has to change the word
From quasi-turd (my own deduction) to another
More demanding term.
Do you, dear reader disagree, agree,
Or have you never given idea scrutiny?

Here’s a thought:
Try to enter some prioritized idea to see
What feedback you receive online.
Try to feel the feeling that it gives: some fine
Bouquet of gladness or the slight hint of rejection.
Unresponsiveness a no-no;
It produces endmost disenchantment,
For we human beings need to know we are alive
In mirrored eyes of others, any form of love
Much better than no love at all.
Like is often meanly small.

Comment Versus Like 4.9.2019 Definitely Didactic; Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

A Poet’s Diary

A reflection of the creative process in action.
A Poet¨s Diary ✏️⌨️🗒💻

Four hours is about the time
It takes AC to write poem –
To spawn a concept holding true
Throughout, the format glued
So that the reader, unconfused
Can come away in thought, declaring,
“This I understood and ought to share it!”

Five this morning she awakened
And too tired to rise, she staked her
Bet on subtle yoga to do something wise
For body and for intellect,
Collecting and connecting mindful musings.

Suddenly, computer there on shelf beside her,
She could slide and write her unformed verse.
Still stilted, (could be worse),
But dripping through, the fingers tripping through
A blend of lexicon, thesaurus, thought and spontaneity.
Lo, a poem! Quite awful but with full veracity –
In need of much adjustment, which in turn erase
And suture lines to rhymes, mirror poetic face,
Which once again began to train and form a unit: charming
Meaning geared, the abstruse cleared, ejected and corrected, by which time
Not quite yet primed, Ms Corwin heard the first alarm;
A gentle wake-up sound which said,
“Four hours have passed. Get out of bed!”

She will go over poem once more.
With bedroom slippers still on floor, now on her feet,
She will go down the stairs to eat,
For writing is a hungry feat
Of mystical creation.
A Poet’s Diary 4.7.2019 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

The Clock Tick-Tocks Your Socks Away

The clock ticks like a wick downsizing in the dying:
Temporary, transient, here today and gone tomorrow.
Pastimes burrowed into passed times past,
One thinks of famous men and women, fired, admired.
Mind gets tired, for they’re gone,
Their traces ploughed into the fertile, furrowed place beyond.
Cassavetes* and Columbo*; cancer and dementia.
Legacies of wizardry and yet, their own and grievous ends.
Death leaves a black hole – pointless, endless,
Llfe a mole (in every sense): secret agent, blotch and spy.…
Gulf between ability and what is real:
The real causes in this wheel of cause/effect, effects so spread
It breaks one’s head to think about.
Life and end:
Serene or more than flesh can stand.
What’s left of name, what’s left of fame?
In a wink consigned to limbo.
What is left for one to do?
Desiring nothing, seeing through the great illusion:
Corwin’s view: nothingness of/ in the all.
So do not cry but live the by and by with joy;
Pain of any sort’s a sore-ful, wearying and taxing bore.
Know yourself, and carry on, not with tons of worried hurry, but with kindly moderation.
Suns and stars – the galaxies are growing out, then easing off.
Continue pleasing you yourself
With coffee, for all coffers are but coffins — truth you cannot slough.
Habits sound, so as to lengthen years with scarce few tears and fears;
Apostle of benevolence to one and all in the small, small spheres of sway;
Continuing in doings that belong to each propensity,
Refining all the while, smile!😀
Energy that’s vaporised, choices tapered day by day,
The clock tick-tocks your socks away.
(Quirky but not funny).
The Clock Tick Tocks Your Socks Away 4.7.2019 Definitely Didactic; Birth, Death & In Between III; Arlene Nover Corwin
*John Cassavetes; Peter Falk; two brilliantly creative and productive actor/writer/directors.

       The Clock Tick-Tocks Your Socks Away⏳
                  (quirky but not funny)


I Can’t Tell A Joke But…

I Can’t Tell A Joke, But…😜

I can’t tell a joke
But when singing and playing in choked, smokey rooms,
I do have a sense of life’s humor.
A sense of the funny, the laughable, comical,
Silly and farcical,
Thoughtless, illusory, foolhardy,
Yes, even pointless ridiculousness.
Yet, I am not trying. I guess
I’m just pleasant, a nice Brooklyn peasant girl
Doing her best.

From whence
Comes this sense?
Well, I can’t say I know.
It shows when performing.
When babbling freely
Some sense of the silly comes storming in,
Wholly spontaneous – and people laugh!
It’s good for my craft
And I sing extra well, (I can tell).
I have extra fun.
I am Parker* and Corwin all rolled into one.

According to thinkers, philosophers, sages,
Life is appearance, and all through the ages
The seeker and pundit
Have seen the truths under it,
And that the truth’s often funny,
Believe it or not.

I can’t tell a joke
But my yolk is pure gold.

*Dorothy Parker poet, critic satirist 1893-1967
I Can’t Tell A Joke, But…4.2.2019 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Nover Corwin

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