The Vulnerable

The Vulnerable

 

You read through fiction, verse,

The massive output worsening

Our worries: aging

Sickness, death –

And hit upon some principles

That ease.

One: none leaves

Mother earth alive;

Two: who

Does not lose vigor’s bloom

Once aging’s room is entered?

None whose telescopic zoom

Does not retract,

Contact with healthy everything

A blurring fuzz?

None of us.

We are the vulnerable everyone.

Who can say, “Why me?

Cry, ‘Child…mine…”why, always why.

Can one blame?

Curse heaven’s name when

It, the flaming absolute,

The same-for-all

Is same-for-all,

The game for all to play

With rules to learn, the critical.

 

The Vulnerable 2.26.2008

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Birth, Death & In Between;

Circling Round Reality; Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comeback

Comeback

 

Perhaps I should be grateful

That I never was recipient

Of great applause, years of adorers,

Years of being stunning,

Broadway’s honey (or the like).

Grateful that

I never had to bow out,

That I never got

To miss the kudos

(Never knowing what life was without them

‘Cause I never got them.)

Never got to play Las Vegas.

Grateful that

There never came a time of missing,

Longing for the non-existent encore;

Cheering I no longer hear.

Hair gone gray,

Kilos heading the wrong way,

You are asked to make a comeback,

(Or you’ve asked to make a comeback)

For life’s boring, and no hobby takes the place

Of people sitting in their places.

So you sweat and strain

To get those kilos off again,

To get back those routines

Where you could move (like in your teens),

With flexibility, the voice

Retaining every nuance.

We’ve seen Frank and Cher

Come back again…and then again…

We follow each rendition,

Each gradation, limitation and we cheer

Until we find our cheers have hesitation.

I am grateful that I never

Had the clamoring for autographs and tresses,

Tearing dresses, theirs and mine.

Never had the glamour and the clamor of the masses –

And the need to make a comeback,

Coming back to public whimsical and smelling wine,

Hard to define.

And still I grow.

 

Comeback 5.28.2008

Birth, Death & In Between; Time; Vaguely About Music;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Broken Sleep 2013

Broken Sleep

It’s noon, that’s right, twelve noon,

Tired to the marrowbone,

Still in a nightgown,

Definitely lying down

In bed – a gossip mag-

My sister in-law throws my way.

Here, because at seventy-

(poetic license) sleep is dear;

Here, a tray

of red,

Milk, honey, bread

Precariously balanced

Between multi-pillowed head

And glossy magazinéd thigh,

The daily start retarded.

Fallen angels fall, most likely,

From a lack of energy.

(Any way you cut it,

It is luxury.)

Broken Sleep 12.5.2008 (revised 2.23.2013)

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Circling Round Energy; Circling Round Wrinkles;

Arlene Corwin

Words I Love 2008

Words I Love

 

Serendipity;

Synchronicity;

Put together

I feel

Nothing’s ever

Going wrong.

That it’s timed

And working out;

All timed,

And most of all,

A gift from nowhere.

 

Words I Love 8.4.2008

Love Relationships; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;

Arlene Corwin

 

Listening To The Politicians 2012

Listening To The Politicians Or,

We All Want More

 

The problem is, everyone justifies.

Everyone does it, everyone can.

Defensible, backed up by theories,

It all should function,

Succeed. But it doesn’t.

Numbers, statistics,

Trends end in a partial…

Some truth, much more left –

No theory covers the whole.

Do they know it, admit it?

Laying out budgets, distributing wealth,

Why not admit that the whole is a half

Or a quarter, an eighth?

None of it works.

Are they fools?

Are we jerks?

With the best of intentions,

There are no solutions

But one – and that’s part.

Reducing, contracting and drawing in:

That is a start.

 

Listening To The Politicians 4.15.2008/8.2.2012

Our Times, Our Culture II; Definitely Didactic;

Arlene Corwin

At My Own Funeral 2008

At My Own Funeral

 

I want to be at my

Own funeral.

Friends may cry –

Loyal, tearful distant ones show up.

 

No one loves a funeral. –

Unnatural the natural.  But still,

I want to be there,

Feel myself, feel like a person,

To reassure, be reassured;

Comfort and be comforted.

 

I miss myself already.

Funerals and burials;

Isolating, anti-social,

One ought to be detached,

Not give a fig,

Beyond the air and not care

One way or the other.

 

Dead is dead,

(Or somewhere else).

Perhaps I ought to work on that –

Becoming ready.

 

At My Own Funeral 12.15.2008

Birth, Death & In Between;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Record Keeper 2008

Record Keeper

 

Within five days

Two cyclones, earthquake:

America, Burma, China:

ABC.

Dark mysteries

In alphabetic sequence.

In nineteen seventy or so,

A groups of Yogic nuns I know,

Said “Many will go back to Father”.

Precognition or prediction?

Someone’s crazy predilection?

I would rather

That it hadn’t made much sense,

Such sense, the theory grounded in the curves

That manifested even then:

Technology

We never dreamed we’d see;

A blending of Pandora’s box

And Horsemen Four’s Apocalypse:

Viruses, conflicts, reversals.

One more tidbit I’d forgotten:

Earth’s reaction: Chile:

Mass evacuation,

Lavic rumblings – all within

The same five days.

“Many will go back to Father” –

Where and who he is.”

Deep, deep, deep we know somehow,

Those sandwich guys who vocalize,

Who roam the streets, despised and victimized

(Demosthenes and Socrates) know something true.

Ionized or carbonized,

Pulverized and terrorized

We sit surprised – and yet expecting.

They are right.  It’s happening,

With many going back.

 

Record Keeper 5.13.2008

Our Times, Our Culture; Circling Round Nature; Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

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