A wrinkle

Unfamiliar, new!

Wake up to pee,

Pass by the mirror, view

A me

That spies an eye –

A wrinkle,

And I die of incredulity.

Error? Nature?

Nature makes not one mistake.

God’s perplexing statement

Echoing the undebated:

Meshing networks predetermined,

Making one think twice,


To fateful fact and fact-ful fate

That body dies

Sooner or later.

Hard to swallow,

Say a yes to.


Can choose?

Not me, now you.

Inevitable and incredible!


Incredible! 12.10.2016

Circling Round Wrinkles; Circling Round Aging; Nature In & Of Reality; Birth, Death & In Between II;

Arlene Corwin


Joys Of Aging

A complement to Watching The Signs Of Aging


After the complaining

And the moaning groaning,

Crying, wailing

Compensating elements

Make up for the travail.


Appetite for [lots of] food and such

Is still alive, though wanting not

Nor needing,

Feeding much of much,

Replaced by something that arrives

Quite late:

Discipline that liberates

A weary palate, loss of taste

One has no explanation for.


Already written, prized surprisingly:

Loss of lust!

Lust condensed to love and empathy.

So much better, I assure you.

Balanced and secure,

Full of health and warmth.


Remind me reader

What you’re free from.

I would love to hear from

Any one

Of you.


Joys Of Aging 12.7.2016

Circling Round Aging;

Arlene Corwin




Watching The Signs Of Aging

 Not a search for youth,  just the quasi-scientific urge within us.

Watching the signs of aging;



An end.

Notice, I don’t say THE end.


Not a film, a flimsy bit of flimflam,

A clouded artificiality, life imitated, intimated.

As stated:

A downgrading: witless and insensate,

Thinning at the temples,

Eyebrow hairs a crazy zigzag;

Tummy more rotund and round;

Fingers, which, however trained

No longer want to grasp or grip.

Compression of the whole foundation

Underscore the downward trip.


Aging signals watched with care –

Obviously there! Involuntary!

Glasses that you never needed;

Tender spots you never heeded.

Fragile scenes that make you weep.

Couplets which you once thought cheap

Resorted to, which you now keep.


Compensations: pensions, patience;

Many words that end in –pence

Because, and just because

All signs become a Santa Claus:

Signs of good –

That is, when you are in the mood.

Stiff fingers finding newer ways to play piano, open jars,

The mental auto-search a galaxy of syndrome-stars

Bursting unused.


No longer worrying ‘bout standards,

You’ve your own.

No need to join

The middling crowd,

The mediocre: in reality, the herd.

Small ambitions,

Minimized conditions

All good and fine, but still

Signs of aging ultimately will

Win out.


Watching The Signs Of Aging 12.5.2016

Circling Round Aging; Birth, Death & In Between II; Bath Book II;

Arlene Corwin




Funny Autobiographical Thoughts

In 1966 I burned my bra –

Haven’t worn one since,

Content with what God gave me once;

No plastic boobs, no silly-cone nonsense

Standing up when l lie down –

A thought I find amusing

To be added to when musing;

Funny mem’ries such as these

Will carry on as they occur –

Which they will I’m sure.

Bubbling up unceasingly.

(to be continued in the future).


Funny Autobiographic Thoughts 12.4.2016

Pure Nakedness; Circling Round Woman II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;

Arlene Corwin


I Went To A Funeral Today

It’s so important to record these things.  For whom?  God knows.  As art, as etude, as a meditation?  As a way to think through and clarify for one’s own benefit daily eventualities.  God knows – all of those.

Simplistic in its way to say, but

I went to a funeral today.

Our ‘tractor man’ laid in the ground;

I wrote about him year two thousand.

Taking care of all he owned,

Scraping stony muddy snow;

Driving round his tracts of land;

Doing turns that only tractors can

And which, our tractor man was bound to, born to.

Not to milk a tale said once,

Finance, romance, weakness, strength

But tale of more significance

Than in those years when I gave him, his circumstance

No jot,

Well, not a lot of thought,

To make up for it, for I too am démodé,

It’s all-important that I say:

Surreal-ly dreamlike is this life

With time’s phenomenon in strife

With peace we aim for,

Always on the move, at war, divisive.

With no inside proof. It’s tough. Life’s rough.

Death, funerals banal,

My skull a barrel of confusion,

Is it all a grand illusion?

Peer groups going,

I here, with no chance of knowing

What’s in store, no more,

Except to hope that time and fate will favor

Generations, generating

As all beauty queens declare,

“World peace with no death anywhere.”

All this from the lain to rest

Of neighbor passed occasionally,

Known to me but casually.

Respectfully  I went to honor

Just to find myself a more intent participator.

I Went To A Funeral Today 11.30.2016

Birth, Death & In Between II; Pure Nakedness;

Arlene Corwin


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


A public where

There wasn’t.

Rhyme, no rhyme,

Minus meter,

Syntax less or more,


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



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;


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,



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

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