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

Direction.

Those

Whose

Aptitude’s

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.

A/The/My Way (redone)

         A/The/My Way

 I never knew I had a ‘way’.

And still it shows up day by day

Laws but felt, themes unmeant;

Through sudden fountains of content;

Through many offshoots but one road,

No signposts to direct or goad.

Still it is:

A kiss of fate though non-insistent,

Usually

An accident and serendipitous.

 

And because, and just because it is a whisper

I’ve no choice

But to

Tune into

And obey,

Swaying to its hinted push,

The glint of pressure

Nothing but a pure, faint sureness

And a pleasure.    

            

Minutes past I ate three plastic plates of pasta.

Forgive this frilly, dilly of a joke.

I can be such a silly yokel

With punch/pun-ny lines that hit my funny bone(s).

 

Now I sit with pen in hand

On my verandah, in the wind,

Thankful for not understanding

Karma’s muted law un-grand,

Inscrutable but suitable

To me alone – one on her own

Within the actions and concerns.

 

A/The/My Way 8.6.2017

Pure Nakedness; Revelations Big & Small; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;

Arlene Corwin

Very,Very & Fantastic

She struggles with each verb and noun,

Adjective, conjunction, article and even

Pronoun.

All to better brain:

Maintain

The art parts, smart parts,

A la carte parts.

 

There are leaders:

Chairmen of the boards who stay

Long adolescent in some way.

Ambitious, never swaying

From their standpoints, outlooks and perspective. Oy!

A very, very Oy yoy yoy!

 

“I am best! Don’t mess with me,

Don’t carp or bleat.

My words unquestionably

right

And those who choose to disagree…

Are rendered useless usefully.

My deeds, and all I nominate

Are very, very, very great!

I live on very un-elastic,

Very, very and fantastic!

 

Very, Very & Fantastic 7.29.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

The Books I Write & Thoughts At Night

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

 

The Books I Write & Thoughts At Night

 

 

 

Internet Down

           Internet Down
My Internet’s been downed
Like copters in the movie
Black Hawk Down. Not really.
A childish melodrama that speaks
Of need and weakness.
The company that charges
For the privilege of barging into planetary life
Has sold itself to one – more rich and more far-reaching.
Dependent wretch,
I’ll have to pay the higher rates. They hold the reins.

There being glitches in the starting up.
This gap a slap in Arlene’s face,
But missing Wikipedia and mail,
I’ve let them nail me.
Waiting for the Flash drive USB
To come, but gosh and golly,
It’s a four-day holiday.
The post has lost more days
(the post is slow in any case).
The therapy?
I’ve had to muse on facelessness and vanity.

A week of absence
From the Web-based
Superhighway cyberspace,
Digitally online
Will be fine –
A rest from showing off the ego;
A real place in real space;
One’s fancied expectations
Where you know deep down
That not one of the bodies out there
Really care,
But you.


Internet Down 6.4.2017
Small Stories; Circling Round Reality; Pure Nakedness; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

To All The Criminals IN The World


What will you do with all the money that you steal?

Such frivolous ambition, such shallow drive!

To feel alive? A fancy meal?

Believe me there are better things to make life real.

Designer clothes, a fancy house?

Lots of sex to prove that you are more than mouse?

What’s wrong with you?

You’re gonna die. We all just do.

 

What in heaven’s name (or hell)?

Greed just makes you small and smell –

The whole ambition yellow.

 

Gluttony, and hunger, all those drives for more –

Their more is less. They’re glamor-less!

Not to speak of pain you cause:

The drain of pain,

The chain of pain you deign to cause!

What can I say?

You betray what human beings’s meant to be:

Nice, kind, with generosity

Abounding in all thought and deed,

All energy, all conduct and activity.

 

To all the thieves and villains,

All the gangsters, burglars, miscreants,

You’re not the fancy pants you think you are – or aim to be.

So I repeat, believe you me,

It’s all so hare-brained. Wait and see!

You will wake up one day agreeing.

 

To All The Criminals In The World 5.16.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Nature Of & In Reality; Our Times, Our Culture II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

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