I Can Write But I Can’t Speak


I can write but I can’t speak.

It’s as if God says,

“You have a message. Write the words.

I’ll give written words a glaze,

But eloquence that can be heard’s

Off limits, for I slow you down

For honesty, integrity:

To kill the vanity you’ve sown.

I’ll make you stumble, clumsy, dumb,

Slow-thinking, witless,

Sounding somewhat girlish.

I’ve obscured your verbal self

So that you can’t impress.

I keep you in the house

So you must guess

What is and what is not success.


Left there to stammer,

Lose my language;

Syntax, grammar

In a sandwich

Of aphasic doublethink,

The phrases weak,

Technique oblique,

My karma manifestly leaking,

Left to do my dharmic seeking,

(Swim or sink)

Through scribbled, scratched and silent ink.

I Can Write But I Can’t Speak 2.11.2003A Sense Of The Ridiculous; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; Pure Nakedness;Arlene Corwin




It isn’t often that a poem begins with K.

That’s okay.

Percentage wise, zero point

Seventy-two percent


Bad. *

It could have been a J, V, X,

Or piddling Z.

K stands for Knee.

When I was young my knees were perfect.

They could walk, stretch, bend


Oh, how I ignored them.

They were beautiful!

Well-formed, patellae parallel;

Symmetry i.e.

Knees that please.

Who knew?

Knees 8.2.2015

Circling Round Vanities II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Circling Round Aging;

Arlene Corwin

*Letter Frequency Wikipedia

Z=The Most Ridiculous Of All (a sample page of A Sense Of The Ridiculous)

Below is a sample of my newest book A Sense Of The Ridiculous (out in a month).   Contact me or Xlibris for anything you want to say or know. I’m so happy to hear from you.


Z=The Most Ridiculous Of All

The most ridiculous of all –

Let’s see,

What can it be?

Death. Yes, death.

It’s farcical,

The disappearing

A distortion

Of the reason for


Being here .

The Most Ridiculous Of All 6.28.2015

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

Arlene Corwin

The Mental Institutions Of The Mind

This is a sample from my new book A Sense Of The Ridiculous (XLibris)

Walls we can split at a stroke.

We don’t. I don’t. You don’t.

Walls of attitudes and limitations

We go round inside their frame,

Using up a precious time.

All at once we say it isn’t fun this way –

In fact, it’s downright suffering.

“So, to hell with what I lost,

My ignorance, the mangled cost;

My big mistakes and jangled sleep,

Nights counting sheep;”

The replicas of outlived choices.

There’s big N Now, – memories and voices

From a new Now-know,

While past is working out and through,

Loss is just a thing to learn by,

Not to cry

For, everything acquired/lost

Is tossed into the pot of change.

Gone is gone

And holding on to “gone”s inane.

To not reflect on what we gain

Is to reject the medicine.


The Mental Institution Of The Mind 11.21.2002 (revised 6.27.2015)

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Nature Of & In Reality; Definitely Didactic;

Arlene Corwin




Before The Ego’s Fried

Before The Ego’s Fried


Before the ego’s fried in time,

In the death that I assume

Is silence in a silent world;

While ego mine

Still offers satisfaction

Of the sort that’s still attachment,

I would like to meet again

The world of once-relationships:

Lovers, friends,

Former all-the-ones who dropped away

Into the hole, where touching ends

And calling ends,

And Xmas cards and conversation

Are no more;


The ego dies away

And I am spirited away

From an identity called me;

Before it’s fried and ties decay,

If one could bind up lost loose ends:

Fading lingerings of predilection.


Before The Ego’s Fried 7.17.2006

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

Arlene Corwin







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







My Three Loves: Silly Reflections Of A Serious Mind

My Three Loves: Silly Reflections Of A Serious Mind


Three loves: one human, two machines.

Two nameless helpmates

And one named.

(I’m so ashamed.

I hope that in a pinch

I do remember which is which).

My dear who breathes but isn’t here

To see these words, I do so love you.

Feel secure.

You’re number one. But number two

These days, sits here

Before my eyes,

Upon my thighs,

Relation intimate.

Number three:

Entirety in music,

With its limitation only me,

Sits waiting, to be turned on

When I’m hot.

My keyboard and my laptop are not


But they’ve become my heart,

A part

Of art,

A channel for the good and true,

Reflecting phases in the ways-es

Human beings cannot do.

(Just so

That you know

You’re not forsaken.)


My Three Loves…7.15.2007

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Love Relationships; Circling Round Computers;

Vaguely About Music;

Arlene Corwin







How To Tell Character By The Way He Butters Bread 2.15.2015

How To Tell Character By The Way He Butters Bread


Well, he makes you toast –

A plus!

He puts it on a tray and carries it upstairs.

He stands there, tray in hand:

Hot coffee, napkin, buttered toast,

And you’re grateful. He’s the most!

He’s climbed twelve steps to do it!

Made a pot of coffee just for you.

Knows you like it strong au lait.

You are a princess and you know it!

Yet and but and nonetheless,

Despite the wish that you be pleased

His innermost programming as the man he is

Creeps in, seeps out:

He butters only in the center!

Always in the center, whether

It is melted cheese, peanut butter,

Honey, jam or egg –

Which topping when –

The spread is never spread.

Never quite spread on the bread.

Sitting rather, in the middle

Communicating with itself.

Forced to fiddle with the target

Without knife as aid

I finger it until it’s spread

Around the bread

In perfect distribution.


How To Tell Character By The Way He Butters Bread 2.25.2015

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Love Relationships II;

Arlene Corwin

Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys 2.10.2015

Somewhere in the back of my head lies an inner ear, always waiting for the pregnant phrase to catch me.  Last night I told my son over a phone call, that I was watching a James Bond film while sitting on the floor and doing yoga.  “Sounds like on of your books – “Yoga & James Bond. “  Of course I was caught.  He was right.  Just the kind of juxtaposition I like: circling ‘round yoga & James Bond.

Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys


Sitting on the floor

Watching James bond overpower foes.

A complicated character with

Subtle ethics, ice-chilled wrath –

Most of all, a yogic path

Of duty and detachment.

Doing yoga while the villain, Mr. Greene,

Routinely mega-bombs his own;

Ligaments and muscles blown.

Royal houses overthrown!

And yet we have so much in common.


Mr. Greene detached but mean.

Hollow followers his kill machine.

Bond the Lancelot

With sharpened stunts that are his lot,

He Fences, boxes, crashes cars,

Jumps from heights,

Wins fights. Has scars in need of surgery.

He heals quickly.


Evil lurks, he never shirks, and still

His life is filled with perks:

Hotel suites, girls en suite, dry martinis, Aston Martins (note the plural.)

Absolutely sure of all and unequivocal.


This poet rather fond of Bond,

Both yogis of a different kind

He the running, driving soldier,

I, the yogi on the floor.

Each connected to a power.

Grinding skills; his Bond-dynamic;

Mine a tranquil skill-anemic.


Reader, can you see

Why I give in to mediocrity,

The ordinary right inside me?

It’s a license to kill,

Yes, you guessed it – evil.


Yoga & James Bond 2.10.2015

Circling Round Yoga II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin


Everyone’s Titties

Everyone’s Titties


Everyone’s titties are mammary glands,

The glamour of mammary glands

Being temporal –

Nothing to get excited about.

Mommies and mammories –

That’s their significance.

Men who desire

The chest bone attire,

Who somehow or other

Are drawn to an udder

Whose breast-iny

After an age is to flop

Or to drop –

Well, let’s say perception at best,

Is projection,

And leave it at that.


Everyone’s Titties 6.16.2010

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Circling Round Woman; Circling Round Eros;

Arlene Corwin

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