Arlene Corwin Poetry

     November 8th, 2016

November eight; election date;

New president, old Arlene Faith

Who, on that date, doth celebrate

29,930 days, 718,320 hours since birth:

A non-elected eighty-two.

Who wants to vote for 82 or -3 or -4,

And doesn’t want to ask for more,

Four more…and more?

For nothing’s better

Than the pancake batter

That is life & breath & health & strength,

And solving unsolved human wrath:

Wars, filth, child-death with all

That forms the aftermath.

And where and what is soul and truth!

It must be synchronicity

That Trump and Hilary

(chump/champ) compete

The day old grumpy me

Heads into grumpy eighty-three,

Hurling memories unpleasant

Into green and pleasant pastures,

Saying anything that pleases

With the breezy ease of Sophocles,

Eighty-two can’t be all bad.

Eight, November: situations:

(Discord outside, inside nations)

Eight, November, compensations.

Are there ever real changes,

Or just temporary re-arrangements –

Everything no more than fad?

^{November 8th, 2016 10.2.2016}

^{A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II; Birth, Death &n Between II: Birthday Book II}

^{Arlene Corwin}