Approaching Eighty-Four

Approaching Eighty-Four🌈🧘‍♀️🎹🎙

I’ve done this before:
Approached an age ending in -four,
Each ode not odious, just curious.
We try again, thinking a-fresh,
Looking back perhaps, or not at all,
Each day too precious to make small
By wasting time
Or spending energy so prime
One can’t afford to lose a moment.

So, the four shall represent a forward;
Optimistic, filled with power
For and in the precious hour;
Looking pretty
For each meeting –
Why the devil not? One’s got
A draw full of cosmetics –
Why not use them up,
Take priorities inborn,
Sworn in by gene-filled gifts and such,
And stay in touch.
“Know yourself” says Socrates.
“Please yourself”, says Corwin.
Integrating both, the tightest squeeze
Can be a breeze, can save your skin,
Transform a sin to virtue.

So, this eighty-four
Will use the talents and affections,
Making use of recollections and reflections
For a future
Filled with skilled and skilful, single-minded concentrations.

Approaching Eighty-Four 8.28.2018 Birthday Book; Birth, Death & In Between III; Pure Nakedness II; Circling Round Aging; Circling Round Energy; Circling Round Time II; I Is Always You Is We; Lessons To Be Learned; Nature Of & In Reality, Arlene Nover Corwin

She Dry, He Soft

In these days of online conservatism, I dare not publish what-I-think-is a sweet and loving poem.  Of course, I won’t hesitate to put it into one of three books (see bottom of poem), since I consider it a good poem in itself and an observation worth the art.  Hope you agree.

 

       She Dry, He Soft

 

She dry, he soft.

They hold aloft romance and passion.

Does not passion pass on?

And what stance does romance take

When body fails?  Does one fake?

The keys are there in every action:

Every whispered word, touch, clutch.

Intensity may modify.  

Who needs to reach the sky each twinkling of an eye?

Friendship’s warmth and harmony

Lie at the heart of passion’s key,

And if they go, so will the rest.

At best, what’s left but superficiality –

A shell – and crusty one at that,

Destined in the upshot to fall flat.

She dry, he soft, not often reaching Everest,

Yet sex, oh yes, the very best,

Back and forth in all its warmth.

Superlative

In giving.

She Was Dry, He Was Soft 7.1.2018 Circling Round Aging; Eros Ii; Love Relationships II;

 

 

Unmotivated Tears

           Unmotivated Tears

 I used to criticize

The eyes

Of those I knew

Who, at

Drops of a hat

Shed tears of ardor: God-knows-what.

 

Ascribing it

To vitamins and lack thereof,

Past, present and/or too much ‘love’.

Too something/something out of balance;

Nothing but a prevalence

Of yin or yang

Ganging up

On both those ducts.

 

Uncaring and unfeelingly – I used to be.

Now, at eighty-three it’s me.

I may need hormone therapy.

Or is it age sagacity –

Unmotivated tears

Based on a grasp of life’s chimere

That takes in all –

An all which makes one engineered

By tears

One must defer to.

Unmotivated Tears 4.24.2018 I Is Always You Is We; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Aging; Arlene Corwin

 

 

I Need That Drug (silly, aging me)

           I Need That Drug 

It’s 4am and I’m awake,

And so I take up Mac

Who sits beside,

And grope for pen to start the ride

Into a poem,

For phrase and rhyme of the most nebulous formation

Have installed themselves into my equally

Unclear and foggy brain train station.

 

Left to need a drug to write,

This sluggish mind awake this night

And cloudy when it’s morning light,

Won’t think, won’t write,

Cannot create

Until that cup of coffee.

 

So, until the sun comes up

And hubby brings that morning cup

With warmed milk and a pancake.

I remain unwillingly awake

Mac’s screen the only source of luminescence,

Pen and paper of the essence

Funny ponderings, mental wanderings,

Scrawling like a daft bedbug

Waiting for the morning gulp

To bring my muse to shape and type

The rest.

I Need That Drug 11.5.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Coffee Book II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

Gifted But Out Of Tune

 

Doctor: “What can you expect?

You’re eighty-two! Accept it!

Vocal cords, no longer tighten.

Yours will never close again.”

 

Goodness knows, boy, do I know it!

Unpredictable, quixotic.

Coming, going, throwing

Intonation out the window.

 

Eighty-two, all soon to be

An eighty- three.

Must Corwin flee because of age?

Flee the stage because of age?

Damn, no!

Today, tomorrow,

She says no to going!

 

Sings her heart out – when she can.

Songs fantastic; jazzy, cool,

Breaking rule harmonic

For the music and the fun of it.

But voice, alas, hard to control,

Its life so unconnected to the whole.

 

Bitch pitch, stich with crooked seam;

Bad, sad, how she sorely wants to scream.

She doesn’t.   Giving out the gifts from heaven,

Hearing flaws – now a given.

Focusing

on now and only…

Singing, playing joyfully;

Doing when and how,

She crowns the gig and takes a bow.

Gifted But Out Of Tune 10.7.2017

Vaguely About Music II; Pure Nakedness; Circling Round Aging;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

A Body Winds Down

         A Body Winds Down

A body winding down –

Its signs a preparation:

Loss of appetite, sound sleep at night;

Strength in arm and grip,

Youthful movement in the hip;

Fifty small, small things of note –

To note, denote, remote

As they may be.

 

Beginning early, barely showing:

Gone or worn, the bite uneven,

Pearly whites no longer pearly;

Vocal cords and tongue or throat

Cracked, coated…

Body borne from infancy,

Winding down.

 

There it is, the fact of it.

Can you take

The tact of it?

(Or tactlessness –

The zero chance to make

It over?)

Living’s always closing in on kith and kin –

On all and every who can’t win,

The numbers passing by

Each day receding into destiny.

A Body Winds Down 9.14.2017

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

Arlene Corwin

It Was A Sunny Day Today

 

 

 

Once I Was Young

A cliché maybe,

For the multitudes have said it,

Yet,

One thinks it now and then,

In one way or another.

Situation, circumstance transport it to

The frontal lobe.

One probes the wardrobe of the brain

Where dreams have lain

And lie there still, so very still and quiet.

 

But today I chanced to see

A photograph of me

And chanced to say,

“Once I was young”.

It did not feel like cliché,

But fresh, revivifying

Memories I had not thought about,

Affections that now brought about

Sensations not particularly rosy –

But not jarring either.

More a nosy statement not opposing fact;

In fact, prosaic,

Dry.

 

I

Once

Was young

Not to

Be that again.

Do you

Experience that also?

Once I Was Young 7.23.2017

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

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: