I cannot stand to see you there.
I cannot stand to see your face.
A person always in despair
Is hard to bear, so hard to bear.
And scarcely easier the space:
The place you take of pasty waste.
I cannot stand to hear your voice –
Opinionated New York voice:
That mass of uninformed ideas
Expressed unasked; that mass of fears
And vulgar views; contempt, disdain
For other views, and plainly
Those with godly hues.
I cannot stand to hear you speak.
Each talk demands one turn one’s cheek.
You turn all conversation round
To talk about yourself instead.
You run all sound ideas to ground:
You’ve never read a book.
And drag about that sad, filled brain.
You’re seldom cheerful. You complain.
You alternate complain/demand/
Complaint again, your days like sand.
Your stays in bed are days in bed.
You lie about, get up to pee.
You think your thoughts in secrecy.
There’s nothing in you to agree.
Black’s always white. Simplicity
Has left you. Stiff, probably
A long, long time ago there was
A flexible persona there;
A dare I say it, vulnerable child bare.
But now the openness is less.
How silly of me to suggest
An open word like openness.
It’s angst to see you at the door,
And dull to fix your meals, for
There’s no appreciation seen,
Just an indifference to what’s been.
A candle or a flower wasted,
Fine, brewed coffee hardly tasted.
Instant is as good to you.
Why bother, when it’s all the same?
A stew, a brew – just change the name.
As for dinner conversation:
Cynical and silly words,
Repeated, hackneyed little turds;
Dogmatic, slanted, un-thought through;
Self-centered clichés only you
Can see.
If only you could trust in folk.
You simply can-, will not agree
With him or her, or them or me
About the slightest, lightest joke.
You never get the point!
Each issue, like a tissue crumpled,
Torn de-valued, thrown away.
Where the hell’s your sense of play?
Contentious always, and yet yellow,
Formula for living hell, you
Make our dining times an effort,
Pleasant conversation, indigestible sensation.
When it comes to giving credit,
You have done it, seen it, said it.
Since your every word gives pain,
I can’t stand you near again.
If only you’d hold in those good
Suggestions: food,
Ideas, including portions I should cook,
How the size itself should look.
I think, until the day we die,
I will try and cry and sigh. You’ll vie.
Have all those meaningless days’ “Why?”
And I’ll just have to learn to try
That bit more to interpret
Your behavior as a debt
That I must pay in order that this small disjointed,
Small dis-joy-nted soul gets whole.
But God, it’s hard to be a loving, peaceful child
To one whose conflicts drive me wild,
Whose every statement gets me riled,
Whose thinking circles around ‘me’.Blindness or stupidity?
You interrupt and never listen,
Never shift from a position.
Whether stated or negated
Every tiny point’s negated,
Almost hated, never sated.
one feels so sorryFor a woman of some charm.
Still, I’d like to break your arm
For marching, army-like upon
Your daughter and your murdered son.
You never hesitate, you tank!
How I’d love a mom to thank.
How I’d love to thank you but
To be quite frank, I can’t. The hurt
Is much too much twixt twisted you
And direct me. A blindness or stupidity?
An eg-or-eccentricity?
Writing it, is therapy,
A never-ending poetry.
I’ll have to fight to not re-write
(Which could go on indefinitely )
Playing the sage,
Expressing innocent and guilty rage.
This poem has got to stop,
Attention turning to my pop,
My dear Alzheimer losing dad,
The dad who’s losing all he had.
Besides, the anger’s petered out,
So why more meter?
Of course, there are some signs of change,
The range minute and bound to teeter.
Any change is better
Than that set, depressive crater.
Dare I say, it’s bound to be
Resolved one day,
In poetry
Or not.
Love Relationships; Pure Nakedness; Mother Book;
Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 