Yes, maybe sometimes I speak in clichés,
Or maybe metaphors some of my days.
Maybe you don't understand my rhymes,
Or can't keep up with the dictionary's changing times.
Even if you don't understand this art,
Know that I'm a poet who speaks from the heart.

Everyone wants to say
Something just, important
Even with time
That will keep
Unlike the strawberries
From friday market

Puppies, Grandmothers and Young Lovers
I guess strong emotions
Make us fall
Back to old words

Naysayers for cliches
They say make
Bright days
A pain to hear

I'll let you decide
For yourself

How Are You: The Unpredictability

They almost always start the conversation
With “How are you?”
You say “Fine”.
It is the norm.
Time-honored, automatic, form expected.
        
Yet, you reach an age
Where you no longer fit the norm accepted,
And you hesitate,
Waiting just a little bit
                            ‘fore voicing back.
Unpredictable tomorrow:
Routine ailments, triumphs, sorrow;
Unpredictable around-the-clock.

Is it wrong to linger?
Wait to answer?
I think not.
To blur convention, slur cliché,  
You spur [real] candor
For the day.

When they ask you how you are,
Think of instability
And take a second to reply.

How Are You: The Unpredictability 8.9.2017
Circling Round Reality; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin

One wants six of one, or half dozen of the other
Because he'll cook a fine kettle of fish.
Fully aware he can't please everyone
For some see the grass is always greener on the other side.
So, he's busy, meets oneself coming and going,
And knows, come hell or high water,
That there's no time like the present.
Busy as a bee, one prepares the meal.
He's a book you can judge by the cover.
One quips, The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
I knew he'd say that.
One's words speak louder than actions.
One's enough to ******* the Pope.
Believe me, I have an axe to grind,
And I'm at my wit's end.
Better safe than sorry,
*Avoid one like the plague.

This is a cliché for you.
I would decorate you.  
in these rows of letters,
maybe paint it on your skin
because just saying it isn't enough.
I want to see it.
I want to hold a mirror to you and me,
and say, See baby, don't you see?

So, I write it and hold your hand and kiss your cheek,
my head on your shoulder.
If only I could give a touch
of the love
you give to me.

She has constellations on her skin
And galaxies in her eyes
She is a work of art
Worth more than all in The Louvre
Her hands touch everyone's soul
And her laugh is a breath of life
She's astounding, yet doesn't know it
Your dream used to be
To show her her worth
But now she's gone
And left you in the shadows

I am a cliche poet.
I compare most of your parts
To the cosmos;
I refer to love as immortal,
The soul as ethereal,
The spirit as bird-like,
Death as a cave, surely dark and lonely,
And nature has a magnificient part
With all its pathetic fallacies,
Sunrises, sunsets, tides.
I once compared a man's legs
To an aerial roadmap,
And a ***** to a bull frog
In the Savanah.
O, the crosses I've borne to explain saying
I love you
Without sounding trite.
I may resort to prose
And dress up the poetric mantra.

Seduced by clichés of love,
We signed on for wedding doves,
Being at those wedding receptions,
All clichés of norms' conventions,
Having a cream puff wedding day,
An expensive way of getting laid,
All clichés for the bridal industry,
Trite cant, and hypocrisy,
BUT--the appliances outlived everyone!!
Wedding gifts when once were young,
On film noir weddings I ponder on,
As these golden years I wander from,
All that phony hypocrisy,
Cliches and norms of society,
D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
(Who didn't hate going to the in-laws for tea?)