My life like soft grey clouds
floats in front of me.
I see pictures
of past cliches-
flashbacks of heartbreaks,
And some of love and warmth.
I grab from these pictures
a few abandoned dreams,
before they disappear
in the thin air.
I choose merrily,
I choose merrily what's mine.

What happens when every image
becomes a cliche? No one
has had an original thought in years,
what makes you think you are any different?
Sculpting language so meticulously,
like you're the first to compare to seasons.
I bet you write about writing, too. Pathetic.
Love is not a feeling, it's a force. The words
write themselves and purely use you
as a vessel. Somewhere back in time
we did a seance of sorts and now sometimes
poetry drops in like a demon, possessing
the mind which tells the hand to pick up a pen.
Demons, whatever that means to you,
do not answer demands. They play their own game,
which we are indeed a part of, though
we were never invited to play.

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