crawl into bed
coffee stained sheets
i don't **** strangers
i don't bring tea to bed
not anymore
don't bring myself to bed
can't sleep in bed

You have made me asterisk
O! my Lord!

I'm not a blot
on the canvas

I've been bestowed with the title
"Highest of creatures"

Till now your smiling face
Grants me contentment

A gob of squash
in a saucer with a hub
let a carrefour marque
with an apple ding
in swirls of romance heading there
a crowd of superfluousness as a hip is king
and a patch through the field
that roll lushly on green for this round mesh
while exquisitness hit so sweet
in a shade of sky  
where ablaze in silky attire
with her brazen desire again.

You Never Know The Clout You Have

You never know the clout you have,
Clout being a blow or target -
Most of all effect or power
You exert by being you.

Take care! Be careful, scared! Be wary!
Everything you say, you do -
Each word, each vow, an influence.
In circumstance you radiate an ambience
You pray will be benevolent.

You, you
In all you do;
And you have impact.
Make a pact with mental you
To be a kind and, gentle you,
Giving out rewarding vibes,
Enriching, beneficial, fruitful.
You, yourself a scribe imbibing
Influences from abroad,
From world untoward – in discord!

Take some in and turn them ‘round.
You abound in power.
You can be man* of the hour
Just by being who you are.
You can be the lucky star
Of every person you encounter.
So remember!
You ne’er know the clout you have
To save what ever may occur.

* of course woman too!

You Never Know The Clout You Have 4.29.2017
Definitely Didactic; Coffee Book II;
Arlene Corwin

I'm not a poet, not an artist.
I can't say I've broken walls.
You won't read me, won't like me.
I won't be a quote you end up reciting
In ten years to friends in a quip
As if I could be slipped into normal conversation
As if my fame has any relation to my body's
Descent into the ground, I will still stay unknown.
Except to notebooks where dust has grown
Accustomed  to being undisturbed.
You won't read me.

You are not a poet,
Just as I am not a poet,
But that does not mean we cannot write poetry,
Perhaps one day we will be named poets,
But just as we are not poets,
Whoever grants us that title also can't be a poet,
So all I can wish to do,
Is touch the hearts of my fellow title tossers.

They say that
-apparently-
I am a grown up.

Sit straight
Stand tall
Wear this
Don’t fall.

Do this
Not that
Try this
Try that

I thought I was a grown up
Well, they say that too

But really
-not apparently-
I am a child.

Fail test
Take track
Room mess
Hunchback.

Street food
Another book
Random mood
Weird looks


I wonder why they name us so,
With titles so bizarre
And scary
Because
-in truth-
we are all children with blackened hearts.

We hurt ourselves
And each other.
I Love my sister,
And I Love my brother.

Sorry heart
Angry smile
Bad start
Hard trials.

I am child.
Nothing else
Maybe a grown up
But mainly just myself.