What is the universal language?
Is it not music? That soothes and amuses,
That inspires us to movement,
That paints a picture of a thousand words,
That when it’s heard, can move us to love.
Music so expressive, it can make you weep
Sounds so smooth, they can help you sleep.
And what about marches that propel armies,
Keeping their feet as one, with the beat?
A beat that throbs deep in your heart
And calls you apart, to dance or to revolution –
The revolution of the soldier,
Or the revolution of the ballerina’s toes.
Who knows what has been done by the song you have sung
It has called, it has touched, it has moved
Like a bell, it has rung.
But let it love, not hate
Let it not be sung too late
And remember that all can hear it
So draw people near with it
You don’t need a rehearsal
To speak the universal language of music- Just use it!
Dear Friends, you do not need to hide
your real age
You really do not need to show
no need to upload for showing
to get a boyfriend or husband.
A simple smile of you
is enough for showing
your beautiful looks.
A true gentleman will fall for you
and accept you
because of the beauty inside you
not of your outer looks instead.
Why do you hangover
with a friend or guy
to help something shit?
You feel like smiling
for compliments from unknown men
but you get your real man wrong
when he says
"you're ugly or fat" for having fun.
A relationship based on
outer looks may look really great
but can't stand strong
as outer beauty is
surely going to fade someday.
While, relationship based on
two true hearts and souls
can live forever.
I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso
(Notes from a Piano Playing/Singer/Poet)
I’ll never be a virtuoso.
Sure as I’m an expert on
My name, my palm – I know it.
So I ponder as I listen to
Michel Petrucciani on piano,
Joe Pass on guitar,
Wayne Shorter on the tenor -
Am I any less an artist sans finesse
If runs, uneven, coarse run out into the sand?
Of course not.
Never to become a virtuoso is my lot.
But I’ve a lot that’s going for me:
Ongoing creativity, ingoing spirit,
And an awfully cheerful personality;
Gifts and graces I don’t even know about,
Waiting to come out – or out.
Noel Coward wrote: ‘the talent to amuse’....
Perhaps I use that talent,
And there’s nothing wrong with that.
My notes are high while not the highest,
Vocabulary not extensive,
Not the most imaginative;
IQ slightly more superior than Pooh’s:
(That’s not a question but an exclamation).
Never virtuoso, I shall be the one
Who wears her brain upon her sleeve,
Her heart her slave.
Somewhat below, above so-so,
I know I’ll never be a virtuoso.
I can live with that.
I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso 5.21.2014 Vaguely About Music II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Pure Nakedness; Arlene Corwin
I was too lazy to spit my gum out
but I walked 15 feet to make myself a coffee
I didn't notice the trash can, sadly....
I walked back to my seat... (eager!) to drink my little coffee with 2 creamers... I usually drink it straight black
I was thinking about my pride and I envisioned it to be the gum in my mouth
So I swallowed it
I noticed the trash can afterwards
The coffee is good
Lying on my back,
under a giant straw fedora
I am tiny.
My hand the size of a strand of straw,
My body smaller than the feather on the side
But I’m trapped.
Stuck under the straw fedora.
Not because I’m weak,
But the straw too big.
I can see.
My eyes work fine.
I can see the dots of light which peer through the straw.
Like out of focus images of cities.
Dots, all I see are dots,
and they are beautiful.
But I can hear.
I hear love and hate.
I hear happiness and sadness.
I hear my favorite pianist harmonize with himself,
Not for a crowd but for his ears only.
And he pours it all out.
The high notes the low notes,
Beautifully mixed and repeated to make the most amazing music.
I lay on my back and see the dots of light,
Shining through the giant straw hat of the universe.
Everything is peaceful,
As the pianist plays the most amazing song.
One without a title.
One without an audience.
He just plays,
And I listen.
"Why you crying baby?
You've been sober ten years!"
Dopamine, slow adrene'
My dog cried tonight
Sad soul was on the rug last night,
Had a shape like my best friend
And a face just like her grin.
There are droves of drugs in all the land
Fitting for every palm- and calm every hand.
For pride, for want, for lust, for hate.
The poppy tears make us salivate.
Sober or not, monster locked in the tower
Monster locked in cellar
Monster in the kitchen with grandpas cancer.
We cant help but look at each other and say:-
"The human race is pathetic."
Cold compress holds us back,
Every ant has a poison that gives her heart a heart attack.
With every wasp, and hornet kind
Comes a fever,
That just melts the mind.
Everything I am,
Everything I was.
And my turn has come
The armour is set
The orders are done
The "game" now is on !
The battles have begun
Don't yawn back to sleep
No holding on to root
Which hinders that pursuit
No plunders, wars,or loots
No rapes and guns
No violence or those
Tease or Boo's or hoot !
Everything that's bad
All children who'r sad
All oldies ,goldies ,mad !
No touching, judging, shitting
To the nuts who're simply glad
the time has come ,
The armours is set
And the orders are done
The "game" now is on
the battles have begun .
Everything I am .
Everything I was !
Seventy And Eight
Seventy and eight:
You’ve set aside some vanity.
What was it but priority?
And some priorities have changed.
Acceptance of some disappearance;
Change of balance, skin that’s run the distance,
Re-arrangement of the substances inherent -
or you thought..
When you’re nearing birthdays
Each and every twelfth damned month,
The cant if you’re observant.
‘Happy Birthday’ not so plain.
This has that… and that’s a pain.
Marriages have come and gone,
You’ve eaten everything on offer.
Gone the need to empty coffer entertaining.
Suffering more neutralized;
So many friends and kin have died.
You’ve channeled drives
That used to thrive on pleasure.
With a birthday coming up
You’re going down each second’s unit
So immeasurably tiny you can’t count it.
Here is where it gets didactic:
Birthdays coming up – don’t hope but have it.
As for vanity, retract it.
Seventy & Eight 10.28.2012/revised 8.27.2017
Birthday Book; Circling Round Vanities II; Birth, Death & In Between II;