"ewing" poems
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
J R died
I guess many cried
J R Ewing, Larry Hagman,
son of Broadway’s Peter Pan
offspring of a famous clan
I guess a decent man
another J R died, Jenny Rae
I guess many cried
but not likely fans from afar
perhaps
her nephew in the corner bar
when he recalled
through his wine soaked haze
younger days, when his Jenny Rae
would meet him payday
and give him a five she earned
keepin’ those old folks alive
well, cleanin’ up their slop
may not have been keeping anybody alive
but she did it just the same
even long after the cancer came
and pain buckled her over on the bus,
she kept goin’
smiling at their ancient vacant stares
when she could
when she was gone
when she passed,
curled up like a baby in that noisy ER
there were no headlines about that J R
only another wretched woman
paid to clean up slop
who hunkered faithfully over her mop
to wipe up the remnants of Jenny Rae
to earn her pittance of pay
perhaps for another nephew
or other lost son of an angry day
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
I remember the slamming screen doors,
the rattle of the stained glass monster,
and the drafty shadowed nights beneath chenille bedspreads.
I remember the sun soaked cloak room with its reek of wet woolen mittens,
the un-impeded flight down stairs in tomato basket bobsleds,
and the bouncing at the bottom in a frenzy of strawberry carpet burns.
I remember church bingo basements smoky on Friday nights,
Saturday morning sounds from her kitchen,
and a mile of sulfur dusted sidewalk in between.
I remember the damp musty smell of the low lit basement,
the passing of Black Label beer through semi-circle windows,
and the nauseating hangover from Mogen David wine kept in the cellar.
I remember hearing how they kicked in the door while she slept and beat her
and took her things, her rings, the gifts from my grandfather,
and how she stubbornly refused to leave the home my mother was born in.
A half century book ended on one end by the great depression,
which she survived,
on the other end the kicked in door
which she did not.
I remember my mother’s wavering voice when she told me she was dead,
how Uncle Ed found her sitting in her chair, rosary beads wrapped
around arthritic hands.
I remember hot on the left and cold on the right,
the smell of her sweat,
the breeze off the lake,
the creak of the old steam radiator,
and the way she slept in her chair with her mouth wide-open.
The way Uncle Ed found her.
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
I’m stuck.
caught in this loop where i’m tired of waiting but i don’t want to give up, give in
because i could never receive forgiveness
from myself
I would be filled with regret and remorse and i couldn’t handle that
that i had this relationship with a girl and i gave in.
no
I want to be able to say
let’s go out when we’re bored,
let’s get food together when we’re hungry,
let’s pack our bags and head to the beach when we’re lonely.
Eat hotdogs, smile and talk about how we’re going.
I want to know if this vision is something of the future or just my imaginative dream.
My wonderland.
I want to do this as best friends hell even boyfriend and girlfriend.
I want people to believe that we’re dating and laugh after sighing and ewing at them.
You know what i want, i've been so clear about that
i’m just so tired of waiting.
Trying to predict what you believe in
especially when you stay silent.
I can’t read minds,
i’m no wizard or witch, i don’t know what you want
i’m definitely not magic even if i scream to defy it.
I’m tired
telling you after HSC is over we go everywhere being best friends for however long we can because i know.
We may not be meant to be together but we’re meant to be around each other to the end.
the little intricacies i’ve found inside that brilliant mind of yours.
the way she talks,
the way she walks,
the way she sings loud,
the way she looks when she’s proud
breathtaking.
what to do to impress you.
That ice cream is a everyday food
and even though popcorn is the most magnificent food on earth I’ve realised that you don’t have the same opinion on it
like i do.
That you believe you aren’t the best at what you do
and trust me what i’ve seen i know that definitely is not true.
You’re talented,
you’re amazing,
you’re exactly how i would describe popcorn
buttery smooth.
I’ve changed and fixed all whatever you said were issues
i’m open,
i’m ready to scream what i have to say,
i’m just scared whatever i do
you’ll run away.
I treat you like everyone else I find important
too close and too much annoying.
I’m sorry
you found that maybe my motives were something else and gave me clarification that i had to
stop.
So please for the sake of my sanity
tell me what you want, how you see what we’re meant to be doing.
What you want from me.
I’m stuck
caught in this loop where i’m tired of waiting but i don’t want to give up, give in.
Not yet
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
It's the third week of summer and we've had nothing but gray skies
No sunshine
Quincy Valero is in a bad way these days
He's been dumped
She wanted a kid, a ring and a promise of a life time
He said no
She left
Now, he's searching far and wide for a new dock to make port
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out three likely candidates
One who has blown hid mind on multiple occasions, and quite a few others
Another who has been straight up stalking him and begging for one night of beastly ***
The last who if he got drunk or high enough she'd do anything, unfortunately she resembled an ugly spud
The firs girl was right out, she informed Quincy that since the last time they hung out she found a boyfriend which she is dedicated to
The second girl has been on vacation since the end of the semester and won;t be back until the next one starts
The third girl is seeing some one but said she would hook up with Quincy if circumstance allowed
He has fallen into a state on unbathed sloth
Staying up until six am
Waking up at three pm
And not going to the gym
He crashed his Mustang back in Ewing
He hasn't come clean about it
His father told me
Quincy tells me it;s just sitting back at his house down there and he's too lazy to go get it
He now goes to online dating cites in hopes of getting laid
What has become of the self-proclaimed Don Juan of Dumont?
I can only pray this time of depressing desperate sadness is temporary
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
I certainly realised when I wrote "There Are Daughters…” that not everyone had children, and I don’t mean to make anyone feel sad. When I write, (which is everyday), I simply become, shall we say, attached to a phrase or the seed of an idea; even a rhythm or a word or funny rhyme. These can take me in any direction. This process has led to 19 books with two more on the way.
It’s a kind of yoga, a mental training - and the most unexpected ideas come out - ideas which I work on and refine. I write on anything at hand. Just today, I found 4 scraps, one dating back to 2015. I’ll show you.
Notes found…refined, completed.
This Brain
This brain invades
The good, the bad:
Everything that’s done, not done.
And so I try
To purify
The brain
And turn
Invasion into
Sympathetic action.
This Brain 2.27.2020 Nature of & In Reality; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
After Surgery
After surgery
One is like the princess and the pea,
Feeling every crevice
On each surface.
After surgery
One’s sore, and golly, gee,
All parts exposed or not
Are vulnerable,
Incapable
But filled with the potential
Of life ahead,
For one day you’ll get out of bed,
Participate in daily doings:
Cleaning, practicing and ********
We’ll see
How afterwards can be!
After Surgery 2.27.2020 Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
Dear Friends
Dear friends,
You’ll never know the inspiration
You have been,
And what I’ve learned
Of gratitude and giving,
And what I lacked..
You’ve helped change aims,
And I will never be the same,
Hoping I survive and have the chance
To show the learning’s knowing
Filled with just one speck
Of your munificence, unselfishness
And open-handedness.
Dear Friends 10.10.2019/2.27.2020 Arlene Nover Corwin
I Have Become
I have become yours
To grow in your power;
Grow and flower
Over self-love’s lowest.
Wow!
How a syllable inspires.
I Have Become 10.25.2019/2.27.2020 Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
It Sneaks Up
It sneaks up: autumn,
And Huston sings “September Song”.
A rainbow arches:
Purple, blue, green, yellow, orange.
One can’t tell because
They blend and fade.
You’re stuck there at the window,
Captivated.
It Sneaks Up 12.15.2015/2.27.2020 Circling Round Nature II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC