"unaired" poems
What Would I Do Without You?
(Or Scribbling in the Car)
What would I do without you, lexicon?
What would I do without you, dear thesaurus?
Rhyming book to rhyme with -saurus: chorus, porous, e’en papyrus if it fits?
Wiki’s storehouse ‘cyclopedia?
Little things that make me big and ‘pigg*:
Languages that set agog
The richness of the word?
So much I would not do without;
And isn’t that what life’s about!
Mind so connected to the word,
I would think
Without a varied herd of word
T’would shrink.
T’would atrophy,
T’would wear away,
Become cliché
As cliché wears away the play
From boredom’s lack of stimulation.
So connected is the action of the word
To all the wisdom, the absurd
in all the minds in all the world
Of minds and hearts unaired, impaired…
Is mind to word.
*pigg is Swedish for lively, spirited
What Would I Do Without You…Mind So Connected To The Word 7.19.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
Edward Hopper Painting
Badly lit street, through a partly steamed up
café window I can see an Edward Hopper
a man dressed in a brown suit and hat which
he keeps on while eating fries and drinking
black coffee, trying to slow down time.
Wears his underwear too long, doesn’t
change beddings for months, his depressing
rooms are unaired and a smell of loneliness;
middle aged and divorced he just exists, and
has a loser’s look of unspoken despair.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
One more year ends,
Counting few others.
This is the time
of the blown out candles,
Unaired balloon,
No whipped cream,
And non received postcards.
The closed restaurants,
And unreachable phone lines,
and boredom filled eyes.
It is the time of truth
Looking into my lines,
I have seen many years now,
Never seen times like this.
A very happy birthday to me.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 9:19 AM UTC
been thinking of you lately,
every thought of you spoonfed to me on a hot summer breeze.
the kind that makes you exhale extra hard, racing for the next breath.
i crush the lavender sitting in my vase every evening
with my bare hand, just enough until it reaches my nose.
it doesn't make me think about a hand around your throat,
but it permeates the air just as sweet.
the fresh and rotten cherries knock on my window the next evening,
and i'm still looking for you between the mirage lines.
i open the window, and it's as sugary as a cherry pit.
no, not that one, the pit in my stomach.
the butterflies welcome the rotten core, a cannibal feast.
if you knocked on my door the next day i'd
imagine it as something like a little bit of both.
a pit in my stomach and a hand around your throat.
your hair smells like an unaired room from bygone summers.
the fan is turned on low speed, and my neck is stiff from the draft
and turning towards the window.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC
By evelight lay lackless when by happenstance,
Moved to stoke fires by a wordsmith's en-trance.
Salute you Oh Scribe whose savour words evoke
Mellow cheese, crusted bread and drippings fire smoked.
_And on to kitchen with hungergreed,_
_Then to see what we shall find._
Greeishly seeking ** hum! Hubbardmum!
Remorsal to not spy no plump honeycrumb.
Hoardings bereft of gorgeulent fripwhips,
Desumed save for wholesmug and blandiment pips.
_And on to bed with hungerneed,_
_Then to dreams alone to dine._
Ill-matched vestements, quick-foot before routine,
Grogful from slumberfast, not spruced nor clean.
Green of the wind that bites first to incense,
Cornflaked under boot, toiling towards drudgcompence.
_And on to secure with hungerspeed,_
_Then to home with food on mind._
To sizzle, not to bake, fits the need to be sated,
Though the tangs now unaired bring relief once it's plated.
From first ****** to last spurt no sooner guzzied down,
With all gourmeaches now quelled and all yearnishes drowned.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC