Problem Solving-- ABCdarian

Aaron is the eldest. He is twelve. He loves
Baseball. His problem is he has to babysit
Corinne his younger sister. Corinne is five and she
Demands his complete attention, she cries
Every time he tries to practice with
Frank his younger brother in the backyard.
Garth the family Doberman
Howls competing for notice, making
It impossible to focus. Garth sometimes
Jumps and nips Frank in the butt as he tries to catch the ball, this
Keeps Aaron quite busy.
Let’s just say
Multi-tasking is not Aaron’s strong suit.
Now Aaron’s
Only hope of getting good at baseball is to dream up a
Plan that will keep Corinne and Garth busy so he and Frank can practice. He has to think
Quickly. He grins. Nearby a
Rope
Swing sways in the old oak
Tree, rubbing against the branches and swishing
Under the greenery. Corinne, I’ll buy you a
Vanilla ice-cream cone and I’ll
Wager a chew bone to Garth to see who can keep quiet the longest.
X-ing, his fingers behind his back Aaron reaches down to pick up a stick. Garth instantly
Yields. Fetch, Garth. Corinne plays with Garth, Aaron's practice resumes in the clever
Zone.

Jealousy

Jealousy’s best friend is Suspicion.
She has rights, perceives your weakness
and is married to Envy.
She distrusts everyone
their children are Greed
Anxiety
Bitterness
Self-doubt
Fear.


**Nonet

Letters to a Prisoner by Connie D.

Letters to a Prisoner by Cornelia "Connie D" DeDona

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Amazon and Kindle



A Survivor speaks out!



Required reading at Habilitat- a drug rehab in Hawaii



Honorable Mention in Poetry at the 2011 New York Book Festival!!



Outstanding look! A unique perspective from a Mom into the mind of the enabler. Free Yourself and the Addict!







View all my reviews

Bible Acrostics

Groovy
Out-smoking
Dude

Resourceful
Outspoken
Militant empire exacting their
Absolute philosophy over all other
Neophyte
Societies

Priest
Apostle
Unique
Lecturer

Jewish rabbi
Erudite
Scholar
Unwavering
Spirited son.

Fire Dance

Check out my latest Photography Book, Fire Dance!
http://www.blurb.com/bookstore​/detail/2319240

Writing a True Novel

Writing a true novel is like dueling with a cockroach; penetrating and exploring the past could get real messy. Don’t kid yourself if there is anything else you can think of to do, go ahead and do it. It involves a truckload of continence and revision.

You begin by dreaming about the past, sorting through old pictures and searching for and actually finding old friends, who you later discover were better left in the dark.

You set your scene; research the town you grew up in and thought you knew. Lots of surprises await your discovery under the dusty covers. Then you get to pick which roads to go down and which ones to pass up. It requires enormous energy and creativity; buckets of right and wrong decisions line up for inspection. Old issues march up to, and then parade-rest at your door. Closure takes on a higher meaning, something akin to, should I tell them about the implant, and which one?

Who is your audience? Why should they care? Can anything human relate? Or should you save the paper for puppy training? Why now, have you achieved enlightenment? Who will it hurt or help? Precious time is spent writing poems, honey-do and shopping lists, feeding the dogs, and taking pictures of cloud formations. You spend an inordinate amount of time reading other inspired memoirs and novels, and spending time with the grandkids, anything but writing that damn book…

But wait there’s more, you have to get your facts straight, no embellishing to make it more interesting; names need to be correctly spelled and a time frame established. Trust only a handful of your friends to read and critique. Don’t post online if you want to publish a chapter elsewhere. Take all advice with two aspirin and try not to get confused; one chapter at a time. Find a group meeting and stick with it.

Don’t forget about Aunt So and So, who worked at the Library and discovered the cure for that deadly virus, or the Uncle who won the bronze in Seoul, or the neighbor from next door who died of Cancer because family and friends will get mad at you if you leave them out.

Show them, describe using all the senses, make it colorful, who was popular, what music was playing on the radio and what did you wear. Sprinkle in some dialogue with a dash of character. Pack a punch, leave them wanting more and don’t solve all your characters’ problems; your next blockbuster is wheezing in the wings.

Giant Tag

We tackled the beach

dodging Man ‘o War jelly’s

tagging Big foot’s mark.

Jellyfish

The straggler popped, cracked beneath my heel
resembling light blue bubble gum
startling me from my daydream.
I looked down in dismay.
Would that bubble sting
or would it just
flatten blue
burn the
sand.

*Nonet--A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second line eight syllables, the third line seven syllables, etc... until line nine that finishes with just one syllable. It can be on any subject and rhyming is optional.

Ghost Train

**This is a story in a poem using one syllable words.

Far from here
in a black coal car
a sense of true
got shot and scarred.
It jumped real quick
                  and as it flew
It struck an oak, stout and new.

It glared back wise
with gold owl eyes.


Its heart
dripped thick
on an old black crow
that sliced his neck with coarse cruel blows.
The crow’s shrill beak
cut nose and cheek
the blood then hissed
and hit the street.
It scowled and bared its blood red teeth.

A street lamp blinked
It could not sleep
nor get that thief
to change his leaf.

When
his thumb
shrieked hot lead
it found its mark
trained for dead.

The blast came fast
sharp as an axe
and chopped a clock
that ticked and tocked.

I hugged the frame
and the glass
in hope,
since two
my fears would pass.

Still dazed
I traced
his ash gray face,
that shot an F
through a coach seat base.

A rock hard sneer
trapped in a frame,
this ghost
still drives
the night sick train.

Camel Dung

Fresh camel dung

 the curse of the lower Nile
attracting a multitude of flies high above
decomposing mummies
buried in forgotten pyramids
beneath the sands of time
deep inside secret chambers
stacked with gold
foraged from the influence
of unknown origin
of which countless markers
have been left behind
planet-wide
flies being the common denominator.
If the ignoble fly had been in charge
how might he have managed?
Would ancient insects have done a better job
at keeping quotas and curbing bad behavior?
Who would’ve done the heavy lifting?

The chosen people were dropping like flies.

There had to be a back-up.
Someone must’ve had a plan.

Why were the pyramids so big?

Are they entrances to another time

Or a door into our own psyche?

Are WE the alien life form
on this hostile planet?

What have we learned?

What legacy will we leave for our children

our children’s children?

What time capsule will they discover?

Will it hold the key
to the age old question
Or merely pose new questions?
Will we survive
on this planet of dwindling resources
or calculate new methods of regeneration
revolutionizing an alternative fuel
a godsend of limitless magnitude
something similar  perhaps to
camel dung?

An Amazing Animal

Godsend defers tweets to higher power.

Godsend; keeps word, gives fresh perspective.

**http://sixwordmemoirs.aarpmagazine.org/topics/animal

http://amzn.com/1456405365

I Am Me

I am me
the reflection staring back from the glass
the half full cup
the dark chocolate freak
sometime friend to a certain scale.

I learn in the face of challenge
that my obscurity may be a good thing
that as I trip and fall
no one will see
or care.

I am a notion
a shadow
a spot on the frame
moving past old beliefs.

Becoming new.

Sometimes haunted
chased
driven
alone.


I existed before to fill your square pegs
round spaces
anything.

I persist to soulfully
pound
in the dark
without a key
without a pigs chance in hell
that you will understand my need.

I am a rogue wave
a rushing tide
a rare
voice
a thinking stone
passionately pulled
occasionally moved.

Mixing and mashing theories
slashing
splitting
flicking hard-nosed butts

against a blue-green world

of melting ice
smoking pillars and
smashed stones.
I am me

a miracle

to those
that bore me
with nothing
but a seed to plant
nothing but hopes and dreams.

I am much more than your
dogma
much more than a pulsing frame
wary heart
weak organs
tired blood
hidden muscle and moral bone.

Protect me from your reckless ways.

Spare the child in me.

I deserve
to dream
to inherit the ideas
of our creator
to see
beyond the black
molten mass
we’ve
become.

Cloud Concerto

In this open air venue

floating nymphs
stitch their serenity
free of charge.

A child is stilled
comforted by their play
counting their fluffy leaps
over misty fences
fascinated
by the scope of their splendor.

Angelic arms wrap
emerald peaks
exhaling excited vapor
as the spotlight shines
on tonight’s premier
presenting
fine art and composition
to the cultured audience
who clap and cheer
instantly
recognizing the
bird song prelude
and butterfly solo symphony.

Appeal for Book Reviews on Amazon

Thank you in advance for purchasing my book, Letters to a Prisoner.  I'm looking for reviews on Amazon. A previous version of this book was endorsed by Al-Anon. It contained exerpts from Al-Anon's Blueprint For Progress. I decided to go ahead and publish without those exerpts. It is currently required reading at Habilitat-The Place of Change, a drug rehab in Kaneohe Hawaii. Here's the link for your convenience: http://amzn.com/1456405365

Father's Day Story--Published!

My story, "Clean Sweep" has been selected as "Today's 'Dad & I' Story" for OneFortyFiction.com.


As you might know, we allow visitors to critique stories once they've been posted. If you'd like to follow in on any critiques our readers choose to make, you can do so at http://www.onefortyfiction.com/archives/clean-sweep.

Mastiff Manners

They begin pristine

 in their precise

composition

 like two dancers

center stage

their muscled torsos

strutting and swaying

in perfect rhythm.

Rocketing

limbs splayed

as they spiral down

landing abruptly into the mud

coating every square inch

as if it were a precious salve

 from the Dead Sea.

Sliding and rolling across the wet terrain

eight large paws leave no stone unturned

no blade of grass still, no fruit untried.

A rushing river hangs back

as they race by

two competitors

colliding into a break dance of

epic proportion.

Barking,
"BEWARE
YOUR SEASON IS AT HAND."

Choose with care.

Sharpen your wits.

It will suit you to study

carefully, the mastiff manual.

They are untroubled by

your crow and your claws.

They will smell your green

goo as it drips off the edge

of a palm frond

overlooking the pond’s edge.

Squash that splash!

Hide your red-orange

flash and fan-tails.

Their hunger is fierce.

They will

excrete your squirming mass

swallowed whole

next to

the chirping peep

fins,

 feathers     and       entrails

laced with reckless dread.

As they pause

pacified

to chew on a twig

flossing

away the fragments

in the midday sun.

My Personal Art Gallery

Ruth's Pacu Fish

Honorable Mention in Poetry at 2011 New York Book Festival

2011 New York Book Festival.  I received an Honorable Mention in Poetry for my self-published book, "Letters to a Prisoner"

Please visit our web site at www.diyconvention.com for the complete results.

The nation is controlled by

  The nation is controlled by deviant mutant aliens from another galaxy.

First contact was established in Ancient Egypt. We mutants had to buy Cleopatra off. The slaves were no problem. The pyramid design opened a door into our solar system. It was all part of the Master Plan.

The second group, also aliens, scared the hell out of the Inca. There were too many white faced hairy sightings to ignore. Our gifted writers and artists shared. They used leftover blood as ink. Sacrifice was later outlawed and we left. The jungle took over.

We aliens later financed the Hollywood film industry. Drugs were routinely administered and abduction, a regular occurrence. We carefully implanted the ancestor's seed. We ignored the prime directive. Clean-up is beyond our compliance. The producers have run amuck.

My father, another alien, was banished to this planet due to a selective hearing problem and a low tolerance for rule adherence. Mom was an artist. She went to the dark side of the moon ahead of Neil Armstrong. It was a covert mission. That is where the beta writing strain comes from. Our family is responsible for infecting the populace. Our ways remain too advanced for this culture. They still believe in deities despite our best efforts. Our science and telepathic abilities have to be reproved over and over again. Magic and illusion have gone the way of Monster Quest. The ratings speak for themselves.

Alpha Centauri was where our troubles began. Dad was the brilliant young Captain aboard, the newly commissioned, Venture, Starship class Z7653, Star date 2511. He beamed down ahead of security and was found in a compromising position with a Centaurian leopard. Later they accused him of commercial spot altering. They said he was trying to profit from it. Dad claimed that he found the leopard like that, but they knew better, him being infected by something called writers block. We still don't talk about it.

The inflexible High Council, made up of many aliens, banished him to the past on this archaic planet, with one moon, where they don't even have three eyed emerald fish and the locals are so ugly, it has us permanently constipated. We had to teach them our language. I would give anything for a bowlegged Alterian hump sucker. Not only are they delish, they relax the bowels, which makes our kind much easier to get along with. It produces minor gushing. Rapid fire bursts have resulted in some casualties in the Midwest. See product package for additional warnings.

The truth is Donald Trump, a talking head alien, had to be pulled out of the presidential race.

President Obama and his arch rival Osama bin Laden, also talking head aliens, are being called back to HQ. Osama is already back. All the money-power brokers are supposed to report for reassignment. Trump's show, The Apprentice, is too successful, which is highly suspicious in the present global climate. There is talk about a nude circus in Atlantic City, no word yet on if that includes the audience.

Here is the latest news from HQ. It is classified Code RED, the highest priority.

We're pulling the plug on the Earth experiment. The Dirt and Ash Concert is SOLD OUT. WE WILL DEPART behind Lady Gaga's, a hot alien babe, latest stage design. Hot air, lava, and plate shifting is escalating. The weather is out-of control! Simon Cowell and the X-Factor are unstable.

It is time to depart and resettle elsewhere.
The Mother spaceship arrives in 2012. Let the world-wide internet deprogramming commence.

This is the final transmission; Viking, over and out!