The Blue Wave

The Blue Wave
is coming—
not a whisper,
not a warning,
but a rising tide
that no wall can hold.

It will crash against the shoreline
of corruption and lies,
tear through the barricades
of privilege and power,
and leave the old machinery
of greed exposed
beneath the salt and sand.

We are done
with crumbs dressed up as feasts.
We are entitled to the whole table—
the bread,

the meal,
the dessert,
the cocktails,
the dignity of knowing
that what we build together
belongs to everyone.

And we are awake now.

Even the infants
seem to be asking:

What kind of world
are you leaving us?

You take our children,
our futures,
our trust—
turn them into experiments,
then send us the bill
and call it freedom.

Are you kidding us?

Do you care about anything
beyond power,
profit,
and the machinery
that keeps your name
at the center of everything?

We see you.

We see the cracks
beneath the polished speeches.
We see the games.
We see the rigged promises,
the distractions,
the endless spectacle.

And we are no longer hypnotized.

We are not children.
We are not props

in your theater.
We are not going to surrender
our streets,
our neighbors,
our schools,
our voices,
or our country
to fear.

You can shout.

You can lie.

You can rage at the microphone
until your voice is nothing
but static.

But the people
are still here.

And we are louder.

You are not a king.

You are not the country.
You are not the future.

You are a man
standing against a tide
that has finally learned
its own strength.

So go.

Go quietly or go shouting.
Go wrapped in slogans,
go buried beneath excuses,
go wherever yesterday's power
goes when tomorrow arrives.

But understand this:

We will not kowtow.
We will not disappear.
We will not be distracted.
We will not be afraid.

The Blue Wave is rising.

And this time,
we are the shore.

 

Greeting Golden Hour--Mid August

 Greeting the Golden Hour in Mid-August

 

Golden morning light
spills softly through the green woods,
warmth on every leaf.

…

Sunbeams lace the trees,
dappling branches, bark, and moss,
the forest aglow.

…

Full leaves breathe in light;
a few yellow leaves drift down,
gold across the lawn.

…

Morning calls softly:
wake, step outside, breathe the day,
greet the light with joy.

…

The forest is bright,
mid-August wrapped in golden
a new day begins.

…

I'd Rather Talk To Rocks

 How patient I am—

resting this and that

when I’d rather be scrambling the rocks

at Mohonk or Minnewaska.

Waiting to heal from another misstep:

a turned ankle, a sore knee,

a hip reattaching to bone—

or is the bone reattaching to the hip?

Meanwhile, Congress appears

to have misplaced its brain.

Can you count the stars?

List the things unfinished?

Draw pentagons out of thin air?

Question an atomic reactor

beside your favorite swimming hole?

Or question a president about his finances—

and whether he can name

three good things he’s done

without consulting a teleprompter.

We’re done waiting for one.

Must we keep repeating the past

as if nobody on this planet has a brain?

Perhaps they’re out there with the stars—

tiny brains awaiting harvest,

then a one-way ticket to Mars,

the billionaires’ favorite vacation plan.

Has Congress been bought and paid for?

Is the Big Dipper dripping tears?

Does mother’s milk enrich uranium?

Are children being issued longer bodies

and shorter attention spans?

Meanwhile, my older frame

keeps growing sideways and fluffing up.

Should I buy hippo clothes

and embrace the trend?

Shall we pray to the heavens,

then eat Ding Dongs and Devil Dogs

buried under ice cream, chocolate syrup,

and maraschino cherries?

But I digress.

I was out on the rocks,

spider-walking between two glacial erratics,

thinking I could do anything—

realizing, of course,

that someday it will all be over.

So I inhaled the clean air

and waited patiently for my turn

to dip my little hippo toes

into a cool, rushing brook.

And there, between the rocks,

everything seemed simple:

gravity, water, sky—

no spin, no scandals,

no billionaires headed for Mars.

For once,

the rocks made more sense

than Washington.

And frankly,

I’d rather talk to rocks.

What Grows Between Us

 What Grows Between Us

 

It is great to have friends
people of the same tribe
a community of like minds
banding together
week after week
enjoying each other’s company

sharing politics
religion
meditation practice
shopping
food
music

while the landscape changes around us—

mosquitoes biting
leaving welts
spiders dancing in the light
weaving their delicate webs
mushrooms capitalizing on damp ground
creating whole villages of their own

and beneath us
what we cannot see
is happening too—

roots reaching
mycelium threading through soil
one tree touching another
water moving
nutrients passing
life giving itself to life

nothing truly alone
nothing entirely separate

the patterns intertwining

forming their own economies
their own communities
their own small worlds

and when I step back
I see the larger picture—

not just a quilt
but a living fabric
where every thread
holds another

where the circle needs the square
the soil needs the rain
the mushroom needs the tree
and the tree, perhaps, needs
what grows unseen beneath it

And maybe this is what we are:

not only great

to have one another

but critical.

Inside the circle,
within the square,
beneath the surface,
we hold each other up.

We are whole.
We are one.

A small group of friends—
and a much larger
living thing.

 

I Want More: A Survivor's Declaration

I Want More: A Survivor’s Declaration

I am the child of an alcoholic.
The wife of an abuser.
The mother of an addict.

And let me tell you something—

I am not just an expert
at surviving chaos.

I am a survivor.

I learned early
how to keep my head down,
keep the peace,
keep the secrets,
keep my mouth shut—

because silence felt safer
than telling the truth.

But silence
doesn't silence the ghosts.

It only teaches them
to whisper louder.

So I learned:

The first step
is admitting something is wrong.

The second—
is finding your voice
and talking about it.

And the third—

is reaching back
to help someone else

find their way out.

From 2011- 2012
I facilitated a poetry group
at Habilitat,
the place of change, a drug rehab in Hawaii.

I thought I was there
to help them find their voices.

But somewhere between
the poems,
the pain,
the laughter,
the tears—

they helped me find mine.

Together we produced—

“Powerful Words-Opening Doors,
Bridging the Gap-A Poultry Poetry Slam and

Navigating Change: Making a Difference.”

Words became doors.

Doors became choices.

And choices became
the courage
to finally leave

an abusive marriage.

Thirty-six years.

Thirty-six years
of being unhappy
and alone.

Thirty-six years
in a world that wasn't ready
to help battered women.

Back then,
we couldn't even have
our own credit cards.

So don't tell me
change happens overnight.

Sometimes change
takes a lifetime
to begin.

Twenty years ago,
I attended a writing retreat
at UH-Windward on Oahu.

I went there
to tell my story.

I didn't know then
that telling the story
would become part of
saving my life.

Because here's the truth
nobody tells you:

Leaving doesn't mean

the ghosts leave with you.

You can escape the house
and still carry it
inside your head.

You can leave the man
and still hear his voice.

You can change your address
and still live
in the old patterns.

Because sometimes
we are attracted
to what is familiar—

the same things,
the same men,
the same lies—

because familiar
can feel like normal.

And when everyone
around you is sick,

sometimes you mistake
survival
for belonging.

So you fall.

You go back.

You repeat.

You try to reinvent yourself

and sometimes—

you fail.

But listen to me:

Failure is not the end
of your story.

Surviving
is getting back up.

Brushing yourself off.

Looking at the pieces
and saying,

"All right.
Let's build again."

It isn't easy.

Sometimes it isn't pretty.

Sometimes it isn't even
a little bit cheesy.

Sometimes healing
looks like crying
in the bathroom
and walking back out
anyway.

Sometimes healing
looks like saying:

No.

No, I will not
kowtow to anyone.

No, I will not
be owned.

No, I will not
be stuck.

No, I will not
be a slave
to someone else's addiction,
anger,
expectations,
or lies.

No.

I want more.

So when I say,

"My name is Cornelia,"

I am not simply
introducing myself.

I am declaring myself.

I am saying:

I am done
with just surviving.

I am done
with just being okay.

I am done
repeating the same mistakes
and calling them destiny.

I want more.

More than survival.

More than making it
through another day.

I want to thrive.

I want to reclaim
everything I lost.

My voice.

My joy.

My choices.

My dreams.

My name.

My life.

And I want to go
beyond hopelessness
without pretending
that the darkness
never existed.

Because my scars
are not evidence
that I was weak.

They are evidence
that I stayed.

That I fought.

That I got back up.

And then—

I moved to Florida.

And what happened?

COVID happened.

Hurricane Ian happened.

Hurricane Milton happened.

Tornadoes spun up
and tore through lives.

Storm after storm.

Loss after loss.

And still—

I am here.

Why?

Because somewhere inside me
there was a voice
that refused to die.

A voice that kept saying:

I want more.

So if you're listening to me
and you're still trapped
in your own ghosts—

hear me.

You are not what happened to you.

You are not the person
who hurt you.

You are not your worst mistake.

You are not your relapse.

And you are not required
to stay where you were broken.

You can speak.

You can ask for help.

You can leave.

You can begin again.

And if you fall—

get back up.

If you fall again—

get back up again.

There is no shame
in beginning again.

There is courage
in beginning again.

Because sometimes
the greatest act of rebellion
is simply deciding:

My story isn't over.

So I stand here today
not because the storms
never came—

but because they came,

and I remained.

I stand here
with my voice intact.

With hope in my hands.

With tomorrow
still calling my name.

And I believe—

God has a plan for me.

But I also understand
something now:

God gave me a voice.

God gave me a choice.

And God gave me
the courage
to make a plan for myself.

So I will not
just survive this life.

I will live it.

I will love it.

I will speak.

I will create.

I will help someone else
find the door.

And when the ghosts
come knocking—

I will not open the door.

I will turn toward the light.

Because I know now:

The past may be part
of my story—
but it does not get
to write the ending.

My name is Cornelia.

I am still here.

I am still rising.

I am still becoming.

And after everything
I have survived,

after every storm,

after every goodbye,

after every broken piece—

I choose hope.

I choose life.

I choose me.

I want more.

And this time—

I am going to get it.

 

  

Your Brain Is Still Becoming

 Your Brain Is Still Becoming

Inside your mind, where neurons glow,
Like mushrooms sprout and start to grow.
Your brain is not fixed in one design—
It spreads, adapts, and realigns.

What you repeat, the brain makes strong,
Like mushroom threads that stretch along.

Though unused pathways fade away,
Like spores that drift and float astray.

Myelin wraps each pathway tight,
Like fungal threads beneath the light.
And when one pathway’s blocked or gone,
Your brain can grow new networks thereon.

So learn, repeat, and start anew—
Like rain that helps the ‘shrooms push through.
Each challenge plants a seed to grow,
And every practice helps it flow.

Your brain keeps changing, day by day,
Like mycelium spreading its own way.
New pathways form, old ones depart—
A living network, from the start.

 

Waxing Philosophical

 Waxing Philosophical

How about I leave,

and you can have your life back.

The brilliant one
you know—

the one
I seem to have dimmed
without meaning to.

Sooner than expected.

Aha.

Lightbulb moment.

How’s life treating you?

What can I do better?

Would you like to hear from me
more often?

Do you ever wonder
if I disappeared
whether you’d notice?

Not immediately.

Just eventually.

You seem to be doing fine
without me.

Don’t get me wrong.

I like that.

I like knowing
you don’t need me.

That I can leave
and nothing important
will stop moving.

I am important

Just not vital.

There’s a difference.

And somehow
that difference
has become
the whole story.

So say it.

You’re happy to see me.

You just don’t miss me.

I can live with that.

I think.

I am dispensable.

A word I never thought
I’d have to use
for someone I loved.

But while I’m still here
let’s get together.

We can talk about
the good times.

The bad ones.

The things we survived.

The things we didn’t.

We can laugh.

You can tell me
you’re doing well.

I’ll tell you
I’m happy for you.

And neither of us
will mention
how strange it is

to sit across from someone
who once felt like home

and realize

you could leave the room

and they’d still be fine.

So—

how about I leave?

Not dramatically.

Not angrily.

I’ll just go quietly,

the way people do

when they finally understand

they were never
the part you were afraid
to lose.