Monday, March 30, 2020

Pandemic Golf

Pandemic Golf

Does not touch flagstick.
Does foursome elbow bump.
Brings their own water.
...
Doesn't rake bunkers
Doesn't play in leagues
Elevates the hole.
...
Rides golfcart alone
Stays a safe distance
Washes hands post-game.
...


So, I started playing golf in March
After a four-year hiatus
After breaking my wrist
Which is better in the warmer climate
And no, it did not improve my game.

I moved in December from the sometimes-frigid Mid-Hudson Valley
90 miles north of NYC, the coronavirus epicenter,
South to sunny Florida
Where the grass is sticky
In the rough
And the greenskeeper is
One of Satan's disciples.
You know what I mean
He purposely fucks
With the cup angles
And there is no way
A human can prevail.

And you need thick skin
like 2 ml. Thick.
It can be devastating without Angel juice.
Angel aka Birdie juice can be had
But requires driving the green and sinking the ball in one putt or less on a par three.

Then along comes a pandemic
And I am seriously wondering
If someone opened the doors
To Hell or you know    Purgatory
where the demons and the angels get together
for Jokes (about humans that are not Michelle Wie or Tiger Woods who choose to play golf) and Spiked Juice.
Talk about rolling thunder
This is where the wings come off
Badass Angels and Demons compete
And no one plays with a punk-ass colored ball.

The winner gets to play 18 holes with a few humans.

It is a random draw, a spin on the roulette table. And only the spirits can win.
Which is why it is so exasperating to humans.  You never know who will show up.  Or inside whom.

The game changes from day-to-day
Week to week
The challenge is real
The stakes are high

And there is no end to the mind games.
...
 *Free verse poetry is here defined as a poem with no set meter or verse that mimics natural speech patterns. Free verse poems can be short or long, contain sporadic rhymes or none at all, and be conveyed in spoken or written mediums. Because a free verse poem isn't tied to any specific form, poets generally have more room to experiment with structure than they would with other styles.

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

Noir



Noir

The photo depicts 
The past
A time when words flowed
Like a river into endless
Streams
Across great chasms
Mind-bending
Alleys.

Ever forward
Relentlessly pushing boundaries
Breaking norms
Exploding into infinity.

Kind of like ejaculation.

Only the waterfall
Ran dry for a time
And the people had to
Find another source
Were forced to improvise
Re-engineer
What had already been provided
By our Maker.

And where is that Maker now?

Is he a devil hidden in detail?
Or a stern parent insisting we toe the line
Perhaps the Maker resides in each of us
Within our unique purpose
Maybe, we are the world.

But the world is dying.
Discernment helps
Patience
Listening too
In the Noir days, we had filters.

Remember filters?  
And one critical lesson at a time.


Cornelia DeDona 3-24-2020


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