Showing posts with label # Photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label # Photography. Show all posts

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.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Great Horned Owl

Sell Art Online

Mohonk Preserve-A Love Song





Mohonk Preserve is my church,
a photographer's dream.

I return
to craft moments
capture memories
blaze trails
its pastoral beauty quiets my mind
lets my spirit soar
high above the sweaty rocks
glistening in the mid-day sun.


I return
to scramble
Giant’s Path
Rock Rift
Bonticue Crag.

I celebrate in the snakes
gliding through Duck Pond
while I sit and snack on wild blueberries.

I rejoice in Raptors posing on ledges
taking flight
watching us, watch them.

I witness the devotion
of my fellow hikers reflected in pools
beneath waterfalls
the cool mist as it soothes tired spirits
the wild beauty that surrounds us all.

I return to the land
to witness Spring’s
trillium erectum
wild ginger, bloodroot
all stalwart parishioners.

I return to the land
to cross Summer’s Rhododendron Bridge
disappear into a cloud of pink and white mountain laurel.

 I return to the land
to gaze at Autumn’s
red oak
mountain ash
sugar maple
leaves ablaze
red, orange and yellow,
to marvel at the revelation
without and within.

I return to the land
in Winter
to realize the glacial majesty
net the mirror images
and the light
always the light
in slow water and ice
in the footprints left behind
to find the divine in a frosty pine.

I return devout
week in and week out.
I return to plug in,
exult and give thanks.

I return.
I return.
I return.


©Cornelia DeDona 10-17-16



Friday, October 30, 2015

Grimm Expectations

I touched death's hand
and peeled back my crying skin
ready for death’s inspection
prepared to barter.

Take me instead.

I stroked death's supernatural chin
my screams
locked in the dead zone.

Death's white corpse
hovered before me
swilling foul fluids
noting my soft edges
hinting at frogs
and Biology.

I shrank
as death peeled back my lover
sliced by hot steel
selected without warning
on a haunted road
black as pitch
black as a bottomless pit
my love dead
by the splash.

I slept through my dark daze
a zombie
clasping
death's calling card
a calling card that read
Superboy is dead
long live Lex Luthor
Your life,
your journey begins here.
The card was signed
by a Mr. Grimm.






Saturday, October 24, 2015

The Unwanted

and destitute
crouch in a huddle
gasping at the dreaded discard aisle
as we sort through
the endless stacks of
brown, yellowed
and dusty volumes.

Some hide
dead cockroaches
insect poop.

Written on their title pages
are inscriptions to family, friends and fans.

A few hide old photos.

Delightful old bookmarks
are relegated to a particular box
later transformed into artfully decorated cards.

Now and then
we discover
a single bill
forgotten
between sticky pages.

We hunt to find a first edition
Hawaiiana
or any needy rare books.

We wipe away the grime
mend the tears
unfold corners
as I try to digest a mountain of data
intoolittletime.

The orphans
are then carefully priced
counted and packed into labeled boxes
their character
further noted
by the application of various colored masking tape.
Later carted away
by the truckload
to sit inside a warehouse
where they will wait
to be rediscovered
at the annual book sale.
The lucky outcasts
polished and poised
ready to converse
with us
again.


**Original version of my poem, printed as "Book Makeovers" Honolulu Star-Bulletin July 2, 2008.








Thursday, October 22, 2015

Becoming Me


I am the half full cup
dark chocolate freak
sometimes friend to a bathroom scale.

I learn
that my obscurity is 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 belief,
sometimes haunted,
driven,

alone.

I learn
that my existence is more
than filling your square pegs
coloring inside your lines
I am seeing
that you will never understand or care.

I deserve to move beyond the mess
I have become.

I have decided to heal myself,
love myself,
protect me at all times.
My eyes are wide open
my ears can hear
the snide careless whispers,
your thoughts when no one is near

I feel your doubt
it is the shroud of past judgments
wrong attitude.
I can taste your fear.
it is an acid that burns inside me
mutilating my mind.
secret places.

I existed before for your praise
as a child of a lesser god
but I am not less.
I am a miracle.
I am more than your dogma.
You do not define me.
I am free to speak
and I don’t have to make up lies
or explain me
because I am a strong woman
and I can do better.
I will not settle for your whims
your trickery
your reckless ways.


I will walk away whole
I will leave this place better
I will win
because I am not a quitter
because I know I can learn
that I will survive
I will thrive
because I deserve
to dream
laugh
love.

I deserve my birthright
to become who I am meant to be
I will be me.





















Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Ko'olau Tears

Volcanic cliffs emerge from the mist
exposing
lush slopes
a sow with her squeakers
nursing
under a thick emerald canopy.

Tropical tears

pelt the 'aina
saturating
vine-laden limbs
spilling into streams of sticky sap
fields of yellow fruit.

Breathing new life into
the wrinkled pores
of the ancient banyan
as the Kolea wade through muddy puddles.

The goddess invoking the mana cleansing remains
cutting offensive passages,
conjuring a rainbow.

I am home.

...


"In Polynesian culture, mana is a spiritual quality considered to have supernatural origin—a sacred impersonal force existing in the universe. Therefore, to have mana is to have influence and authority, and efficacy—the power to perform in a given situation."

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

American Lady Butterfly on Coreopsis



Spirit Mana



I hear them whisper
in the gentle trade winds
in the grunt of the wild
boar, the high-pitched mating call of the coqui.


I see them
in the blood moon
the double rainbow
in the mist against the folding
emerald cliffs of the Ko'olau.

I taste them
in the freshly caught pan fried mahi-mahi
a tropical papaya
tangy mango.

I smell them in
the white gardenia
the orange blossoms
the plumeria I place behind my ear.

I feel them buzzing
my ankles
scurrying sideways in the white sand
between the sharp coral
in the gentle rain.

They watch as I wait for you to return safely.

They watch the dogs chase
after wild chickens
the koi feed on fat
mosquitos.
The bullfrogs sing.

They watch
They accept.
They smile.

They are here with me
the ‘Aumakua, guardian ancestors

rooted in the past, the first of their generations.



Saturday, August 1, 2015

Intimate Moments



I feel your saliva dripping onto my big toe
as you lean up against me and belch.
I rub your neck,
massage behind your ears
staring at the Ko'olau Mountains
breathing in the pink Plumeria blossoms
as we both listen to the caw, caw, caw,
of Petey the Peacock
perched on the neighbor's roof.

Thursdays
are special in our datebook.

Me
climbing ladders,
shaving coconut palms with my chainsaw
trimming the Be-Still bushes,
training them into a hedge.

You
inspecting the heap
smelling the fallen coconuts
and then chasing the cooing doves
feasting on your forgotten dinner.


Me
stuffing green bins with yard waste.

You
ears back
standing on the wall behind the fence
as the giant yellow truck
swallows their contents and burps,
farting around the bend.


We fit
you and me.

You
sniffing and alert.

Me 
smearing citronella leaves
on my arms, your butt, and our legs
shielding us from the mosquitos at dusk,
while relaxing at the fire pit,
listening to KCCN Hawaiian 105.9.
Both of us,
still frisky
unleashed
in paradise.





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