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

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

Thursday, October 20, 2016

Political Ticks

One may misinterpret this lone star tick
for another
do not be so hasty.
If he is allowed to rule
that may be your last self-governing choice.

Make no mistake
this tick is tricky and nasty
it can and will make you sick.
Not to be mistaken for the deer tick or the brown dog tick
which is something else entirely?

This spangled lone star tick
has orange hair
and bigly incisors
which it sharpens
on a wit tick
a new tick on the block
not funny at all
it has an even smaller stick
if you get my drift
which I sense is why this Lone Star
lacks any standards at all.

Don’t let it kiss your babies.

In my unbiased opinion
this tick
will only trick
the nitwits
infecting us all with
nervous Party ticks.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Ko'olau Tears

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

Tropical tears

pelt the 'aina
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."

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.

are special in our datebook.

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

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

stuffing green bins with yard waste.

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.

sniffing and alert.

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
in paradise.

Saturday, April 4, 2015


Woodstock Chimes
above the belly
of a palm, where coconuts lounge
beneath a fan of fronds,
that hum
at a bulging
breast of papaya bursting
green and discover this lush valley
behind the tilapia stream.

Then note
the red cardinal’s tweet
as it excretes a tomato seed
on an orange bromeliad leaf
beside a greedy centipede.


Sunday, March 22, 2015

Emptying the Puddles-A nod to "Get Smart"

Secret agents like
Maxwell Smart and Agent 99
sometimes do reconnaissance in Hawaii
for CONTROL, a counter-intelligence agency based in Washington, D.C.
created to thwart the evil KAOS
and to release the constant pressure
of  trying to save the planet.

Today’s mission
should we choose to accept it
will be to empty the puddles.

It will take all day since it is still raining.
Max has donned a special pair of
cell phone galoshes in case he gets in over his head.

Brisk trade winds press against me
as I step out into the chill  sixty degree air.
I am assigned to assist him
and am disguised in a striped green trench coat
yellow swim cap and khaki galoshes.

Max and I are intent on the goal
as we both jump into the first puddle.

Slosh, twerk, and slosh,
Slosh, twerk, and slosh.
Katoosh, I slide on my tushie into a red-orange bromeliad
my rubber galoshes now sailing into the stratosphere.
The chief watches from above
nods his head and remarks
no one said it would be easy Agent 99
as Max nose-dives into a potted dendrobium.

And so it goes.

Suck up and retreat
Suck up and retreat
until the chief tells us to dry off
persuading Max to drag his weary
secret agent butt inside
marching us both up to a bubbling hot tub
where we can take a breather 
and spy on the neighbor’s cats.

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