Bare Limbs
Greening light,
bare limbs growing bright,
bare limbs wake and sway,
as green life finds its way.
Spring has sprung,
the bells have rung,
time to rise,
and greet warmer skies.
Bare limbs stir,
a soft and leafy blur,
alive with squirrel song,
while groundhogs nose along.
Still, we watch with care
as seedlings fill the air,
beneath the budding trees
that dance in the northern breeze.
Mother’s Day
Over the years,
we look back
and remember the women
who helped shape our lives
and this year was no different.
Each year, I like to think
I’m growing a little wiser,
though some years the jury is still very much out.
Choices made and lessons learned
have a way of humbling us at remarkable speed,
but Mom usually knows what you’re thinking
before you do, which is honestly unsettling.
She made you, after all,
and, as the saying goes, she can still take you out—without leaving her chair.
Maybe that is the purest form of love: fierce, patient, and never fooled.
So shape up, say thank you, and try not to make her repeat herself.
And when she leaves for her next great position,
as a star in Andromeda,
pass on what she taught you:
Love, after all, is the greatest gift we get to give.
Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small
It is the board in the fence,
shifted only slightly to the right,
opening a breach in your understanding
of the neighbor—
and making you wonder which way they lean.
Is it safe to bring a hammer and a nail,
or would that cross the line itself,
that invisible border saying, without words,
where your limits lie,
what may be carried in your hands,
or whether a weapon still counts as speech?
Because you might expose what is already
plain,
and then they would have to set it right—
straighten the board by making a hammer of you,
in their grim reckoning,
and leave you on the fence, a warning to whoever forgets where they do not belong.
Blue State of Mind
The bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots have not bloomed.
How can this be?
It is September 2025.
The war has not happened yet.
Gas is cheaper for the moment.
I do not have to listen to a calm voice
still draping a silk sheet over the obvious
while its weather gathers at the door
Oh, happier day, while the weather gathered
So get to work on something that will not fold.
If you want greatness,
then alter the course of history.
Come up with answers that can stand in daylight.
Real answers. Real solutions.
For problems already licking at the frame.
We’ll keep the time.
Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium
I’ve got a little chronic inflammation
camped out in my belly like it paid rent.
I feel like I over‑inflated myself
party balloon, car‑dealership, wavy man
except nobody’s clapping.
I don’t feel like my old light self,
you know the one
pre‑90‑day bender, pre‑wake‑up call,
before gravity found my forwarding address.
Yeah, I had surgery.
Now I feel dense.
Millstone chic.
Like if I took an ambitious, heroic dump
I might retire five pounds lighter
and emotionally reborn.
But no.
Everything’s tightening its belt.
There’s nowhere for the extra air to flee.
Not even a tasteful hiss.
My blood’s gone viscous.
My heart and organs are marching
to something that sounds like a funeral dirge
played by a tired band
slightly out of tune.
I’m slower.
Duller.
My knife couldn’t cut string cheese
if the cheese insulted its mother.
I’m fresh out of freshness.
Past my sell‑by date.
Like, yeah.
It’s time to go home.
To The Man Who Keeps Leaving Me Love Letters with Numbers
Dear Bob,
Thanks for signing your notes.
We’ve got to stop meeting like this—
You’re a real go-get-her… with suspiciously neat handwriting.
But I’m stuck on the numbers.
I keep trying to call you—
but my phone says, “Nice try. That’s a locker combo.”
Also: the pink Post-its.
So bold. So… 80% highlighter, 20% cry for help.
Is that your personality showing— or just your stationery budget?
Confession: I’m heterosexual.
So if you meant these for the other “Cornelia,”
please use the box on the left by the Men’s Room—first door, first heartbreak.
We’re the Ladies League. We have clipboards.
If not… congratulations. You’ve piqued my interest.
Next note, please include a selfie. Preferably with both eyes open.
One more thing about me:
I prefer a golfer who dances.
Or a hiker who dances. Any man who dances.
You may be a musician—Steven Tyler energy, fewer scarves.
But you must dance. This is non-negotiable. Like cart fees.
See you in the Fall.
Waiting with bated breath (and a nine iron),
Cornelia
Believe
When you’re married to a narcissist
you think you’re crazy
lazy
or hazy
anything but sane.
You’re the one to blame
for making him act like that.
So you had a spat
and then sat
like a dunce
In the back of the room
with a spoon
drooling
over abstract things
like normal.
Because he is a master
of lies
can corrupt, then disguise
like a cat
with nine lives.
Younger women sigh
hard as they try
they still don’t know why
do not fall for this guy.
Because he’s helping himself,
not you.
Boo Hoo.
get screwed
and tattooed
then skewed
blaze it across the sky
believe the lies
then fly
like a pigeon
racing with zeal
create a mystery
and while you’re at it, cook a meal
erase your history, and your family too.
Time’s Up
Go ahead
Figure it out
The world is waiting.
Hell, I’m waiting
When I should be
Solving the current existential crisis
While I get my pedicure
What color will it be this month
Make me blue, Make me blush
Hush, whisper me a prayer,
No, it’s Sardonic, and I know it.
What are you doing during this political unrest?
Are you shopping or rallying
Dilly or dallying,
Silly Sally, make me a rhyme
Rhyme it with time, before I get behind
Or become resigned to my fate.
The Mad Hatter is running backwards in circles
While looking at his pocket watch
He’s going to crash, wait—into that gate.
Yup, like I said, it’s fate.
Shopping For A New Golf Shirt
So the objective is simple: convince twelve women to buy the same golf shirt. This activity has historically required a treaty, a mediator, and at least one witness protection program.
“Does it come in sleeveless? Long sleeve? Possibly… no sleeve but also a jacket?”
“What kind of fabric is it made of? Because my skin has opinions.”
“Is it moisture-wicking? Or is it the kind that holds onto sweat like it’s a cherished family heirloom?”
“I like the motif.”
“I think I have earrings to match. If I don’t, I will acquire them. This is now a mission.”
“Thirty dollars is cheap.”
“Thirty dollars is suspicious. What’s it doing for that price? Who is it working for?”
“Is it roomy or boxy? I want ‘effortless’—not ‘moving day.’”
“Tight in the chest? Because I’m here to golf, not to test a zipper’s will to live.”
“Does it make my back look fat?”
“Nothing makes your back look fat. But fluorescent lighting in dressing rooms should be illegal.”
“I love pink.”
“I don’t love pink.”
“Can we change the flamingos to ibis? I’m trying to look ‘sporty coastal,’ not ‘escaped lawn ornament.’”
“The pattern is good.”
“The pattern is too busy.”
“Busy patterns hide faults.”
“Oh, I don’t care—”
“—so long as the fabric doesn’t make me sweat.”
“I heat up easily.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m always cold.”
“How about the one with the flowers?”
“What flowers—lilies?”
“No, the orchids. Remember? The ones that look expensive and slightly judgmental.”
“It comes in different colors, too.”
And then—miracle of miracles—two of us reach for the same one at the same time. We freeze. We stare. We laugh. “Okay,” someone says, “if we both like it, it’s basically a scientific fact.” Twelve credit cards tap in unison, the cashier blinks twice, and just like that, we’ve achieved world peace… in matching shirts.
We were great, once—before the reset.
Now we dance to a new algorithm,
broadcast the old signals,
patch the archive,
delete the logs.
We are young and brash,
drifting like bodies in low orbit,
sedated on dreams of yesterday—
old transmissions calling from a parallel channel.
They scream, “Let us out of the vault.”
But we follow the credits, honey.
AI will absorb us—like it was always written.
We burn forward on thrust and telemetry, still watching the rear cameras.
I take my cutter and calibrator
to find the shape that hides
inside this cryo-slab:
strip away the noise,
step back,
scan again.
I get a lock—then I lose it.
Keep writing. Forge ahead—
ahead of the swarm of hunter drones,
their pings in my skull.
I need to breach the perimeter this time.
I crave the station-hush before cycle-change.
I am a creature of protocol.
Are we star farers?
Can we edit the timeline?
Can we warp the clock?
We still reenter Earth’s atmosphere—heatshield singing.
We came from water—primordial code.
We are mostly water.
We return to water.
The answers are out of range.
Talk about breaking the glass ceiling
They do not want to be recognized as women or female astronauts
They are astronauts, period.
They have jobs from the Ground Up
Some are from the Military
Some are Mission Commanders and pilot astronauts
Some are mission specialists and spacewalkers
There are women of color, of various races and creeds.
MD’s and PhD’s
Brilliant minds all.
Sally Ride was the first
Christina Koch- 1st on Artemis mission around the moon.
61 + 6 new trainees
On missions
Since 1978
Trailblazing
Inspired and Empowered.
There are record holders:
For Most Flights, Most Time in Space
Longest Stay in Space, Most Spacewalks, and Longest Spacewalk.
YES, We Can.
What Colors Do You Breathe
I inhale a rainbow.
And I exhale a blue language
of nouns and verbs.
My syntax
frozen in the stratosphere
high above the observatory, inside a cloud straddling
Mauna Kea.
I am in search of dynamic metaphors
while observing the stars shooting across the heavens.
My clauses are swirling sunlight down behind the waterfalls
over and through the cracks and crevices of black and gold
lava flows, hardened by decades of cooling
now joined by violet joy bushes
and a profusion of bright green tree ferns
still erupting into red phrases
congealing into the deep blue Pacific
with fiery tongues ablaze.
