Time To Take Off The Blinders

Yesterday, I watched
Substack news podcasts
and learned why ignorance feels like bliss.

I learned more about Trump
and the corruption
spilling from the Oval Office.
The scale of it—
the offenses,
the grift,
the deception—
stretched farther than I'd imagined.

Independent journalists
did the brutal work,
dragging truth from the shadows
and forcing it into the light.

For hours, I tried to make sense
of what I was seeing:
enough to send followers reeling,
enough to make the end of days
feel close at hand.

Fresh out of pardons,
no one seems untouchable,
and even silence feels complicit.

Interview after interview,
the lies piled higher,
the distractions grew louder,
and the cost of ignorance
became impossible to ignore.

The blinders are off now.
Like a horse seeing beyond
the narrow path for the first time,
I can't unsee the widening horizon—
or the cliff edge ahead.

 

Betrayal

 Betrayal

Betrayal by a mate is wound enough,

but betrayal by elected leaders is another wound entirely.

We place in their hands the keys to atomic annihilation,

and still they turn against us.

Once trust is broken, the ground falls out.

Let them trumpet, bellow, and groan—

there is nowhere left for them to hide.

Silence does not mend it.

The realization strikes the survival instinct like a warning light in a long, dark tunnel.

It asks for adjustment, for healing, for rebirth into a new world.

The question is simple: can you?

Can we grow stronger, restore self-care, set firm boundaries, and learn to trust again?

 

Yes—

but healing keeps its own time.

Today We Pause

 Today We Pause

 

Today, we remember those who laid down their lives for our democracy

our way of life, and Eleanor Roosevelt comes to mind.

She said, “You Must Do The Things That You Think You Cannot Do.”

I’m wearing the shirt with that statement, in my mind, and looking out my window on this rainy morning, thinking about how the garden was a huge sacrifice

Much of my youth was spent pulling weeds, back-breaking work with little yield and much cost.

Now I appreciate the wildflowers fending for themselves with their steely determination.

The way they endure, while vicious and self-serving predators

concerned only with enriching themselves,

bark at and devour what they conceive as low-hanging fruit.

Anyone or anything that refuses to bend to their will.

Lives that mean nothing to them or their cronies.

Lives that sacrificed everything for liberty, GOD, and country

Honorable men and women who served

so that they could climb the ladder of success without so much as a turn of the head or a thank-you. The craven who claims his own orbit.

As if they deserved it. And we didn’t. 

Predators who trample the garden amidst those who continue to tend it, as if all that destruction never happened. The sustaining survivors, rebuilding, sacrificing, sowing hope from tiny seeds. So that we may bring a measure of joy to those who cannot.  The ones who paid and continue to pay, slaving and bowing, and hoping for reason, justice, and sanity. 

 

Can I Get A Pass?

 Can I Get A Pass?

 

or a little mercy—

the kind that hushes even the shiver in the leaves.

I’ve been laboring since dawn—

the kind of labor counted in acorns, wind, and worry—

said the squirrel, still a quick brown spark in the branches,

flitting from limb to limb like a thought that would not settle,

and the forest answered him with laughter.

The birds, being birds, turned mockery into song—

a bright unruly weather of chirps and shining eyes,

as though all spring had been a rehearsal

for the sweet small privilege of teasing a squirrel.

Hershel sighed for a holiday.

Sally, meanwhile, wanted one as well—

preferably with cake and a patch of afternoon sun,

which seemed, for squirrel ambition, almost courtly.

You’re nuts,

said one voice, and not with kindness enough to make it praise.

Ask again in five minutes, when hunger comes back wearing its old crown.

We all have a stake in this—

if not in heart, then surely in bark and timber.

Then even the deer and mountain lions lost their solemn manners

and laughed as though some ancient burden had skipped them for a day,

and even the trees leaned softly into the joke,

bending in the breeze with that old wooden laughter

that begins in the leaves and ends in the smallest wheeze.

So there it was—

a brief and shining mercy, dressed up as a punchline.

 

 

 

The Power of Story

 The Power of Story

 

We each have one.

It defines who we are,

shaping our day-to-day

in a profound way.

Our stories travel with us.

They thread their way

through our lives,

follow us down paths,

to the right and left,

guide our steps,

while our dreams lean ahead.

Our stories are fledglings,

small birds learning the air,

on their own

into the great wide world

to be interpreted by people

who will add, subtract

and make them their own. 

 

Stories stitched into patterns

of color, history, and skin

changing faces

leaving traces

of greatness from above.

They will explore the vastness

of space

travel to other worlds

throw stones at what they fear

take what is not theirs to study,

then form conclusions,

acting on limited knowledge,

from fragments they mistake for truth,

and then retell the story. 

 

 

Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk

 Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk

 

Today is the Feast of the Ascension,

and the clock is grinning at five.

A little late for heaven’s early-bird special,

but still squarely in the rooster-approved shift

when prayer slips in like steam from a fresh cup,

bringing mental cobwebs to heel

and kicking stress out like an uninvited cousin.

I am oddly peaceful,

like a parade float before the band starts blasting.

Today’s grand quest: a lap around the lake with friends,

having already evicted a few stubborn gremlins from the attic of my mind.

I am awake,

armored in clothes,

and primed like a toaster at dawn.

The body is on board,

though the appetite has been throwing confetti for days,

so now it is time to let my Keens preach.

 

 

Bare Limbs

 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

 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

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

 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

 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

 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

 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

 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

 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.

 

The Chaos is Intentional

 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.

We Are Astronauts

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- 1^st 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

 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.

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.

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