Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Friday, June 27, 2014

Sweaty Rocks


Conglomerate rocks
glisten in the noon day sun
tripping up hikers
lacking traction, challenging

tree roots; slimy curb appeal.





Friday, March 14, 2014

A Weedy Return

Lodged between
a healthy seedling
and a slowly decaying sharp bromeliad
lay a tangled
web of Impatiens.
Take heart,
one twitches
when steady is required
a further adjustment
there, no THERE.
Their shaken world
will either align
or give up the ghost.



Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Mind Games

Do you think you are a good person,
you demand of
the liberated me
your scream
howling
between the porous legs of present and past
 as you carp about terror, truth and stunted lives

as you try to saw through my last nerve

as skinny, slant eyed
whiskey whores
parade through purple haze
gorge on your coffers
tramp through your lies
nightmare channel
briefly appeasing you
with their sweet meats
and clotted cream

as the clock strikes past twelve
as you curse in bold print
dripping swear
that you
are a good person.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

#BUSY



They all mean well
they are just busy.

Don’t you love that word
#BUSY?
It’s the #trending excuse for not prying.

To answer one of your many questions and address your
temporary state of un-busyness;
I am happy with my choices
finally.
Yes, life is short
and winter is fast approaching
and twill be cold outside
in the frigid North.
Thankfully, I am not homeless
or penniless
or winter would be dreadful indeed.
Got to run now

I am  #busy.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Leaving Neverland


What stopped me
all the time
was
the lack of cash
the self-doubt
the fear that I wouldn’t make it on my own
You assured me of that.

Everyone
including your mother, warned me to
put some money away
because even though I was in love
and blind
they know how you are.
I reasoned that the time was not right
that perhaps if I gave it a chance
I would change you
or even
see things from your
point of view
but
that never happened.

On countless occasions
when you snowed me
I had decided that I must be insane
to doubt you.
After all
you were a good provider
and always right
even when you were wrong
you were right
because
you told me so.
And I being the younger
less mature one
I would have to abide by that fact
unless of course
I could come up with some hard facts of my own
I didn’t.
I wanted so much to believe.

I gave up on myself when I met you
Your master plan was to shape me into a Wendy
I just had to cooperate
I didn’t
I fought you tooth and nail
You told me to just do it and not to think
Don’t think!

I thought
I don’t have to be here at all.

I can conjure another Peter Pan
he can claim me as one of the found
we can have adventures together
be kids
I could just be me.  And this Peter

this Peter would be proud. 

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

A Meddler’s Fate


They placed them there

in two pretty boxes

high on a shelf

one for him

and one for her

their bones still warm

they set them there.

 

And when the mood arose

 

they took them down

and MADE them

to clown around

reminding them again

of their place

on the ground.

 

Once fearful

they slapped down some coin

and purchased two locks and two tiny keys

and drilled two patterns with such great  care

pronounced once more to the poor trapped pair

that they wouldn’t grow much

way up there

Or get too wild

with so little air

permanently sealed

in their chronic despair.

 

Then continued to feed them

little white lies

an earful each day

lest they surmise

that the dark chocolate trifle

rich with their scorn

had been their folly

kept them forlorn

and so they mocked them

year after year

convinced and comfortably

locked, in their fear.

 

AND when the season came…as they do

they did not see it…

 blinded by the light

of their precious trapped two

who wisely knew

the infamous route

having plotted and planned

and grown their way out

one of them skinny

the other one, stout.

 

Two boxes remain

hallowed and high

on a dusty shelf

touching the sky

with two small

locks and two small keys

tarnished and swinging,

from one of their trees.


© 9-24-13

Cornelia DeDona

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Requiem for a Star

Yesterday we remembered and honored Dad.


Requiem for a Star

He died, just short of his 80th Birthday

survived by Mom, their three daughters, three son-in-laws, four grandchildren and one great grandson

so we stand here today in his garden

to pay our last respects

and to remember

the funny,

I’ll finish it tomorrow

lovable despot, that we called Dad.

 

He used to tell me

“Don’t touch me, I’m a star”

and I believed him.

I aimed high

and I followed my star to Hawaii

where I raised a family and flourished.

He expected great things

from his offspring

and we produced, as good offspring do.

And I oft times wondered if it was enough

I think it was, because Mom tells me so!

 

So we gather to remember the good

to heal, to reconcile the past.

We gather to laugh, shake our heads

to raise our glasses

and toast

the loose boards

hanging wires

half driven nails

and let us not forget

the bamboo, the sumac, and the poison ivy

because in spite of it all

he stayed long enough to

know, love and praise his four precious grandchildren

Jason, Kenny, Taylor and Lauren and great grandson, Chad

indeed, he loved us all.

 

Dear old Dad

a happy-go-lucky sort

rich in aspiration

and poor everyplace else.

A tyrant

with a dream of restoring a drafty old summer house

without running water

nestled on a hill between a rock pile

and a wild jungle of vines and sticker bushes

a house that sucked up money

like a good HEPA vacuum, leaving us just enough to get by

 

He had envisioned a sparkling jewel

and she stands to this day

an earthy un-pinned floozy.

a small poorly lit home

where he and Mom raised

their three sparkling fashionistas

each one of us

a strong-minded finisher

despite

Dad’s shining example.

 

Mom, Angie and Chrissy

brilliant, polished and uncut

and me

chasing stars

cherishing faint memories

of an iron-willed father

too hot for mere mortals

flawed but sweet

a man

whose light still shines in the garage

because like its creator

there is no off-switch

a man

resolute and irreverent

who never kowtowed to the crowd of popular opinion

an imperfect German perfectionist born in the free city of Danzig

a master electrician, a craftsman, and a ham-radio man

who shocked us with his frayed wires, his genius

hot-wiring his way into our hearts and minds

an enthusiastic family man with hopes and dreams

who touched us with his light

and left much too soon.

A man whose legacy includes

a bushel of antenna wire

three Bic lighters

and a nude statue of EVE

causing me to

rise each day before the dawn

gaze up at the sky

and to wonder

which star

might be his.

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Because The EARTH without ART is just "EH"


**This poem was inspired by a T-shirt design—I bought the shirt! I am also trying to convince certain people of the importance of POETRY!

Because The EARTH without ART is just "EH".

They say that ART will weigh heavy on their plate
that they have to scale back, that ART will have to wait
Maybe things will change, sometime down the pike
Maybe HELL will freeze or just go take a hike
The World without a poem is gonna suck BIG TIME
ADMIT IT can you FACE, this world without a Rhyme?
So listen Mister please, have a little HEART
And contemplate my drift let’s SAVE a place for ART
COS if you take the ART out of E A R T H
All that’s left are two letters; all that’s left is “EH”.
They want to get to basics
they still don’t know the way
they think that Aristotle
and Plato played with clay
but the world without their thinking
without their ART is “EH”.
They think that Science rules
that RELIGION will save the day
that man can live on mere hard work
but that is not HIS way
For MAN is only human
and needs to chill and play.
And people let us face it
without ART The Earth is just “EH”.
So let us break it down
and investigate today
finding new solutions
for our external fray
and promote this dialogue
vs. placing limits on the ARTS, OKAY?
They say that ART is an ACT
for people on the fringe
retards, creeps, and losers
waiting to unhinge
BUT we are not the nihilists
on the periphery
We are not IN SEASON
or Zombie meat delivery.
Understand!
LANGUAGE IS AN ART
it must be understood and not taken for granted
giving us not only a love of WORDS, but a love of LOGIC
to frame the argument
add up our influence
to lessen  events beyond our control
to translate the sea of language in which our minds swim
To plug into our power
 our humanity
into what separates us from the APES.
our evolution throughout the Ages
to be the conscience
make intelligent choices
to define our place IN  nature not APART from it
NATURE—THE GREATEST SOCIAL NETWORK
To carry out the critical thinking required
to deal with planetary issues like global warming
ocean acidity, invasive species and  white coral disease
to discuss our addiction
to plastic, fossil fuel, and waste
We need to emerge as the
authentic heroes and heroines
of our OWN HUMAN STORY.
Our language must go on!
WE MUST CONTINUE to create, educate, and relate
BECAUSE The EARTH without ART is just “EH”.



Thursday, November 8, 2012

Tsunami

And the waves come.
The wave comes.
The wave pulls up its skirt
puckers its lips
drawing them in
leveling their dare
insatiable.

And the waves come.
The wave comes.
The wave bitch slaps
blackened hearts
panting for a gentler tap.
Tempting fools and bullies. As it
cracks facades, splits foundations sucking out their essence,
until their base, isolated harbors, scream no more.

And the waves come.
The wave comes.
The wave roars, devastating coastlines
tossing mettle at will. Striking and fierce
winking at the blue moon
as it tallies their cheek
on its terrible shores.

©Connie DeDona 11-02-12

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Chicken Scratch:Bridging the Gap A Poultry/Poetry Slam






Chicken Scratch: is Poetry, Dance, Music and just plain FUN!! 

"Why did the Chickens cross the Bridge? To get to the Poultry Slam, of course!" 
"Why do Chickens scratch dirt? Concrete is too hard on their nails" ~ Connie DeDona

Chicken Scratch is also a PSA on GM (genetically modified) food

Protect yourself; YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT!! Choose Non-GM food
There are four major GM foods: soy, corn, cottonseed, and canola. They entered our food supply about 12 years ago and are likely contributing to the deteriorating health of Americans. Without any human clinical trials or post-marketing surveillance, we can't tell which declining health statistic may be due to these foods. But we also can't afford to wait to find out. GM foods must be removed from our diet now. To learn which foods are genetically modified and how better to protect yourselves, visit:http://www.ResponsibleTechnology.org

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Good Old Anger


Live not for Battles Won.
Live not for The-End-of-the-Song.
Live in the along.
Gwendolyn Brooks
The Pulitzer winner was born on this day in 1917.



Good Old Anger

I do know this
that’s 
never going to happen.

We can write about it
until Venus comes back
but basically
we are a warring race
of mother fuckers
and there is no getting around it.

We will be fighting
raging
and 
shoving our fists
down each other’s throats
until the end of time,
WHY?
Because it’s profitable

And because LOVE
doesn’t enter into the equation.
SURE 
we know about love 
we hold it up
we show it off
we share it 

We read about it.
Wonderfully pithy
aphorisms are written every day
to make you feel 
all warm and fuzzy.

We draw it as we see it 
or from memory
because we need
to measure it 
but then we lose faith 
we forget that it’s still there.

We need to keep checking it 
to analyze it
for weak spots.

Its good old anger
that gets you through the rough patches
Anger
bitterness
and irony
is how we do battle 
to overcome those demons
that come trekking 
out of the dark places
the swamp
trekking their mud
across your brand new white rug
caring
not at all
about how much you LOVE that rug
or about how this may
alter the grand scheme
of your Zen-ness
NOPE!

So it’s going to have be
anger 
that wedges its size seven wide
down your craw
and takes the crowbar
and uses it to open up your eff’n cranium
you sick twisted
bastard.

How’s that
for being in the 
ALONG?

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Chicken Speak--To Be Or Not To Be


TO BE OR NOT TO BE
that is the question.
Whether tis nobler to walk
on egg shells
or rather
to boldly strut
cock fierce.

To plant one foot in the hen house
and the other
at the foxes lair
exhibiting
super Gumby
flexibility
and strength.

Or to simply roost
in the nearest Mango tree
dreaming
of Iowa corn fields
sinewy stalks
crunchy kernels
liberally sprinkled
with red lipped white grubs.

And to fertilize
with flair
that extra special egg
the one
that stands out from the rest.

The good egg

that breaks the mold
that breaks wind
with a certain HEN NA SAIS QUOI!

That one egg
that exemplifies
everything
chicken.

That one egg
that the others
defer to
when things get
scrambled.

That one egg
that flies in the face of
adversity
and comes out
smelling
like a ham.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Fresh Meat




We
and I say this loosely
who start anew
later in life
like in our 50’s
realize the ramifications
of our actions
but we proceed into deep space anyway.
We press on with resolve and courage
because we know
that time
keeps running ahead
and the best that we can do is
try to keep up.
Call me
fearless
and something other than normal.

I just need
to go over the hurdles
a little slower
and every once in awhile
I enjoy
a good swift kick
to get me started
because the doubters
bring big suitcases
build shells
then like to tuck them
into deep niches and hang out
demanding telescopes and mirrors
with plenty of extra batteries
to focus beyond the present
into the blacker than black void
to ping in mathematical sequences
and then to listen
with a bit of trepidation
for some sign of intelligence and wit
so they can  share
the miracle of
a verse
or some meaty prose
with their friends. 

Not forgetting  the remnant
who exist in the outer reaches of space and time
who are voracious  for new material.
who act as if they have not heard a good story
in eons.

The ancient ones
who have endured
for centuries
like birds of prey
on dry carrion
who will continue to exist
long after
our dusty bones
lie frozen
on a cold dead planet
hurtling through space.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Silver and Gold






Mature
wire hangers
wrap bright silver and gold
toboggan down pine needle green
secure.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Happy Halloween


Punch in
punch out the freak
that glares from a dark niche
crimson canines bared tongue trickling  
verbose.

Verbose
morose fat toad
bluster soaked dripping cad
is quite mad drops now from rafter 
crawls on

Crawls on
past old paint flakes
reflecting on  dinner
in the old clapboard haunted house
spider.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Just This

Love means
I’ll help you pack
then prepare your dinner
but stress me out and I will eat
your young.

Red Dawn

The sun winks red-faced
on its upward climb
chased by sultry hounds
slobbering wet kisses
drenching the cracked brown earth
snaking a path to the sea.

Two dendrobiums snatched
by teething pair
chomped
discarded
alone.

The culprits
soon jailed
by a critical gust
curling hot on their
red heels.

Practical

Perky banks minutes
pens animated haiku
time for pedicure.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Love in the Time of Compost


Love allows that even a clothes horse 
can have an off day
and knows when to put the blinders on.

Love bows at the sacrificial altar
of burnt beyond recognition
with a branded tongue.


Love relaxes with the Kama Sutra
inhaling a strawberry soufflé
sensually whipped.


Love lets you have first dibs
on the massage chair
kneading and pummeling your
way to RELIEF---
then hands you a post hole digger
to plant a 3' tree.

Monday, September 26, 2011

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