Sweaty Rocks

Conglomerate rocks

glisten in the noon day sun

tripping up hikers

lacking traction, challenging

tree roots; slimy curb appeal.

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.

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.

#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.

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. 

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

Requiem for a Star

Yesterday we remembered and honored Dad.

Requiem for a Star

He died, just short of his 80^th 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.

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”.

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

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

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?

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.

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.

Silver and Gold

Mature

wire hangers

wrap bright silver and gold

toboggan down pine needle green

secure.

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.

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.