A Luxury Amenity

 A Luxury Amenity

 

At Radio City, Bryant Park, and Greeley Square,
these humming thrones await the public there.
A civic gift in plastic, bright and grand,
for anyone in sudden, urgent demand.

First comes the hand before the scanner’s eye,
the red light wakes as if to verify.
Then clears its throat with bureaucratic zeal,
and starts the brisk official toilet reel.

The glossy film advances, trim and quick;
a hidden blade makes one efficient snip.
The used layer vanishes without a fuss,
as though embarrassment rode a public bus.

A fresh sleeve settles on the porcelain throne,
with all the grace of something, state‑issued, blown.
It clings the way an office rumor clings—
transparent, tense, and full of private things.

Then down you sit, convinced the coast is clear,
and find a warmth distinctly not your dear.
Not filth, not doom, not anything unsound—
just someone else, still faintly hanging round.

 

Beautiful Blessings

 

Between the worry and the care,
beautiful blessings gather—
a multitude of angels,
hovering, watching, signaling,
whispering through the quiet.

They are my own personal army,
and for their presence
I am deeply thankful.

The world feels frightening now.
There is so much unrest,
so much darkness moving among us.
I worry for the children—
the innocent, the untried—
and wonder where they will find shelter
when we are gone,
when the shadows seek to settle forever.

Yet still they stand guard,
holding back the curtain of doom,
keeping watch at the edge of night,
where tears appear in the ether
and shadows search for passage.

The portals of time are closing,
sealing away old horrors,
the echoes of war,
the storms of hatred,
the tempests that trouble the earth.

Dear Lord,

Grant us one more night,
one more day to mend what is broken,
to straighten what has gone crooked,
to hold fast to the truth,
and welcome goodness through the door.

For the day is long,
our hearts grow weary,
and we need rest.

Amen.

The Long Way Home

 The Long Way Home

Gina ran away one fall
On nothing but a dare,
The promised warmth of southern skies
Was waiting somewhere there.

They said that summer lingered on
Where ocean breezes roamed,
While winter gathered in the north
Around the streets of home.

"Bring swimsuits," somebody laughed,
"Bring sandals for the shore."
But Gina owned no clothes like that
A city girl to the core.

She was New York through and through,
Just sixteen, wild and bright,
And when she crossed a crowded room
She seemed to gather light.

Four girls cut class and hit the road
Instead of school that day,
Chasing freedom down the coast
And throwing rules away.

They thumbed their rides through Newark first,
Then farther south they went,
Living on the kindness found
Wherever fate had sent.

Gina prayed that Lucy would
Be home when trouble came,
For someone had to know the truth

Behind each borrowed name.

The stories spun to hide their tracks,
The lies they thought would last,
Could never stay ahead for long—
The truth rode hard and fast.

And where was Katya on that road?
Perhaps she wandered still,
Not running from the dark so much
As learning how to will

Her way through it.

Three days passed.
Baltimore at last.
A holding room.
A waiting gloom.

Detention walls and anxious hours,

Four runaways shut in,
Till someone called and someone came
To gather them again.

Lucy did what Lucy could,
Steady, wise, and kind.
She gave the look grown women give
When worry fills the mind.

And had it ended otherwise,
Had fate not stepped in then,
Gina never would have met
The man she'd meet again.

But that comes later.

Back then they rode
Like concert kids at play,
Certain they could leave the world
And simply drift away.

As though four girls could disappear
For just a weekend's roam,
Then call for help when funds ran low
And find an easy home.

As though a parent, scout leader,
Or some patient soul could come,
To claim them from the road they chose
And drive them northward home.

Back through miles of autumn rain,
Past every mile they'd flown,

To face the thing all runaways
Must someday learn and own:

No matter how far south you go,
No matter where you roam,
The longest road a runaway walks
It's the long way home.

There Was A Tree

 Ode to the Weeping Elm

O, green cathedral of the lawn,
Great dome of architecture and grace,
You do not reach to meet the dawn,
But bend to touch the earth’s embrace.

Praise to the seam that holds your soul—
The borrowed roots, the weeping crown.
A human hand once made you whole,
And taught your branches to cascade down.

An emerald tent where summer rests,
A secret room of quiet shade,
A sanctuary for the nests,
Inside the fortress you have made.

Stand on, great curiosity of art,
Where human craft and nature agree.
You hold the corners of our heart,
O, beautiful and solitary tree.

Trail Mix, Fava Beans, and Lady Slippers

 Trail Mix, Fava Beans, and Lady Slippers

 

All we need is some Chianti

and I’m checking the mileage

like there’s a truck stop up ahead

a place to fill up on fuel and wine.

Only we’re walking here.

We’re walking, and we’re talking

like it’s 1999, Y2K didn’t happen,

and guess what else didn’t:

You got it:

no wine,

no trucks,

no lines,

but I did get a few lady slippers and fava beans

from the Azores. Go ahead—look it up. I’ll wait.

Money

 Money

say it:

Show me the money.

honey

where would we be

without it?

I’d like to shout it

from the rooftops

Money makes the world go round

you relentless hound.

It’s what keeps us afloat

in your boat

which is huge

what a stooge.

It’s that silly

willy nilly

Philly

at the Kentucky Derby.

It’s everything we had

before the wheel turned against us.

So it comes down to this:

money, power, and time.

We find the signs

you left behind, too late

after the horse is out the gate

and your horse always wins

again and again.

You shout down

through the air

in some satellite above humanity

in your precious throne room

filled with supercomputers

and data banks for your crypto

currency.

But shh

Don’t say it’s power.

Don’t say it’s time.

Don’t say you care, it’s money.

 

 

Chocolate As Inspiration and Art

 Chocolate As Inspiration and Art

(Inspired by Lagusta’s Luscious in New Paltz)

 

We appeared to be provisional citizens of an avoidable misunderstanding,

furious vulvas, indeed!

While the confections proceeded with unofficial diplomacy

until Hawaii entered the paragraph as an expert witness with tenure.

And to think it all started with vegan chocolate, made by women, which arrived with the self-importance of a minor prophet and excellent packaging.

Our writers group nibbled while drafting, each of us pretending this counted as research.

It was intense and sweet, like brainstorming in formalwear during a very polite emergency,

luscious and lively, as if every sentence had a train to catch and a reputation to protect,

and somehow, against all odds and several commas, it was wildly productive.

We praised the small miracles of language, especially the ones that arrived five minutes after we had given up

while rolling each confection over our tongues like a suspicious but promising thesis statement

letting the sweetness settle into us until every bad draft looked briefly like destiny in a good coat.

Power, Code, and Accountability

 Power, Code, and Accountability

What is real? Who lays the first name on it? And when the system splits open—when the bright machinery throws sparks in the dark—who is left beneath the light, carrying the answer like a weight?

The documents are the Rosetta Stone. Not the smoke. Not the theater. The record. The fragment. The half-buried tablet that teaches you the grammar of power, syllable by syllable, after the public story has gone thin.

Power moves like weather now—crossing borders, climbing walls, outrunning the old alarms, leaving the people at the fence with their hands still raised.

Capability keeps widening its river. Reach keeps learning new roads. And accountability arrives downstream, late again, counting what the current carried off.

So skepticism is not a luxury. Verification is not a luxury. Scrutiny is not a luxury. They are the small lanterns we keep lit for one another. They are the habits that keep the dark from getting organized.

Because the danger is not only the face you can point to. It is the institution that goes soft at the hinges. The incentive that bends toward profit. The signal, smothered under so much noise, begins to sound like an echo.

So support independent reporting. Ask the harder question, then ask the question beneath it. Demand what can be shown. Demand what can be checked. Demand something sturdier than performance, something that can hold in the light.

The Seashell Indictment

 The Seashell Indictment

 

is like the proverbial ham sandwich

burning taxpayers’ money,

time,

and oxygen.

like a war with Iran

the cost of regime change,

nukes,

shaking hands with a dictator,

gas contracts,

ballrooms,

and data centers.

86 the mayo.

Ground your flight of fancy.

Do a 180.

Clean out the barn.

Signed, the people.

 

 

Why You Should Care

Why You Should Care

 

Why should they care—

when your face goes full loading screen as a friend announces,

“She’s an author and a photographer.”

So what—do you want confetti or a coupon?

My name is Cornelia De Dona.

I kept my ex-husband’s last name—

not nostalgia—just because it glides off the tongue like good bourbon,

and I’m not high-strung.

Not high-maintenance either—more like low-wattage menace with good posture.

My claim to fame is simple:

I’ve won awards—tiny gold stars for the way my mind bites the page.

Recognition, too, for my writing and my art—

the art being photography: stealing light and returning it as evidence.

People tell me my photos are beautiful,

like this burrowing owl—

she posed as I passed, a pocket-sized bouncer in feathers,

eyes flashing WARNING, and, honestly, I was impressed—

she gave me her best angle, like she’d trained in a studio I can’t afford.

And after all, that’s all anyone can do

show up, hold still, and dare the world to look back. 

Resolution

 Resolution

I resolve to keep writing

even during episodes of blankness and staring at white space

which is a new series on STUCK. 

I can’t believe the names some people come up with, like perplexity? 

Perplexity does not imply intelligence, artificial or otherwise. Or is that supposed to be us? Nope, it’s about predictability, Math!! Look it up. 

Today is Friday’s List

1.   Have coffee

2.   Get dressed

3.   Take out the garbage and recycling

4.   Take a walk

5.   Go to Water Aerobics class

6.   File papers

7.   Solve the “what not to bring north” riddle

8.   Stop making lists. 

9.   Look up sense of humor. 

10.                 Do the math

 

 

 

Training

 Training 

I laugh, looking back.

The years speed up—

Florida traffic when the snowbirds arrive.

Red lights feel optional—unless you remember you’re in one. I’ve seen enough to strip the naiveté from faith.

Crashes—car parts flung in a wide, bright ring of road. A debris field like the war my mother saw at five: waking to sirens, running in nightclothes, my grandmother scooping up five children and saying, now.

My shoulders are broad—

one of my better features—

as I round the corner of 69.

No one notices—until you’re treading water in the Gulf and need something to hold you up.

Yes, we were immigrants. I became a U.S. citizen in Honolulu forty years ago. We came by plane, sponsored by family; I was an infant in my mother’s arms while Germany still counted the cost of war.

I got a chance at a better life—better than my mama had. The man I married was a brute: brilliant, cruel. I loved him. I loathed him. He showed me the world and taught me to fight for my place in it. Years went by, soldiering on. Still, I learned: keep your head, keep moving, and don’t let the wreckage be the end of you.

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.