Good Morning America

Aren’t we great?

 

Good Morning, Starbucks!

Venti Me!

I’m going for the bypass tomorrow.

I woke up today and

all my size tens turned into fourteens

and I can’t get the zipper up.

I need EMS to resuscitate me

from the god-dammed fake news

that’s polarizing the populace

and I’m asking Mr. President

what is it all for?

I want off the rollercoaster

I want Opie and Andy

to call I Love Lucy

and tell her that

Ricky is her soul mate

that Ethel is skinny and Fred eats liver pate.’

 

Good Morning America

I need a Zen moment

a place to exhale all the garbage

from my black lungs

coughed up in the trenches

of foreign wars

because my credit 

needs a banker to 

prevent my cash from being

blown up in the chopper

in a bombed-out country

that hires kids as mercenaries.

 

 

Good Morning America!

We need a plan.

We need Mr. Spock

to beam down

and give us the logical

answer, before the Alien High Council

sends us to a frozen prison planet.

because no one here is exempt.

 

Good Morning America!

Let’s toast our Statue of Liberty

one last time, before the brute

calls in his note.

Before the polar icecap melts,

the climate stops flustering and

before Voyager reaches its destination.

 

Good Morning America

Today is the day

we resurrect GOD

meet those ancient aliens

who designed the giant stone monoliths

that litter the planet

like a Burma Shave ad for space travel.

Magnetic

to foreign collectors

from a far-off galaxy

who will surely

calculate the odds

of contracting the human infection

and inoculate their crew

for a close encounter of a shitty kind.

 

 

Good Morning America

We are being consumed by rhetoric

and our time is running out.

Pardon me

Excuse my partisan ass

Mr. Speaker but

America is Great, but fresh out of tolerance

and we were wondering

when you people on Capitol Hill

will get up off your rich collective butts

and do what you were elected for

which is to speak for the people

because we are tired of swallowing

your sovereign agendas 

and we’re not going to be quiet anymore.

Moving With The Gouda

 

I am balancing on a tightrope 

on my right leg

without a net,

circumnavigating destiny’s fork,

and betrayal’s vacant stare.

Breaking free from and the 

terminal followers

in their petrified stance.

Alone and on my own, 

with my sneakers firmly laced. 

Heeding the signs

on this blue-green maze,

driven by a brute with cheese.

 

Hemorrhoid Hilda

She is not cancerous
just a bloody, gushing pain in the ass.

She shrieks for
fiber
should
eliminate the sugar,

fried whites and browns.

Hilda needs to add green
red, orange, yellow, and
perhaps a purple
to her day.
Allowing
her
to cool down,
have fewer flare-ups.

Soothed, now                                                            
by the unflappable 

Hazel

a witch who
comes
expertly
recommended.

Rapunzel

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!
Come on dearie
don’t be so Grimm

there’s nothing left to fear.

The big bad wolf
evil prick that he is 
is out fooling with some 
naïve Red Riding Hood on Facebook
and the wicked witch
has roared off on her broom
to Instagram a novel fashion color.

It’s okay to come out.

The bogey woman has left the building.
She got bored
went off to scare up a new Princess.
All the evil turds are gone
Rapunzel
Oh, by the way, you have netted a pink slip.

I’ll explain later.

Seriously, it’s time to escape
from your ivory tower
color those roots
get out of that frumpy dress
invest in a pedicure.

So join the group

get analyzed

and who knows

maybe in a few years

You too, can 

get a divorce

move in with Mom, and possibly
fit back into those skinny jeans.

  

I Am A Poet

Hello, my name is Cornelia

And I am a poet because

I need to condense this moment, now     the

who, what, where, when, why,  and how... of it.

I have a purpose, a tenacity, crystal clear.

Plus, I want to choose from an endless list of black and strong 

to go with my Einstein bagel and schmear.  Also, teach Kimmie how to say

Ursula (Err-sue-LA) 

 

TRULY, I am a poet 

Because it doesn’t mean a thing

If you haven’t got that zing

to people in the bayou

with alligators for neighbors

and mosquitoes as big as flying saucers

those who want to drink your blood

and leave welts the size of basketballs.

BIG...ORANGE...HARD...BALLS.

The balls that it takes

to stand UP and SHOUT 

about SENIORITY and AUTHORITY

and about the assonance and consequence

of our actions.

 

I am a poet

because of the reason and the rhyme, marking time 

Dripping off my tongue-- aged like fine wine.

Lyrical and magical 

Like ALICE

Chasing a rabbit into a hole, out of control

hanging on a cliff, with a NOTE 

high on hope, instead of dope.

Set adrift, on a sinking ship with a Fever

unrehearsed and cursed, to just be.

 

I am a poet 

because of sibilant S’s 

and because I want to weigh the wind 

on an impossible scale next to a fish tail that never pales, 

smells stale or          fishy.

I want to be shackled to a form and not mourn.

To show the flaming red dawn  like a phoenix rising from the ashes 

to give birth to the music of my faith 

Forever skewed, on strong WORDS,

RINGING in my ears, HIGH ABOVE THE HERD

until my LAST measured day, on Earth.

 

The Barber's Theater

 

He is magnificent.

Standing there in his white shirt and dark trousers, he takes slow, deliberate steps in a well-worn semi-circle.

His sharp scissors shape and clip, carefully clicking along to a favorite tune.

An eclectic mix of light and dark locks 

heap on the floor,

a bushy witness to his art.

A favored comb is well-positioned in his back pocket, ready for its cameo, then placed back as the razor continues to hum. He finishes with the Asian man before me: neck freshly shaven and brushed, cologne dabbed, and, too soon, the smock is removed and shaken.

The black and white checkered floor is swept. He pivots from the polished chrome and black leather chair to announce,

Next...

It is gripping like a one-act play,

and I am the only woman in the theater.

He smiles and looks towards me, repeating the invitation.

I amble towards him, no longer confident of the lucidity of my whim, then purposefully plop myself down in his chair to stare dolefully at my reflection. He swings the chair around so I can no longer see and proceeds to work. It doesn’t take long.

After he finishes, he hands me a mirror. My neck is quite pale above the old hairline, and I sense sunburn in my future.

I am not sure why, but I pay him.

I suppose that I am star-struck. He is Barnum, and I am not.

He nods curtly as I am dismissed, and the regulars continue to file in. 

The leather chair is still moist from my heat.

Broken Glass- ABCdarian

A

Broken Glass

Clearly

Defines the moment.

Evident in the 

Forefront 

Grabbing my attention.

How does the

Imperfect yet polished

Juxtaposition

Kill my mood

Leaving

Me

No choice

Of course, but to

Pick up my pencil 

Queue it to experience

Reflect on the moment

Savor the lost sip

Thread it into the story

Underscore the importance

Value the color

Wheel it this way and that

Xerox it, then sail off on a

Yacht and study

Zen.

The Bald Wonder

 An excerpt from The Katya Chronicles

 

 

 

 

Why must it always come down to that?

Didn’t they know he had connections with the spirit world?

 

He could fly without a machine

and higher than any human or feline.

He’d spotted the band that way

promised them that his kind did not carry off toddlers

All they had to do was entertain his boss.

 

That was when he noticed her orange hair

just like the prince, but uncombed.

A sign.

 

He would put them together. 

Perhaps she would donate her luscious mane,

to the Royals.

In exchange for sundries. 

That way, the heir could have a spare wig.

He was far too young to be spending all his extra time in the turret.

Barter worked well with the serfs. Besides,

the prince had a soft spot for young pussies.

She could wear a bandanna until it regrew.

Very stylish in upper cat circles.

 

Katya would improve her lot 

The prince would have a new kitty to play with

It was a win/win.

There was something about this one, too.

She was smarter than the rest

Perhaps he could teach her chess.

Meadow Pause

 Meadow Pause is what he called it.

But Meadow Pause made me feel like a confused,

overheated cow pausing in a meadow beside a guava tree.

A plump famished cow

Nay, a tail swatting cow

swiping a multitude of relentless flies.

Mooing in a high-pitched voice to Mother Nature about trade-wind breezes.

Causing my mood to surge from pink to blue and then see red, while sliding down a temperamental roller coaster in a pinball machine, stirring up a myopic zeal to murder Father Time.

A confused, overheated, plump, famished, moody, myopic cow, plodding down a meadow path in a sticky pasture, contemplating the change.

before my milk runs dry and I become irrelevant and invisible.

Or worse, before I cease to exist and someone turns me into a giant bag of rawhide dog chews.

The considerable dilemma of one confused, bellowing, moody, myopic, fat cow that would not go quietly through the rails.

No, indeed

This pacing, panting, drooling cow promises

to alert the other cow bitches

that are sure to follow.

Ft. Shafter Ladies

 Pacific golden plovers

Do a hopscotch dance,

Parade on dense fairways 

through sprinklers advance.

Stalked by a female tribe 

swinging metal shafts,

chasing after dimpled spheres 

of a bone-crushing blast.

 

Then, frightened by a thirsty sow 

midst eggshells littered mean,

as a pig dog lounges, on a nearby

 red-flagged green

 

Now three metal cranes stiffly survey 

from an urban rain forest in concrete dismay.

 

As this senior, giggling, practiced group 

stuff another four-inch hole,

with multi-hued and coded balls 

In measured, arthritic control.

 

They pause at the ninth to add their separate scores 

Then resumed their play to win this local Army course. 

Finishing eighteen with time to spare, the weekly game, 

And collect their winning shares. 

 Wild Catch

 

It was hot again that night,

on an isle of sea and sand.

A small wild girl sat fishing, 

scraped knees upon the land.

The tide was rushing out,

as twilight had begun,

exposing crabs and clams, 

by dinner’s midnight sun. 

She’d crouched into the water still,

while seagulls flew on by,

and waited for a tempting bite,

beneath the star-filled sky.

The prize she waited for, 

while gliding on its way,

did not surpass this small lass,

who waited in the bay,

and as it swam, she reached out her hand,

and scooped it clean away.

She took it home to show the clan

this trophy fish she caught with her bare hands

to confirm that daughters can also do

whatever in hell they set their minds to.

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.

Big Island

 

Chain of Craters Road

closed due to the eruption

posted at entrance.

 

Volcanic river

erupts spewing smoke and ash

glowing red-orange.

 

Visitors observe

geysers spurt from volcano

generating steam.

 

Artist's impression

inspires a flowing poem

colors refract light.

Traces

 

Plant 

an ohia seed

crack a lava ribbon.

 

Sail

the Pacific, 

greet the kohola.

 

Pedal

with the wind,

listen for the elepa’io.

 

Hike

to a hei’au,

touch the sacred.

 

Dig

in the black sand,

expose the crusty scab.

 

Pause

to sign the autograph tree,

comprehend the invasive. 

  

Super Moon

 

My fur also rises.

I shake resolutely.

Insatiable, as shifting tides

yield to a Super Moon

bathing unabashedly

in a hammerhead bay in the Pacific.

Sister Moon is placid

as she slices through blackout curtains.

Until I witness her spirit here in the Northeast.

I am a wild thing,

And she is a flirt.

As she straddles

cool peaks and crags

 I find myself drawn

to her again.

As I howl at her figure, gulp down the afterglow above.

2/3/26

The Dark Path Brightens

It occurs to me

That I require an ideal

To summit these peaks. Something more than a patch.

My tenacity shouts above my perception

Shooting over the trees

Soliciting the breeze

Questioning my knees

As the goal sticks out its tongue and then darts

Off like a chipmunk to peek back at me from 

The enduring rocks and ledges that loom ahead.

 

My companions and I 

Pray to a silent God

Mindful of our mission

And that our bodies not 

Fail us, at least, not today.

The round red footpath signs 

Point diagonally ahead, 

Tree to tree towards

The relentless uphill, and my breathless 

Scramble over the ledges to come. 

 

The reward still sketchy 

After three hours in; 

When I am eager to drink in the summit. 

Finally, the dark path brightens. 

And I bow to the chipmunk in an

Attempt to feed it an organic potato chip. 

It darts instead behind a bush, 

Then shows me its tail, and informs me to eat 

But not to get too comfortable.

We have another mountain to bag.

 

Notified later 

By our fearless leader 

That I will have to CLIMB DOWN 

And then up again, for another mile   

Progressing first to the infamous 

Cornell Crack, where 

Mistakes in either direction 

Will not be tolerated. 

The Purple ribbon and I 

Contemplating our virgin review. 

 

My knees hiss a warning, which I promptly ignore.  

They vow to render their discourse later 

During our descent as they rant about where 

I place my feet, how to steady my stride, 

Harping that the path less taken 

Comes at a precipitous price.

The brilliant sun pierces the canopy, 

As before us, emerges another ledge.

Another feat to capture 

Is the epic as it continues to unfold.

 

We descend past yet another group of

Masked climbers at three p.m. 

Still on their ascent with their two children, 

An infant strapped to its mother

And the three-year-old

Proclaiming, then bawling 

Over the never-ending mountain ahead, 

His father, a tongueless statue, 

Their progress halted to let us pass.

Miles to go, both ways.

 

The smug star 

Reclines in the west

Pointing at loose rocks, 

Protruding roots 

Our heel-toe-heel cautious descent, 

My hiking poles that clock-like catch 

Between soft earth and a hard place

Slowing my forward motion

Tipping my resolve. 

My reserve approaching empty. 

 

The chipmunk scampering ahead 

Turns to salute me as our last steps 

Steer us back to our chariots in

The near-empty lot

To untie shoelaces

Remove mud-caked boots

Release tired toes

From their dark prisons

Slip-on our winged victory to

Toast at the evening feast.

 

 

 

 

What About Hugs?

What About Hugs?

I used to love hugs.

It was how I said hello and goodbye

in Hawaii. 

It was an island greeting, a mark of our civilization.

Your quick embrace 

soothed me.

Healed my isolation. 

Set me free

to just be me.  

But, now, a wave from across the room will have to suffice.

So, please keep your distance. Don't think twice

Wear a mask

Don't exhale 

cough or sneeze.

You may infect me. In fact, your hug 

could kill, exponentially.

Please walk away

leave me with a smile

a sweet memory

of that once chaste embrace.

Let us chase

the virus away

that nervous taste

must be erased.

Hard to believe

We were once so pure.

But we'll need to endure

amend the rules

set new trends

to keep our friends

old and new.

Because, a hug, 

once so curative now exposes us, my dear. 

And your touch and your breath

will rip us apart.

We have to reinvent our old greetings

keep ourselves alive to survive another day.

Cast off the old unhealthy ways, 

Just imagine, in the future

what our descendants will say 

Hugs, what's that?

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.

Noir

Noir

The photo depicts 

The past

A time when words flowed

Like a river into endless

Streams

Across great chasms

Mind-bending

Alleys.

Ever forward

Relentlessly pushing boundaries

Breaking norms

Exploding into infinity.

Kind of like ejaculation.

Only the waterfall

Ran dry for a time

And the people had to

Find another source

Were forced to improvise

Re-engineer

What had already been provided

By our Maker.

And where is that Maker now?

Is he a devil hidden in detail?

Or a stern parent insisting we toe the line

Perhaps the Maker resides in each of us

Within our unique purpose

Maybe, we are the world.

But the world is dying.

Discernment helps

Patience

Listening too

In the Noir days, we had filters.

Remember filters?  

And one critical lesson at a time.

Cornelia DeDona 3-24-2020