Calm After The Storm

 Calm After The Storm

Today we awaken—
soft light trembling on our faces—
First, to absorb the hush of shock,
emotions streaming from tired eyes,
hands worn by the trials behind us,
unable to summon applause,
even as triumph calls.
Yet still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

In the hush,
we find the seeds of hope,
rest in the gentle shade of renewal,
witness what we have become—
then softly, surely, declare:
we have won.

We rise,
trampled and battered,
with storms at our side—
to the left, to the right—
still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

We pray to the sun for light to guide us,
then to the son for hope to rise within.
We lay down the weight of oppression,
conquer the beast of despair,
gather in the circle of survival,
and greet the new dawn we have won.

 

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

…

Rewarding Bad Behavior

Reeks

Like a game of thrones.

It throws the innocent from the turret

A witness to incest and lies.

And then cries like a crocodile.

Tears washed in blood and bile.

…

We crown the cruel with laurel—smile,

And dress their damage up as style;

We pay in praise for practiced guile,

And call the bruising all ‘worthwhile.’

We stack up perks in a shining pile,

While quiet decency lives in exile;

Then scold the ones who name it vile—

As if the truth should stand on trial.

...

So let it stink this tilted scale,

Till justice learns its tone.

GOD is an Ancient Alien

 

 

The rivalry fades—
science and faith,
their contest a shadow
beneath cosmic signs.

 

Ancient wisdom speaks:
Darwin’s distant god,
the zeal of holy wars,
words shimmering, shifting,
visions conscripting the mind.

 

Scriptures etched by divine hand
challenge chaos, command order;
yet we gaze across the span
of humankind’s unfolding,
seeking the wisdom sown
in primordial seeds.

 

Darkness whispers probabilities—
a reconciling reality
where bibles and theories meet,
where old truths and new questions
find common ground.

 

Can reason unmask
the mysteries time has veiled?
Perhaps the answer waits
where logic and wonder entwine,
in the mathematics of ancient belief.

 

Vog Sunrise

Scarlet sun slices,
ebony frame—
Iwa birds dazzling,
violet lilies in the rain.

Orange heat breathes,
banyan’s crown aglow,
dew on emerald leaves,
morning’s gentle flow.

Beautiful, beautiful—
but unlike fog,
this haze is born of fire,
its breath is sharp and strong.

Vog glows in the morning,
brilliance in the sky,
but beneath its silent shimmer
a beauty that can burn—
where fog only softens the dawn.

 

 

Rowing

 Rowing

 

Come, row with me—

my small boat cutting through the restless sea;

Two blades, one rhythm—chase

that far-off beach beyond the break.

We’re strong; we lean into the swell—

it won’t be long if we don’t let it win.

We’ll take that shore like treasure—paired.

…

 

Climb in—

our canoe waits, bow pointed true.

Let’s shove off—water slaps the hull—

into Kāneʻohe Bay—water clear as glass over coral heads,

to the sandbar—where rays stitch shadows in the shallows—then farther.

And swear this vow:

hold fast to each other,

through wind that tries to spin us broadside,

through squalls that drum the deck,

through reef-pass surge, where the tide grabs hard and lets go.

Our oars bite, surge, and flash—silver schools scattering below—

stroke for stroke—threading the reef, watching turtles rise and dip—

on the blue edge past the reef, where deep water begins,

until the coastline lifts out of salt and storm—ours.

 

THE ORPHANS

 

The orphans gather in a huddle and gasp 

at the dreaded discard aisle. 

while we sort through the endless 

stacks of brown and yellow dusty pages.  

 

Several cradle dead roaches and insect poop. 

 

Some are dedicated to family and friends with 

photos inserted or a charming bookmark.

We hunt to find a signed first edition, 

or a historic volume of Hawaiiana. 

 

Now and then to discover a lonely dollar

hiding between the often-sticky pages.

We wipe away the grime, mend the tears, and unfold corners,

as we absorb bits and pieces of data,

 

too fast, too soon. 

 

The orphans are then reasonably priced with a Venus red pencil,

positioned into a cardboard box and sealed with packing tape.

Their characters are further revealed at opposite corners 

with bits of orange, yellow, green, brown, blue, or gray 

 

duct tape, 

invented by a woman.

 

The waifs are then packed into boxes, counted, and carted away, 

stacked and stored.

Polished and poised, to be embraced, sold, and rediscovered. 

When will they speak to us again?

Momos and Destiny

Destiny

was eighteen,
dreaming of college
and a one-way ticket
out of that one street town

when Momos rolled past
on his chopper
having left the first wife, 
three children,

and Patty Feathers
a stripper with nine cats who kept him in designer clothes.

Destiny parked that night
behind the theater to meet friends.
Her head in the clouds
fantasizing about her birthday, leather boots, and boys
as she pushed through the beaded curtain,
into the rooms in the back of Zeus’s Everything Shop,
meeting Momos for the first time,

fresh from his shower, a towel wrapped around his waist.

His moist skin was scrubbed and sweet-smelling.
His jive was as smooth as the fat marijuana cigarette he offered her.

Momos plowed every juicy female that crossed his path.

He tried to win Destiny that way, too, but she snubbed the ride.

Provoking his quest.

They soon met at a local dive. Destiny and Momos drank Southern Comfort, chased with Budweiser.
Shot for shot, they drank until a one-eyed Momos begged her to drive him home. And a besotted Destiny beheld her future.

He’d captivated her by walking a lobster on a leash,
hustling the drunks for money as he fed them the cherrystone clams, Snaps
the lobster had cracked with its claw.
And stunned her when he reached under her shirt and exposed her
to the bartender, like she was the prize at an outlaw biker rally.

Momos promised her the world.                                                                                        

Both dangerous and different, she craved his ilk.

Three years later,
even their infant couldn’t convert her.

She'd made her bed.
Momos was now her god.
His passion was hypnotic and biting.
His commands bled from her ears.

He burned his mark deep, lest she forget her place.


Her fate darkened
as Momos
pinned another vicious note
to a graphic sex manual with a switchblade,
her shortcomings were highlighted in red.

In time, Destiny became a beast, too.

Destiny studied. She became proficient at
"The Ways of the World," according to Momos.
She understood that none
of his friends would appreciate his art class.
The words he spewed 

and punched
into her face, her palette of black eyes.
The way he offended her allies.

Beaten down, she waited.                                                                                           

Ridiculed, she waited.
Terrified, she waited.

Hopeless, she remained.
Until Zeus looked down from Olympus
and saw what Momus had done, 
and a dreadful Destiny rescued her journey.

Momos however, remained the same.

Power mad atop                                                                                                                                              his plinth, he continued to lament, boast and blame.

Time passed before
they spoke.

Momos the frantic talked in circles.
He spewed
harbingers
declaring
he’d grown humble
after the attempted murder,
after the charges were dropped
and after she'd left him;
that his new conquest was a fill-in for her.

He professed to all that could hear      

that he still loved his Destiny.

But Destiny was no longer his    

to claim. 

Soon, Momos the miserable mocked the gods again.
Dragged his new soul mate by the neck
through her car’s open window.
Vowed to drive her to Hell for defying him. For saying no.
Heroic, she summoned the men in blue and Kratos the Enforcer to file her grievances.

Despite this, the fugitive fire in Momos raged on.
He became like Cerberus,
loyal guard dog,
compelling
The Fates
to impose their leaden doom
fusing his gifts and his skull
to a lower calling. And Hades sighed as the river Styx rose to greet him.

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.

Juxtaposition Captures Spirit (and Wings)

 (Inspired by: “Juxtaposition” by Melissa Miller Nece CPSA, CPX)

 

 

Three spirits racing
Toward the rumbling wide dark sea.
Ocean’s thunder slows.
Time opens its bright palm wide—
Youth spills into joy, complete.

 

Blowing Bubbles

Bubbles float on air.                                                                                        

                                                            Air

                                                On                   On

     Float                                Float

On                   On

                                                           Air         

                                                                                                                        Bubbles float on air.

Bubbles are dazzling rainbow planets we escape to.

 

Bubbles  bridge        the      gap     between         the      past and the present.

 

The magic orbs        spiral              up

down              

                                                and wrap around our minds.

Bringing our peace into sharper focus

 

Bubbles circle fast and track slow. Baffle us as they scatter…just out of …reach

Bubbles          P  O  P  without notice                    while they dance on thin light                     

Blowing bubbles requires that we breathe deeply

­­­

 Bubbles float on air                               Releasing us from care.

  

Until the matrix calls us home.

 

 

 

             

Playing GOD

Open the Strait of Hormuz, or I will decimate you.

Iran, you have just lost your ice cream privileges

Go to bed and think about your decisions,

I’ll wait, but not too long.

Time to surrender.  Time to take your medicine.

Open wide and swallow. 

(Grins like a demon.)

Swallow all of it.

Don’t read.  Don’t educate yourself, do as you are told.

I am great.  Don’t you want to be great, like me?

(Leering and staring at women’s boobs.)

…

I grew up watching Star Trek.  I especially liked Spock 

He was so cool, so rational. Spock would’ve said,

“Interesting. 

You act like a god, but you are a puppet, a pawn, a hoax perpetrated on the American people.

Your rhetoric stinks, your smile is fake, everything about you is fake.  And your psychiatrist is calling. “ 

She is not happy — time to come back inside.  Put those carbon-based life forms back, and don’t forget to wash your hands. What did I say about playing with strangers?

But I don’t want to come in, I’m having fun.  

The party is over, Donnie. You go too far. 

I want it NOW. It’s NOT FAIR, I HATE YOU!   It’s your fault I missed the ball. You never get me anything good.  

SILENCE!

(Door to his universe slams shut.)

Snow Cats

I think we’ve managed to break another ceiling

We’ve been snowbirds for seven years.

Our relatives, unnamed, followed suit two years ago.

This year, they chauffeured their two cats to experience the Sunshine State’s warmth and tropical breezes.

In less than two days, the two males have staked out their territory.

Now,  cats reign over the snowbirds in two locations.

The takeover was swift, and collateral damage minimal.

The dominant male keeps a short daily agenda:

1.   Beach party

2.   Hunt local birds

3.   Attend Spring Training in Fort Myers

4.   Shorebird BBQ 

 

 We are grateful for small mercies. The list is brief. Plus, something we recently hatched is brewing. 

 

Easter Sunday

 

Awake

predawn sunrise

partly cloudy with a 

huge chance of rabbits hopping by.

Easter.

 

 

Lettuce

pray together

for chocolate to dictate

 bunnies hop, and bees buzz

and fighting stops on planet Earth 

worldwide.

 

Holy

He is Risen

accept the commandment

be kind to your neighbors these times

daily.

 

 

 

"A Cinquain is a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of twenty-two syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines. It was developed by the Imagist poet Adelaide Crapsey."…

 

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.

Lunar Launch Party

 

 I used to have parties

Back in Hawaii

They were hurricane parties

Bottoms up parties

To alleviate the worry parties

Stock up, slow down, and gratitude parties

 

A few-- bring everything inside parties

Sedate the Great Danes for New Year’s parties

Church fellowship parties

Aerobic Ministry parties

A memorable 40^th Birthday party.

No time for the blues parties

 

Sail Away parties

Marathon running parties

Launching Book parties

Making my first Art sale parties.

Pen Women parties

Hiking milestone parties.

 

Dinners

Luncheons

Even breakfast parties.

Sons, stepsons, and stepdaughters’ yearly Birthday parties

I used to have parties

Now, I go to parties.

The point is to celebrate every minute of every day 

because life is a gift when you’re rich with friends and family.  

Cos, Can, Can

And No Can, No Can

Besides, time is fleeting, smarty. 

Tony The Spelunker

 

I had done an excellent job

of prepping.  The camera was on standby,

the compressor

humming, the propofol was dripping.

 

I counted backwards from 100

And soon I slipped into my alter ego

Gina, the caver.

Sixty-one, athletic,

well-proportioned, and mostly tan.

 

Gina followed the prompt set by the anesthesiologist, whose name she still can’t remember.

He said,” Dream about Tony the Spelunker.”

Tony was forty-five, had a six-pack, and loved shiny dark passageways.

 

Gina relaxed, and soon Tony appeared 

She showed Tony her headlamp

Tony was sporting his new dive watch 

with fully charged gas tritium tubes. 

 

Tony and Gina 

went spelunking through a remote section of the tunnel,

where several sulfurous geysers 

had freshly erupted, 

in search of polyps

and other strange outgrowths.

Tony was amazed at the colors of the stalagmites and stalactites inside the wet cave.  He used his watch to make his way through the tiny pathway and searched for the perfect place to unpack and share his potato skins. Tony and Gina laughed and talked, and soon it was time for Gina to wake up. 

 

She was still smiling when the Doctor asked if she was okay to stand up. She nodded, waved, and blew a kiss at Tony before she left. His watch blinked once in response. They had promised to meet again in about ten years. 

 

 

©Cornelia DeDona 4/2/26

 

 

 To The Psychologist Who Pins Tails 

on Unsuspecting Patients While 

Blindfolded

 

 

I muse on the rush 

of hope, pain, and possibility. And to sum it up in five words seems

mind-numbingly sparse. But that is the nature of this task.

So, I slide my perspective carefully up for your review.

 

Brain imaging can save lives. Seeing matters.

Brains can heal.

 

Call me divergent. I like to use tools.

I am a Libra. I like balance in my brain. 

 

 Besides, a mere phrase would not suffice or

elicit the right melody. Hallmark cards evoked strong memories. 

Before, my hopes were dashed by skilled care. And replaced by an eternal 

doubt that lay at length on your soft couch. 

 

Still, here we are. Digging up the past, specifically

a deer frozen in the headlights, while the future stays dark. 

Blindfolded and grasping for answers, we pin the tail and call it healing.  

 

Let’s face it. 

It will take years to lift the weight that binds him. 

And I am tasked with five measly adjectives to capture his wit. 

Even as our world frays—from farce to poisoned water. 

 

No Kings

  

No Kings

To bow before

The roar is compelling

The horns, the traffic, the people 

Chanting.

 

Peaceful

Composed Protest

Against unchecked power

Resistance becomes nationwide

Duty. 

 

Oppose

The regime

The planned takeover

Loss of freedoms and injustice

Symbol.

To W.S.Merwin

 Let us run naked in the tall grass

Let us frolic as children

our nimble limbs dancing

atop young dandelion heads

diffusing the air with wild calm.

 

Let us exhale red-lipped verse

as if the blackness of the universe

were but a comma in our sentence.

Let us sing in the meadow like the plovers, 

home at last.  Let us warm ourselves

in the commitment of the Sun.

share our wonder 

with the monarch, 

our two backs lying flat 

chewing on metaphors

as the cool green grass pokes our necks 

and persistent flies tickle our form.

Let us muse over the matchlessness,

Of this finite exotic jungle.  And let us plant a tree,

Not just any tree, but an endangered Palm.

One lonely orphan left in the wild

Needing a home, a small piece of 

the earth to hold fast to. 

 Focusing on 2020

 

 

This retired senior captured a sunrise today

in natural light with a full-frame camera.

She is an iPhone witness to birds spreading their gorgeous broad wings, a rainbow in a fountain, and can attest to having spotted the Easter bunny.

 

She is among the multitudes

transmitting their art from remote locations across the vast wireless divide and

wondering which photographic filter to apply in a world frantically adapting to change.  Observing through a long lens

 

her fellow humans scouring novel viruses from cracked fingers

Flushing the disease   down the muddied drain

of remembrance.

In a daze of black and white.

In search of the new normal

avoiding contact, maintaining a six-foot distance, then touching gloveless 

the same credit scanner, dollar bills, soda can.

 

As the idiots spit into the lettuce, cough at clerks,

Their vacant stares mock the establishment.

 

The rest of us are

scratching itchy eyes, ears, and noses

 

reckoning our mutual frailties.

A merciful how and when, if now, 

will the end come?