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.
Can I Get A Pass?
or a little mercy—
the kind that hushes even the shiver in the leaves.
I’ve been laboring since dawn—
the kind of labor counted in acorns, wind, and worry—
said the squirrel, still a quick brown spark in the branches,
flitting from limb to limb like a thought that would not settle,
and the forest answered him with laughter.
The birds, being birds, turned mockery into song—
a bright unruly weather of chirps and shining eyes,
as though all spring had been a rehearsal
for the sweet small privilege of teasing a squirrel.
Hershel sighed for a holiday.
Sally, meanwhile, wanted one as well—
preferably with cake and a patch of afternoon sun,
which seemed, for squirrel ambition, almost courtly.
You’re nuts,
said one voice, and not with kindness enough to make it praise.
Ask again in five minutes, when hunger comes back wearing its old crown.
We all have a stake in this—
if not in heart, then surely in bark and timber.
Then even the deer and mountain lions lost their solemn manners
and laughed as though some ancient burden had skipped them for a day,
and even the trees leaned softly into the joke,
bending in the breeze with that old wooden laughter
that begins in the leaves and ends in the smallest wheeze.
So there it was—
a brief and shining mercy, dressed up as a punchline.
The Power of Story
We each have one.
It defines who we are,
shaping our day-to-day
in a profound way.
Our stories travel with us.
They thread their way
through our lives,
follow us down paths,
to the right and left,
guide our steps,
while our dreams lean ahead.
Our stories are fledglings,
small birds learning the air,
on their own
into the great wide world
to be interpreted by people
who will add, subtract
and make them their own.
Stories stitched into patterns
of color, history, and skin
changing faces
leaving traces
of greatness from above.
They will explore the vastness
of space
travel to other worlds
throw stones at what they fear
take what is not theirs to study,
then form conclusions,
acting on limited knowledge,
from fragments they mistake for truth,
and then retell the story.
The Katya Chronicles-Gina (present time)
Gina was still on her sixth life.
Time had passed quickly, and there was no looking back—though she had no desire to.
Too much had happened—things that could never be undone.
Tony was dead.
He had been gone since 2017, and the horror show had long since ended.
The years of abuse were a faint memory.
Gina was starting to remember the good times.
It hadn’t been all bad. Nothing ever is.
Now, when she looked at an old photo, she could almost see why she’d fallen for Tony.
He was strikingly handsome, with a muscular frame and piercing blue eyes. You could bounce a quarter off his abs. He could hold his own with anyone. Tony was all swagger and menace—a predator with a colossal ego. In the end, they caught him in the act, and he would never abuse another woman again.
In the photo, he posed beside a giant marlin hanging from a hook. There were many pictures like that, trophies from fish he had battled over the years. He had even written a poem about his conquests. Even that had felt like an invasion, as if nothing was sacred, as if he had to claim superiority in every possible way. By then, he was deep into his tattoo phase, his upper torso covered in ink. Gina’s name was tattooed on his upper arm—left or right, she could not remember. Enough, she thought, tossing the photo back into the box. It was time to shower and get dressed.
Gina needed to focus on caring for Sophia.
Her mother was on her ninth life. Sophia’s time was almost over.
Nothing was more important than that, especially not a dead husband.
The Trouble with Time Machines
Or Outlander—and the weapons I’d bring into battle.
Guns tear holes. Bad attitudes hold the wreckage together. But Jamie and Claire—what happened to them? Are they truly gone? Are we really supposed to believe the door to time travel is shut for good—and that we’ll never hear Sassenach again?
And Roger and Bree? Ian and Rachael? Absolutely not. I wouldn’t leave them dead. I’d drag them back, send them home to the Ridge, and give them the lives they were always meant to have—especially for Fannie, after Claire swore she’d never leave her behind.
I’d make Claire carry gemstones—no excuses, no regrets. If Jamie can time-travel in dreams, then I’m not surrendering my happy ending.
Not while Katya and Tiki stand at the forest's edge, straight from the future, beside their one-of-a-kind time machine. So tell me—do we get the ending we deserve, or does the doom-and-gloom crowd win?
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
(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.
Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk
Today is the Feast of the Ascension,
and the clock is grinning at five.
A little late for heaven’s early-bird special,
but still squarely in the rooster-approved shift
when prayer slips in like steam from a fresh cup,
bringing mental cobwebs to heel
and kicking stress out like an uninvited cousin.
I am oddly peaceful,
like a parade float before the band starts blasting.
Today’s grand quest: a lap around the lake with friends,
having already evicted a few stubborn gremlins from the attic of my mind.
I am awake,
armored in clothes,
and primed like a toaster at dawn.
The body is on board,
though the appetite has been throwing confetti for days,
so now it is time to let my Keens preach.
Bare Limbs
Greening light,
bare limbs growing bright,
bare limbs wake and sway,
as green life finds its way.
Spring has sprung,
the bells have rung,
time to rise,
and greet warmer skies.
Bare limbs stir,
a soft and leafy blur,
alive with squirrel song,
while groundhogs nose along.
Still, we watch with care
as seedlings fill the air,
beneath the budding trees
that dance in the northern breeze.
At present, nature’s cycle lays down its campaign—
blue forget-me-nots spread like a polite little carpet,
with purple and yellow wildflowers freelancing at the edges.
It still looks manageable out there—or at least it does from the porch—and I, their General, must command the forces.
The wild animals, aside from the chipmunks and squirrels, are currently occupied with sabotage elsewhere.
We live in the country, bordered by woods and woodchucks—voracious little heathens with excellent tunnel strategy.
Monet would paint this if only someone had the decency to install a pond.
“You over there—yes, you—stop growing.
I’d like you all to remain exactly this height and not flood the front steps this year.
We will maintain peace and harmony despite the seasonal uprising.
Sticker bushes are hereby ordered to retreat and let the front line have its moment to bloom.
Day lilies, front and center. Lilacs, this is your hour—try not to get smug about it.
I need a clear view of the field before the next skirmish.
To mulch or not to mulch: that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler to trim and weed or to let the ivy stage its slow-motion coup along the side garden remains under review.
Your General is, alas, allergic to the insufferable poison ivy, which looks innocent now but has the soul of a criminal.
I promise to attack the flanks and tidy up soon—tomorrow, if morale improves.”
Mother’s Day
Over the years,
we look back
and remember the women
who helped shape our lives
and this year was no different.
Each year, I like to think
I’m growing a little wiser,
though some years the jury is still very much out.
Choices made and lessons learned
have a way of humbling us at remarkable speed,
but Mom usually knows what you’re thinking
before you do, which is honestly unsettling.
She made you, after all,
and, as the saying goes, she can still take you out—without leaving her chair.
Maybe that is the purest form of love: fierce, patient, and never fooled.
So shape up, say thank you, and try not to make her repeat herself.
And when she leaves for her next great position,
as a star in Andromeda,
pass on what she taught you:
Love, after all, is the greatest gift we get to give.
Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small
It is the board in the fence,
shifted only slightly to the right,
opening a breach in your understanding
of the neighbor—
and making you wonder which way they lean.
Is it safe to bring a hammer and a nail,
or would that cross the line itself,
that invisible border saying, without words,
where your limits lie,
what may be carried in your hands,
or whether a weapon still counts as speech?
Because you might expose what is already
plain,
and then they would have to set it right—
straighten the board by making a hammer of you,
in their grim reckoning,
and leave you on the fence, a warning to whoever forgets where they do not belong.
Blue State of Mind
The bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots have not bloomed.
How can this be?
It is September 2025.
The war has not happened yet.
Gas is cheaper for the moment.
I do not have to listen to a calm voice
still draping a silk sheet over the obvious
while its weather gathers at the door
Oh, happier day, while the weather gathered
So get to work on something that will not fold.
If you want greatness,
then alter the course of history.
Come up with answers that can stand in daylight.
Real answers. Real solutions.
For problems already licking at the frame.
We’ll keep the time.
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
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.
Posing For The Directory
Hello there—name’s B. Owl, pleased to meet your gaze,
Local legend, night patrol, working oddball days.
I haunt your hood, patrol your block,
A burrow boss around the clock.
My family tree? Oh, quite profound
We dig our dreams straight underground.
Champions of the sandy sprawl,
Cape Coral knows—we’re tiny but tall.
We’re pocket-sized predators, yes, that’s the deal,
Mini Hawk vibes with a bargain‑meal feel.
Feathers fierce but fun-sized, cute,
Think raptor… in a travel‑size suit.
Prolific? Please. We multiply like gossip,
Burrowing babies—you simply can’t stop us.
We’ve got runway legs—oh, honey, they strut,
Long, lean lines? Yes, we serve that cut.
Takeoff smooth, landing bold,
Frequent flyer miles untold.
We soar like Allegiant—no snacks, no frills,
Just feathered finesse and aerodynamic thrills.
By day we chirp, by night we scream,
We cluck, we rasp—we run the theme.
Coo, rattle, shout, a vocal buffet
Broadway cast of the avian way.
So do admire us—but mind your space,
We’re cute, not cuddly—respect the face.
Spring has sprung—our season’s prime,
Burrows buzzing—it’s go‑time, it’s time!
A Bit Much
A
Book
I’m reading currently
Tells me more
Much more than I wanted to know
Understand, it’s poetry, and my take is a
Cautionary tale on being too
Honest. I mean, some things are better left unsaid. Right?
Yeah, fuck that.
Like MFA also stands for
Many Followers Acquired
Make Future Amazing. (Fill in the blanks.)
Meaning Framed Accurately (For once)
My Filter’s Absent. (Found a new home)
Moon Files Applause (Universal approval)
Mirrors Flash Agreement (It’s confirmed)
Ministry of Forthrightness Affirms (Impeach him)
I rest my case.
Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium
I’ve got a little chronic inflammation
camped out in my belly like it paid rent.
I feel like I over‑inflated myself
party balloon, car‑dealership, wavy man
except nobody’s clapping.
I don’t feel like my old light self,
you know the one
pre‑90‑day bender, pre‑wake‑up call,
before gravity found my forwarding address.
Yeah, I had surgery.
Now I feel dense.
Millstone chic.
Like if I took an ambitious, heroic dump
I might retire five pounds lighter
and emotionally reborn.
But no.
Everything’s tightening its belt.
There’s nowhere for the extra air to flee.
Not even a tasteful hiss.
My blood’s gone viscous.
My heart and organs are marching
to something that sounds like a funeral dirge
played by a tired band
slightly out of tune.
I’m slower.
Duller.
My knife couldn’t cut string cheese
if the cheese insulted its mother.
I’m fresh out of freshness.
Past my sell‑by date.
Like, yeah.
It’s time to go home.
To The Man Who Keeps Leaving Me Love Letters with Numbers
Dear Bob,
Thanks for signing your notes.
We’ve got to stop meeting like this—
You’re a real go-get-her… with suspiciously neat handwriting.
But I’m stuck on the numbers.
I keep trying to call you—
but my phone says, “Nice try. That’s a locker combo.”
Also: the pink Post-its.
So bold. So… 80% highlighter, 20% cry for help.
Is that your personality showing— or just your stationery budget?
Confession: I’m heterosexual.
So if you meant these for the other “Cornelia,”
please use the box on the left by the Men’s Room—first door, first heartbreak.
We’re the Ladies League. We have clipboards.
If not… congratulations. You’ve piqued my interest.
Next note, please include a selfie. Preferably with both eyes open.
One more thing about me:
I prefer a golfer who dances.
Or a hiker who dances. Any man who dances.
You may be a musician—Steven Tyler energy, fewer scarves.
But you must dance. This is non-negotiable. Like cart fees.
See you in the Fall.
Waiting with bated breath (and a nine iron),
Cornelia
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.
