Balls to the Wall

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. 

Treading Water

I am in awe

most of the people I meet at readings

must’ve known Jesus,

walked down those same streets

carried his cross

up to Golgotha

because their words have power

their speech is charismatic

 perhaps one of the apostles

recruited them to pen their book in Acts

they couldn’t possibly be from the mean streets

of Gotham

couldn’t know the Batman

or have visited Wayne manor in their Rolls Royce

I am humbled at the mastery of syntax

the quiet juxtaposition

metaphor

magic

As they deign to glance in your direction

ethereal in their gray

horn rimmed specs

stained teeth

so hard core

and so frighteningly real.

©10-14-13 Cornelia DeDona

Worth sharing!

Hugh Howey’s Top 10 List of Counterintuitive Tips for Self-Publishers

Hugh Howey with a Wool poster in the London Underground.

1. Asking people to buy your book doesn’t work. Instead, try to entertain or enlighten with your Facebook posts and tweets.

2. The people who sell your books are your existing readers. Concentrate on interacting with them and being accessible.

3. There is no promotion as strong as writing the next book. None. That always comes first.

4. It doesn’t matter how quickly your book jumps out of the gate upon release. An undiscovered book remains fresh and new. You have the rest of your life to promote or gain sales, so keep writing!

5. Give your books away. You need to build up a fan base. That means free ebooks, sample chapters, and not worrying about piracy or DRM.

6. A good agent is your best friend. Even if you don’t want to sign with a publishing house, there are overseas markets and media rights that they can help you with.

7. An email list is more powerful than Twitter or Instagram (though not quite as powerful as Facebook). You want to reach out to those who are receptive, those who have signed up to hear from you. Build that newsletter email list as soon as possible.

8. Videos are worth a million words. Readers love connecting with and getting to know their favorite authors. Shoot a video rather than typing out a blog post. They are quick to watch and easy to share.

9. Be yourself. This shouldn’t be counterintuitive. I hope it isn’t. Don’t lose sight of who you are. Embrace the awkwardness, the glee, the dumbfoundedness.

10. Authors are not in competition with one another. We are in this together. A happy reader buys more books, so celebrate others doing well and help who you can. Remember those who helped you. Pass it along.

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.

Home

HOME

I round the last bend
and embrace the sweet scent of belonging, 
inside a house that I grew up in 
weathered, drafty and cold 
but firmly tied with a comforting ribbon of warm hearts and helping hands.
One hundred years and still standing beneath the birch, maple, and pine
encircled by a flecked emerald carpet
shining like a precious gem
surpassing the test of time and space.

And the journey apart 
melts before me
like morning dew
reviving the earth, the two red rose buds outside the kitchen window
my bliss. 

The bees, bamboo and the poison ivy
wrestle constantly
to block my path, change my mood
challenge me to ignore the Why’s, the uncompromising past. 

As I steady myself to run up and over the last hill
musing over humid nights in Hawaii
trapped inside a filthy haze
of never enough
should have and might have been.

I clench my teeth and smile 
knowing the fleeting nature of memory
that now and tomorrow remain impermanent
confident as I sprint the final stretch, smother the ache
brood over the cost
As I reach the finish line and know
I am home.