Cornelia DeDona- Poems, Magical Fiction and Photography

Sleeping with Giants

2026-09-28T08:32:32.670-04:00

Sleeping with Giants

Inside the Mind of a Maniacal Minion, or What It Means to Be Super-Intelligent

I can’t help myself
they’re coming from the left,
they’re coming from the right,
those backstabbing cretins
armed with questions
and inconvenient light.

What’s a wise man to do
when surrounded by fools?
Declare every thought unbiased,
every fact a set of rules,
then blame the wicked MEDIA
for breaking all the rules.

Take a double shot of vodka,
take another for the road
there’s a conspiracy brewing
in the oligarchic code.
They’re plotting to destroy us!
Or so the minions say
though someone keeps confusing
yesterday with today.

Why release the Epstein Files?
Ancient history! Move along!
DATA CENTERS are waiting,
and the cameras want a song.

Let’s talk about Iran
about deals, and deals about deals,
about keeping friends and enemies
so close they feel like meals.

Keep them in your pockets,
keep them nestled by your side,
and if they start to question you,
just smile and let it slide.

Sing about bananas!
Let the yellow trumpets play!
There are bigger things to worry about
but not those things today.

Don’t mention war or gasoline,
don’t mention rent or care,
don’t mention how the working man
can scarcely breathe the air.

Don’t ask about affordability.
Don’t ask who pays the bill.
The greatest questions of our age
are whether I am still

everywhere.

Put my name upon the buildings,
put my name upon the wall,
put my name upon the question
before anybody calls.

I need to see it
in capitals, ten feet tall.
And when I enter through the door,
you’d better

kiss the ring.

Or hiss.

Or both.

Because my friends and I
will surely, surely prevail.
We have pockets full of giants
and a thousand little tales.

The polls?
They don’t count.

The people?
They misunderstand.

The facts?
They’re complicated.

But I have a microphone
and a very steady hand.

So sleep beneath the giants,
let their shadows fill the room.
When intelligence is measured
by the size of one’s perfume,

when every contradiction
is another brilliant clue,
perhaps the greatest superpower
is simply saying:

“I am me.
Therefore, it must be true.”

A Spell of Falling Leaves

2026-09-25T07:39:29.995-04:00

A Spell of Falling Leaves

Fall leaves crunch beneath my feet,
each step awakening
some small, forgotten spell.

Acorns lie scattered on the path—
little moons,
little omens—
warning me to watch my step,
to pay attention
to what the earth has placed
before me.

The woods beckon.

Not with words,
but with color—
maple burning crimson,
oak kindling into gold,
the last green of summer
fading like an old enchantment.

I follow.

And through the canopy above,
the sunbeams slant
at an ancient angle,
golden spears of light
piercing the shadowed green.

In those shafts of brightness,
vultures appear—

silent messengers
circling the thin blue air,
their wings catching
the dying summer.

Below them,
beneath the trees,
mushrooms silently catapult

tiny spores out from under their caps

and clear of their gills.

pale lanterns of the underworld,
rising where leaves have fallen,
where roots remember
what the living forgets.

And the equinox arrives.

For one breath,
the world is balanced—

day and night,
standing face to face,
light holding darkness
and darkness holding light.

The forest knows.

The trees release their leaves
not as surrender,
but as ritual.

One by one,
they loosen their golden hands
and let the wind
carry summer away.

Nothing is lost.

The fallen leaves
return to the earth.
The acorns dream beneath the soil.
The mushrooms open
their secret doors.

Even the darkness
is making something.

So I stand beneath the canopy
while the last light
moves through the branches,

and I wonder
if autumn is not a dying
but a remembering—

a whisper from the earth
that everything beautiful
must change,

that every ending
has roots,

and that somewhere
beneath the dark,

something ancient
is already

beginning to bloom.

What The River Remembers

2026-09-19T07:03:48.623-04:00

Where The River Remembers

West Point Military Academy

Duty. Honor. Country.

Three words

cut into the enduring stone,

as though language itself

might be made permanent.

And perhaps that is what this place

has always understood.

that stone remembers

what people cannot.

At West Point,

the Hudson moves below the heights,

dark and deliberate,

carrying the mountains in its reflection.

It has watched generations arrive

young enough to believe

the future belongs to them,

then watched them disappear

into the long corridors of history.

The cemetery is a kind of ledger.

Names rest beneath the trees,

generals and soldiers,

their lives reduced at last

to dates, rank, and stone,

yet somehow the silence

says more than the inscriptions.

And among the stories

are the Black Buffalo Soldiers,

men who wore the nation's uniform

while the nation was still learning

how to see them as fully human.

They rode beneath a different burden,

carrying duty through a country

that had not yet learned

the meaning of its own promise.

Their courage was not always honored

when it was given.

Their service was not always remembered

when it was done.

But the years have a way

of reopening the ledger.

Now their names belong here too,

among the soldiers,

among the stones,

among those who carried history

forward without knowing

what history would call them.

They remind us

that courage can live

where recognition does not,

and that a nation may owe

its memory to those

it once failed to remember.

Here, monuments do not merely

commemorate the famous.

They seem to ask

what remains of a life

after the uniform is folded,

after the orders have ceased,

after the victories and losses

have become stories told by others.

Perhaps what remains

is character.

Perhaps it is the unseen weight

of decisions made

when no monument yet existed,

when courage was simply

the next necessary thing.

The past stands everywhere here,

not as a museum piece,

but as a presence.

In the Cadet Chapel,

light passes through stained glass

and falls across ancient stone,

turning walls into something

almost translucent.

Music rises into the vaulted darkness

and seems to gather

the voices of the departed

not speaking,

but listening.

Outside, the stones

were hewn from these very Highlands,

drawn from the earth

and given another purpose.

There is something fitting in that.

The mountain becoming a wall.

The wall becoming a chapel.

The chapel becoming a place of memory.

And below it all,

the Hudson keeps moving.

Always moving.

Like blood through a vein.

Like time.

Like the heart of a cadet

pounding after their daily run

young, uncertain, determined,

alive to the immense distance

between whom one is

and who one might become.

The river does not salute the monuments.

It does not pause for the names.

It simply passes—

carrying sunlight, shadow,

fallen leaves,

and the reflections of stone

toward a horizon no one can see.

Perhaps that is the deepest lesson

of this place:

that nothing we build

can hold back time.

Not granite.

Not bronze.

Not titles.

Not even memory.

And still, we build.

Still, we climb the hill.

Still, we place our hands upon the stone.

Still, we speak the words

that generations before us spoke

and generations after us will speak:

Duty.

Honor.

Country.

Not because the words are enough,

but because a life

is measured by what it does

with the words it has been given.

And somewhere beneath the Hudson Highlands sky,

among the graves and ancient walls,

the Buffalo Soldiers ride again

through the imagination of the living,

their silence no longer empty,

their service no longer hidden,

their courage woven

into the larger story

of a country still becoming itself.

The river keeps moving,

while the young stand at the beginning

of their lives,

and history waits

quietly

for them.

...

I am proud to say I knew a Buffalo Soldier while I lived in Hawaii. Sadly, William H. Waddell, DVM, has passed. But he is not forgotten. https://libraryguides.missouri.edu/AfricanAmerica.../Waddell

What We Circle

2026-09-14T06:33:50.444-04:00

What We Circle

I’ve consulted the Muses

and they tell me the path is circular.

We circle the wagons,

circle the tipis,

circle the fire,

the frightened child,

the stories we tell ourselves.

We’d circle the buffalo

if we could—

round them with our bodies,

our hunger,

our prayers,

our ancient need

to make a boundary

between us and the wild.

We name ourselves

inside closed, tight circles:

family,

tribe,

nation,

faith,

friend,

enemy.

Ancient rituals

turn and return.

We walk the same ground

our ancestors walked,

drawing invisible rings

in the dust.

Universally,

we practice in circles—

in ironic, toxic,

tangible realms,

flawed to the extreme,

yet infinite as the stars

that seem to wheel above us.

The circle forgives no beginning.

The circle promises no end.

It is the mouth of the well,

the eye of the storm,

the wheel beneath civilization,

the coin in the hand,

the planet beneath our feet.

We worship the sun

and the moon.

We raise stones

into circles

and then circle the stones,

dancing around what we cannot explain,

dance beneath an eclipse

of one circle passing

across another.

Perhaps this is why

we keep returning:

to the fire,

to the wound,

to the altar,

to the argument,

to the person we swore

we would never become.

Do not dismiss circles easily.

Not in secret.

Not in anger.

Not in some extreme fit of rage.

For even rage

has a circumference.

Even grief

comes around.

Even our complaints—

our grievances,

our midnight theories,

our magnificent human talent

for bitching—

move in circles.

Around and round

we go,

inventing new roads

that somehow lead us back

to the same old center.

And perhaps the profoundest circle

is this:

we leave the beginning

believing we are leaving,

only to discover

we have been traveling

toward it all along.

When The Sky Fell, Love Remained

2026-09-11T07:13:45.584-04:00

A Poem of Remembrance, Hope, and Love

Twenty-five years ago,

the morning arrived

wearing its ordinary face.

Coffee.

Traffic.

Briefcases.

Elevators rising

through a blue September sky.

People hurried toward their futures

without knowing

the future had already changed.

And then—

the sky broke.

Not with thunder,

not with lightning,

but with fire.

Steel opened its mouth.

Glass became rain.

Smoke climbed upward

as though the earth itself

were grieving.

And for one terrible moment,

we watched the impossible

become real.

We watched towers fall

and felt something inside ourselves

fall with them.

What do you call

the moment innocence leaves?

What name do you give

the instant you understand

that the world you believed in

was partly an illusion?

Perhaps it was a veil—

thin as breath,

invisible as faith—

that had always hung

between us and the darkness.

We thought oceans were borders

strong enough to hold back terror.

We thought steel was permanence.

We thought certain places

could not be touched.

We thought tomorrow

was promised

simply because yesterday

had arrived.

Then September came

and taught us otherwise.

Far away in Hawaii,

the images seemed unreal—

a terrible film

without a beginning

and without an ending.

But beneath that distance

was the terrible knowledge:

New York was home

to people we knew.

Friends.

Family.

Familiar faces

whose names suddenly became

questions.

Were they there?

Were they safe?

Did they make it out?

And how small

the distance can be

between life and death—

a train arriving late,

an elevator taking longer,

a meeting moved

by fifteen minutes,

a morning altered

by the smallest turn of fate.

Lives balanced

on seconds.

Thousands of futures

erased between

one heartbeat

and the next.

And Washington—

another wound

in the heart of the nation.

The Pentagon burning.

Another plane

falling from the morning.

And somewhere above Pennsylvania,

ordinary people

looked into extraordinary darkness

and found within themselves

a courage greater than fear.

They rose.

They resisted.

They chose to fight

for the lives of strangers below.

Their courage

became part of the American sky.

And then—

the silence.

After the sirens.

After the screams.

After the towers

had become mountains of dust.

Silence filled with names.

Names whispered

into telephones.

Names spoken

at kitchen tables.

Names printed

beneath photographs

held by trembling hands.

Because every person lost

was someone's world.

Someone's first love.

Someone's child.

Someone's parent.

Someone's best friend.

Someone who had left home

that morning

believing they would return.

There are numbers

we remember.

But numbers cannot tell us

about the empty chair,

the unopened gift,

the birthday that came

without them.

They cannot tell us

about the child

who grew older

without a parent,

or the mother

who kept a bedroom

just as it was.

Grief is not a monument.

It is a room

we learn to live inside.

And that morning

an entire nation

entered that room.

We lost people.

We also lost

the illusion of invulnerability.

The belief that distance

meant safety.

That walls could protect us

from every darkness.

That history

happened somewhere else.

The veil fell.

And beneath it

was a world more fragile

than we had wanted to believe.

Afterward,

freedom wore a different face.

The sky became a place

we questioned.

Airports became thresholds.

Fear became

a quiet companion.

Yet freedom is not

the absence of danger.

It is the courage

to keep loving,

to keep living,

to keep reaching

for tomorrow

when tomorrow

is no longer guaranteed.

And still—

morning came.

The sun rose

over a wounded country.

Hands reached

through dust.

Firefighters climbed

toward danger.

Strangers carried strangers.

People gave blood.

People prayed.

People searched.

And people loved.

In the ashes,

the human heart

was still beating.

Twenty-five years have passed.

The towers are gone.

The smoke is gone.

But some mornings

still belong to September.

Some skies

still carry the memory.

Some silences

still have names.

So today,

as we remember those

whose lives were taken,

let us also remember

how precious life is—

how quickly everything

can change,

how fragile our days are,

and how much love

we still must give.

Katya and Tiki: Adventures in Aloha

2026-09-10T06:49:19.013-04:00

Katya and Tiki: Adventures in Aloha

On a sunny Hawaiian morning,

with palm trees swaying bright,

pounced Katya, a fluffy little cat

who loved adventure day and night.

She chased butterflies, climbed tall trees,

and explored places marked “No cats allowed!”

One day beside the shore,

she found something strange and proud.

Eight feet tall beneath a tree,

a wooden giant stood.

Katya looked up and gasped,

“What a very big cat—how good!”

“I’m NOT a cat!” he boomed.

Katya jumped. “You TALK?!”

“I’m Tiki,” the giant said.

“I’ve watched this beach for years.

And I’ve learned something important:

kindness comes back when shared.”

“Well, let’s test it!” said Katya.

So Katya and Tiki began their kindness quest.

They found a boy whose kite

was stuck high in a palm.

Tiki was tall but stiff as stone,

so Katya climbed the tree

and brought the kite back down.

“Thanks!” cried the boy.

Katya purred. Tiki grinned.

“That felt good!”

So they kept going.

They helped a turtle reach the sea,

shared lunch with a hungry man,

and rescued a baby bird

that had fallen from its nest.

Of course, helping wasn’t always easy.

Once, Katya climbed onto Tiki’s head.

“Come down!” he cried.

“Nope. I like the view!”

“You’re sitting on my eyebrows!”

“They’re comfy.”

Another time, Tiki got stuck in a garden gate.

He wiggled left and right.

“This may take eight years,” Katya teased.

Tiki groaned as Katya laughed

and tumbled into a bush.

But everywhere they went,

they kept looking for someone to help.

Then something wonderful happened.

The boy they helped shared kindness with another child.

A fisherman shared his catch.

A gardener planted flowers for everyone.

One small kindness became many.

Katya blinked.

“Do you see it too?”

Tiki smiled.

“Kindness spreads from one heart to another.”

That evening, beneath a pink-and-golden sky,

Katya curled beside Tiki’s feet.

“Do you think we’re making a difference?”

“Yes,” said Tiki. “I’m sure.”

Katya stretched her paws.

“Then tomorrow, we’ll find someone new!”

Tiki laughed. “Tomorrow?”

“Of course! Adventures don’t take days off—

and neither does kindness!”

So beneath the moon and stars,

the tiny cat and giant friend wandered on,

leaving little ripples of kindness wherever they went.

For Katya and Tiki had learned something true:

The biggest adventures can start very small—

with a paw, a helping hand, a smile,

or simply with you.

Golf, Seriously

2026-09-09T06:12:22.386-04:00

Improvement

I’d been improving

for six consecutive years

at a measured pace.

Sadly, that improvement veered

tracking south towards Oahu.

…

The Search

I lost my golf ball

somewhere near the tenth fairway

deep in a leafy crevice.

Three women helped me to search,

we found three balls and a cap.

…

Serenity

Golf teaches patience

and restrained humility.

It teaches us much

mostly while standing clueless

beside a ball in a bush.

…

The Good Shot

A perfect ball rolls

straight, clean, and beautifully struck.

Then I watch it disappear

beyond the small white marker

where apparently joy ends.

…

Golf Pondered

2026-09-08T06:22:26.991-04:00

Technique

I studied the swing

Its angles, its direction

Its refined physics.

Then I discovered the trees

had already studied me.

…

The Mental Game

Golf is mostly mental

The professionals say this

which is reassuring.

Because my physical game

has requested no comment.

…

The Lie

The ball lands on the green

According to the rules, it seems

This is called a lie.

A bizarre choice of language

given the circumstances.

…

The Nineteenth

After eighteen holes

you proceed to the clubhouse

to discuss the round

with those who saw none of it

and understand completely.

I Like Golf

2026-09-07T07:41:54.958-04:00

I Like Golf

It is challenging

mentally and physically.

I think when cited

that it was a good walk, spoiled

Well, if you wanted to walk—

…

A Good Walk

Golf is a fine walk

though one carries several clubs

for reasons unknown.

And occasionally strikes

balls into a new county.

…

The Game

I address the ball

With dignity and intent

The ball remains still

This is considered progress

Until my evil twin swings.

…

Nature

I enjoy golf most

When surrounded by green fields

Birdsong, calm breezes.

And the disturbing knowledge

my ball is out there, hiding.

Ready for Love

2026-09-06T06:08:25.286-04:00

Ready for Love

Is it human nature

to lean toward the cliff’s bright edge

just before the hero arrives—

to stand where stone gives way to sky,

where the hawk circles its patient question,

where the wind lifts the hair from our faces

and whispers, not yet?

To mistake the storm cloud for an ending,

the falling leaf for a farewell,

when perhaps the world is only turning its weather,

asking us to wait for the rain to pass?

Every cliffhanger is a trail marker,

a small wooden arrow weathered by seasons,

half-hidden among the pines,

pointing through the green hush of the forest,

suggesting there may be a way through

if we give the path time to appear.

Sometimes the trail disappears beneath snow.

Sometimes the river rises

and makes us question the crossing.

Sometimes roots reach across the earth

like old hands reminding us

that even trees must learn

where to place their weight.

Yes, it is darkest before dawn,

but dawn is already loosening

its gold ribbon behind the hills.

The eastern sky is paling

like a flower beginning to open.

Good decisions ask for clear eyes,

a little logic, a little math,

and the humility to read the weather—

to know when the clouds are gathering

and when they are only passing.

A winter hike needs warm layers,

steady boots, and cleats that bite the ice;

the mountain welcomes wonder,

but asks us to come prepared.

The pines do not hurry toward spring.

The river does not apologize for changing course.

The glacier moves almost invisibly,

and still it shapes the valley.

Even a green fairway has its lessons:

practice, patience, the hush before a swing,

the small white ball lifted briefly into sunlight

before gravity calls it home.

The meadow does not demand perfection

from every blade of grass.

It simply keeps growing.

Willy-nilly will not carry us home—

yet joy is no less necessary.

Let laughter lift like birds from the grass;

let wonder move through us like warm rain.

Let presence be our compass,

hope our north star,

and love the fire we carry

when the trail grows cold.

One careful step, then another:

this is how the trail becomes a life.

This is how roots find their way through stone,

how rivers carve their names into canyons,

how seeds split themselves open

in the dark because something in them

trusts the light.

Outside, the earth opens its green book:

fresh-cut grass is a bright new page,

sunlight lays a warm hand on the face,

and soil beneath our palms reminds us

we belong to something patient and alive.

The garden teaches its quiet mathematics:

what is buried is not necessarily lost.

A bulb sleeps underground

while winter passes overhead.

Rain gathers in the hollow places.

Roots drink what the surface cannot see.

This is not cliché; it is elemental—

the honest arithmetic of breath and sky,

the science of roots reaching for rain,

the tide returning to the shore,

the moon pulling silver from the water,

the heart remembering it was made to grow.

So I will not leap from the story too soon.

I will not confuse the precipice with destiny

or mistake one dark season for the whole climate.

I will walk on—toward the clearing,

past the last stand of trees,

where the path widens beneath my feet,

where the meadow opens like a held breath,

where birds rise from the tall grass

and sunlight spills over everything.

There, beyond the bend,

the whole wide world is waiting—

green, sunlit, breathing,

open as sky after rain,

ready for love.

Read the Weather

2026-09-05T07:15:22.545-04:00

Read the Weather

When every wind begins to smell of spring,

remember: thawing rivers still run deep.

A path may flower brightly at its mouth,

then lose its name beneath the tangled vines.

Now is no time to leave the compass home

or drift wherever easy currents lean.

Keep patience like a map within your coat;

read every bend before you choose the road.

Let questions be the stakes around young trees,

so roots grow straight when restless weather turns.

Test offered fruit by seed and season both;

not every orchard keeps the sign it wears.

And when the rain has spoiled the planned-out day,

set jars beneath the eaves and save the storm.

Plant what can flourish in the softened ground;

let loss become the water roots can use.

Hope is the seed that waits beneath the frost,

unseen, but holding April in its heart.

It drinks the dark and gathers quiet strength,

then lifts a green reply toward the light.

For morning comes to those who tend the dark,

who keep one window open to the east,

and greet the sun with hands already sown.

Back on the Rails

2026-09-04T06:56:03.387-04:00

Back on the Rails

Enough of chasing sparks through a field of straw,
calling every flame a sunrise.
Enough of crowning noise as wisdom
and feeding every stray excuse.

The road is still there—
a black river under the dust,
its white lines like knuckles
pointing straight through the dark.
Put both hands on the wheel.
Let purpose be the engine,
let truth burn clean in the tank,
and drive.

Drop the foolishness like a rusted chain.
Leave it clattering at the crossroads.
You were not built to circle the drain;
you were built like a compass—
to tremble, to steady,
to find north again.

So rise.
Hammer your days into shape.
Lay each choice like iron track.
The past can howl behind you,
but it does not hold the reins.

Get back on track.
Not softly. Not someday.
Now—
with a spine like a bridge,
a heart like a drum,
and no more room
for the circus of excuses.

China, Beneath a September Sky

2026-09-03T06:56:50.194-04:00

China, Beneath a September Sky

On the morning of September 11, 2001

I folded shirts into a suitcase

and China into a list of names:

Beijing, Xi’an, Guilin,

the Yangtze, Chengdu, Shanghai,

Hong Kong bright at the water’s edge.

I imagined red gates opening,

stone courtyards holding imperial weather,

a wall combing the mountains,

dynasties breathing through lacquer and dust.

Then the towers fell.

Two planes.

Two towers.

Thousands who went to work

and never came home.

We tried to cancel,

but the trip was nonrefundable. So we went.

a door we could no longer close.

I remember the strange guilt

of boarding an airplane

when airplanes had become

symbols of terror.

I wondered whether courage was motion,

or fear carried forward.

Ten flights stitched us across the country,

shoulder to shoulder with strangers—

families, workers, elders, children—

and once, caged birds trembling beneath our seats.

I watched them

and thought about freedom,

and how little it takes

for the human heart to become afraid.

Beyond the glass,

China refused a single face:

vendors calling over silver fish and ginger,

silk glowing beside patched coats,

minarets and temple roofs, farm paths and neon,

old stones watching glass towers rise.

I bought black freshwater pearls—

a bracelet, earrings, a necklace—

less than a hundred dollars.

I thought I was buying jewelry.

I did not know I was choosing

something dark, small, and enduring

to carry home.

Before the Terracotta Warriors,

in their silent ranks,

thousands of faces

made by hands two thousand years ago.

In Xi’an’s Muslim Quarter,

steam lifted from lamb and cumin;

vendors measured the day in handfuls,

voices braided through the dusk.

I scrutinized those ancient faces

and thought of New York—

of families searching for faces

beneath the ruins,

of names becoming photographs,

photographs becoming memories.

I asked what survives us:

the face, the name, or the love that keeps naming.

In Guilin, karst peaks rose from mist

like dark brushstrokes on silk;

fishermen crossed the river’s pale breath,

their boats writing brief sentences in water.

In Chengdu, tea cooled beneath plane trees;

in Shanghai, towers burned against evening;

in Hong Kong, ferries combed the harbor with light.

Everywhere, life spoke in another cadence—

Mandarin, Cantonese, market cries, temple bells—

and the hardest truth was its continuance.

Markets opened.

Boats moved.

Children laughed.

Planes rose.

Life continued

with the unbearable confidence

of life itself.

I began to see that continuance

could be both wound and mercy.

Meanwhile, across the Pacific,

America was digging through ash.

Families waited for calls

that would never come.

Firefighters and police

walked toward the flames

while others ran away.

I was thousands of miles from home,

walking through ancient cities

while my country was learning to grieve.

But grief has no geography.

It followed me through China—

through Beijing,

across the rivers,

onto every crowded flight.

I returned with black pearls

in my suitcase,

but they were not what I brought home.

Home had become less a place

than the measure of what absence leaves.

I brought home an understanding:

an ocean can separate countries,

but it cannot separate human hearts.

The river still moves.

The markets still open.

The planes still rise.

Morning still comes.

That is not forgetting.

It is carrying.

We carry the names.

The families.

The silence after the noise.

The ones who ran toward the fire.

The ones who never came home.

We carry September.

I have come to believe remembrance

is not an anchor, but a compass—

it does not hold us in the past;

it asks what direction love will take.

And wherever we go,

it goes with us.

I left Hawaii believing

I was going to see China.

Instead, China showed me

not one China, but many:

red walls and river mist,

prayer and bargaining, silk and steel,

a thousand ways to enter morning.

I understood then how travel changes us:

not by answering grief,

but by enlarging the silence around it.

The Yangtze kept moving beneath us,

bearing silt, rain, voices, centuries.

I moved with it, though part of me remained

under that September sky,

I still ask what it means to continue

when the world has divided into before and after.

learning that to go on

is not to leave the lost behind,

but to carry them differently.

Voices Carried Forward

2026-09-01T07:02:37.363-04:00

Voices Carried Forward

On September’s first light in 1878,

when morning wires began to sing,

voices traveled over copper strands

and distance learned a different thing.

The boys who once had mocked the calls

fell silent at the sound—

for patience, skill, and steady hands

were changing what was possible, what could be found.

Emma Nutt, the first woman

to answer the telephone’s call,

sat among the tangled cords

where laughter once had filled the hall.

No cannon marked her entrance.

No trumpet called her name.

Just nimble hands, a listening ear—

and nothing stayed the same.

With every connection calmly made,

with every voice put through,

she helped a new world find its way

from one unheard voice to two.

Yet long before those ringing lines

had learned to cross the air,

in 1773, Phillis Wheatley

lifted words from silence there.

A young Black woman, carried far

from the country of her birth,

she answered those who doubted her

with verses of uncommon worth.

They questioned whether she could think,

whether her voice could be believed;

she answered not with anger alone,

but with the words she had conceived.

Her poems became a lantern

for minds that would not see:

a voice they thought could not be heard

spoke with its own authority.

Then came the years of marching feet,

of banners, grief, and flame—

of women who refused to wait

for justice to remember their name.

They walked through years of sacrifice,

they pressed against the door,

until the law that barred the vote

could bar them there no more.

The Nineteenth Amendment rose

in nineteen-twenty’s light—

a hard-won sign that women’s voices

could enter public life.

The ballot box opened new ground;

new possibilities could start.

Yet freedom, written into law,

still left too many standing apart.

And Shirley Chisholm stepped forward—

elected to Congress in 1968—

then sought the presidency in 1972,

refusing to accept a smaller place.

With unmistakable courage,

she kept asking, clear and bright:

Whose voice is heard?

Whose voice counts?

Who has a claim to civic light?

She carried hope into the struggle,

made courage into sight,

and turned a woman’s voice and vote

into a claim to equal right.

Now Wheatley’s ink and Nutt’s switchboard,

the marching feet, the votes—

their stories form a living thread

that history still holds.

Not every victory thundered.

Not every triumph shone.

Some changed the world by writing words;

some simply held their ground alone.

But every woman who stepped forward,

who answered, wrote, or fought,

left one more door ajar

to one more once-impossible thought.

One voice became another.

One hand reached for the next.

One generation carried forward

what the last had dared to protect.

So let September’s morning come

with memory in its breeze—

with echoes of the women

who made pathways where none had been.

For history is not a monument

of marble, stone, and steel.

It is every voice that dared to rise,

every wound that refused to heal,

every hand that opened what was closed,

every dream that would not die,

every woman who stood and said,

“I belong. I will not be denied.”

The wires still hum.

The pages turn.

The ballots wait for hands.

The torches still burn.

And somewhere, even now,

a voice is gathering strength—

finding courage in the voices

that carried hers this far.

The chain endures:

from Wheatley’s pen

to Nutt’s patient hands,

from marching feet

to ballots cast,

from one brave voice

to another—

across the years,

across the distance,

across every barrier raised,

a living song

of courage,

dignity,

and voices carried forward.

Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

2026-08-31T05:55:15.838-04:00

Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

A family-shopping satire

We packed up the children, the coupons, the car,
And ventured to shop—not especially far.
We entered for trousers, some socks, and a shirt;
We left with a headache, a leaflet, and hurt.

The sign said, “WELCOME!” in corporate cheer,
Then twelve smaller notices made nothing quite clear.
“For comfort and safety, please follow Rule Eight”—
But Rules One through Seven were “pending updates.”

We asked one young clerk, who consulted a screen;
The screen asked a chatbot what “family” might mean.
The chatbot said, “Thank you—your concern has been logged,”
Then froze with a smile while the whole system bogged.

The app needed passwords with symbols and flair,
A fingerprint, PIN, and a sample of hair.
It welcomed us warmly, then crashed at the till:
“For faster assistance, please reinstall.”

We queued by a doorway beneath a red light,
Where arrows pointed left while the floor pointed right.
A manager arrived with a binder of lore:
“The policy’s simple—except in this store.”

The children grew hungry; Dad studied the map;
Mom guarded the cart from a clearance-rack trap.
Each sensible question produced, by design,
A survey, a QR code, and “Terms” to decline.

“May families shop here?” we asked with restraint.
“We welcome all shoppers,” came back the complaint.
“But where should we go?” “That depends,” they replied,
“On which temporary sign has most recently dried.”

So downward we tumbled through jargon and spin,
Where nobody knows where the rules end or begin.
The rabbit wore khakis, a badge, and a tie,
And promised, “Your comfort is our highest priority.”

At last we escaped with one sock and a hat,
Three digital coupons, no clue where they’re at.
The receipt was six feet, the explanation thin—
And somehow, we’d signed up to shop there again.

So here’s to the household, still mostly intact,
Seeking plain common sense in a maze of fine fact.
If this is “progress,” then kindly take note:
The rabbit hole now has a loyalty code.

With daughters and sons in one family crew,
The fitting-room puzzle soon came into view.
Should Dad join the ladies while helping them dress?
“Consult Appendix Q,” said the clerk at the desk.

Mom needed one doorway, the boys needed more,
Dad stood like a bellhop outside every door.
One daughter cried, “Help!” while the youngest yelled, “When?”
And Dad checked the policy binder again.

“A family room, perhaps?” we politely proposed.
The clerk tapped a tablet; the tablet then froze.
“We had one last Tuesday, from ten until three,
But now it’s reserved for the store’s Wi-Fi tree.”

So husband and wife, with their boys and their girl,
Were routed through arrows that twisted and curled.
We came for new clothing; instead, we were schooled:
A family of six needs a flowchart—and rules.

Watch The Hands

2026-08-29T06:30:03.715-04:00

Watch The Hands

It began in the ’90s—

or maybe earlier,

but nobody remembers,

which is how you know

the shell game was working.

Poison the food supply.

Move the shell.

Disregard the weather.

Move the shell.

Destroy the coral reefs.

Move the shell.

Look—

look over here—

another crisis,

another war,

another miracle cure,

another billionaire

promising to save us

by leaving.

The plan was

to go to another planet,

but what they needed

to do first

was fail.

And fail they did.

Spectacularly.

The big, beautiful plan

lifted off

into the stratosphere,

burned through the sky,

and crashed—

again— and again—

and again—

into the ocean.

Everyone watched the rocket.

Nobody watched the hands.

Except for a few.

A few who stood

at the edge of the crowd

pointing at the table,

saying—

There. There is the trick.

There is the shell.

There are the hands.

But nobody listened.

The crowd was too busy

watching the spectacle,

arguing over the shells,

cheering the magician,

booing the magician,

buying another ticket.

That was the trick. Not the shell.

Not the pea.

The hands.

The uptown shuffle,

the slide,

the razz-ma-Taz,

the doo-Wop,

the Diddy,

the shitty-shitty

bang Bang.

Now you see it. Now you don't.

Where did it go?

Under this shell?

No.

This one?

No.

Surely this one.

Look closer.

Keep watching.

Keep guessing.

Meanwhile, behind the little velvet table,

the whole country

was being rearranged.

The map moved.

The money moved.

The truth moved.

Even the meaning

of the words

began to move.

And those few—

those inconvenient few— kept pointing.

Kept shouting.

Kept saying,

You're looking at the wrong hand.

But nobody paid attention.

That was how they succeeded

for so long.

Not because nobody saw.

Because almost nobody

who saw

was heard. And while we argued

over which shell

held the pea,

the table disappeared.

Then the room.

Then the house.

And still—

the few were standing there,

pointing at empty air,

saying:

Look.

Look at the hands.

The Forest is not Finished

2026-08-28T06:07:04.442-04:00

The Forest Is Not Finished

Where is Congress?

Beneath the white dome,

the machinery still turns.

Votes are cast. The record grows.

On paper, the tree is alive.

But outside, people are calling through the branches:

Where are you?

Trust did not disappear overnight.

It left like water—

a little through the cracked earth,

a little beneath the door, a little each time the storm came

and someone insisted the roof was holding.

Vietnam. Watergate. Wars. Crashes.

Promises made beneath bright lights

and broken in rooms we could not see.

Leaf by leaf,

the canopy thinned.

And still we ask:

Are we watched?

The answer is more complicated than fear.

There are laws, courts, warrants, limits.

Some powers have ended.

Others are winding down. A sunset written into law
does not make the room dark at once.

And freedom—

freedom is not the flag alone.

It is whether the person beneath it
can speak, worship, vote,
and expect justice to recognize them.

America is still called free.

But freedom can remain written on the door
while people inside wonder
whether the room still belongs to them.

And still—

we vote.

Millions enter the booth,
close the curtain,
and make the smallest possible declaration:

I am here.

I count.

Perhaps that is where democracy begins again.

Not in making everyone the same,
but in remembering:

every person is one.

Not more.

Not less.

One.

Power prefers shadows.
Fear prefers enemies.
Despair says nothing will change.

Democracy asks something harder:

Look again.

Check the record.

Bring the lantern.

Tell the truth, even when it embarrasses your own side.
Revise what you believed.
Keep the question alive.

We do not have to become louder
to prove that we are awake.

We can stand in the forest

without pretending every tree is healthy.

We can notice the dead branches.
Smell the smoke.
Hear the roots beneath the soil.

And still believe something can heal.

Because awakening is not madness.

Concern is not hatred.

Doubt is not betrayal.

To ask whether the roots are dying
is not an act of destruction.

It is an act of love.

The forest is not finished.

Beneath the dark soil,
something is still reaching.

So we listen—

not for proof that everything is well,

not for proof that everything is lost,

but for the faint, stubborn movement
of the roots.

Many Coats of Light

2026-08-26T06:20:07.673-04:00

Many Coats of Light

Where Tennessee dawn
lays gold along the pines
and blue hills gather
the first thin light of morning,
Dolly rose with a voice
warm enough to enter a room
without asking permission.

She knew something about hard roads—
how they can narrow a life,
how a song can widen it again.

She braided truth into melody,
wore courage without calling it courage,
and laughed as though joy
were another kind of strength.

Then she opened books

and opened doors.

A child turned a page
and found a larger world waiting.
A weary heart heard a song
and remembered, for a little while,
that sorrow was not the whole story.

Her songs became lanterns.
Her stories became windows.
And wherever they traveled,
they left behind
some small assurance
that hope could still be found.

But fame is only one kind of light.

There are others
whose names will never be printed,
whose kindness will never make a headline—
the teacher who stays late,

the neighbor who notices,
the grandmother who reads
one more story before bed.

There is the hand
that stitches a coat for a child,
the stranger who carries a burden
without being asked,
the person who leaves groceries
on a doorstep
and walks away before anyone can say thank you.

These things seem small
until you begin to count them.

A coat.
A book.
A meal.
A listening ear.
A little courage given
to someone who has run out.

Ten thousand hidden stars,
perhaps—
quiet lights scattered
through ordinary lives.

They do not need an audience.

They shine because shining
is what they have chosen to do.

And perhaps this is how
the world is changed:

not always by the brightest star,
but by one light finding another
and refusing to go dark.

So let tomorrow open
the way morning opens over Tennessee—
slowly,
goldenly,

one ridge at a time.

Let one generous heart
call to another.

Let the kindness we thought
was too small to matter
become the very thing
that carries someone home.

Until, across the long dark,
a million quiet voices
lift their light—

and the world,
for a moment,
is brighter than we knew.

Failing Systems

2026-08-25T06:35:39.416-04:00

Failing Systems

For every voice made to wait while the safety net frays

Listen—

They told us the system was built to catch us.

But when we fall,
it answers with a locked door.
A dead phone line.
A form stamped DENIED
because one box—
one box—
was left without a mark.

Come to the kitchen table.
Look.
The numbers are laid out like bones,
and still they refuse to stretch.

Rent.
Medicine.
Heat.

Three winter hands at the window,
knocking—
knocking—
through the glass
of one thin wallet.

A parent counts the meals,
turns an empty cupboard
into a bedtime story:
We already ate. We are not hungry tonight.

An elder halves a dose
and listens to the clock
between each careful breath.

But listen—
beneath that frozen ground,
roots are gripping the dark.

And the worker?
The worker clocks in before sunrise,
sleep hanging from their shoulders like wet wool,
one small ember cupped against the wind,
then clocks out
still owing the day.

The shift runs long.
The paycheck does not.

Say it again:
the shift runs long—
the paycheck does not.

Rent climbs.
Mortgages climb.

Hours vanish.
The schedule changes without warning,
and one sick morning
splits the whole month open,
spilling every careful plan across the floor.

These hands lift.
These hands sweep.
These hands stock, carry, clean, build.

Palms split beneath cardboard and steel.
Backs burn beneath fluorescent suns.

Still—
these hands rise every morning.
Weathered tools.
Mended tools.
Tools that were promised
work would build a steady life.

So they become their own bridge:
plank by trembling plank,
name beside name,
shoulder beside shoulder,
even while the floor moves underfoot.

And when the hours are cut—
when the factory gate goes quiet—
lunch pails gather dust by the door,
work boots wait like faithful dogs,
and silence punches in for the night shift.

Still, a neighbor knocks.
Still, a meal appears.
Still, we become a patchwork roof—
each small kindness another shingle
held against the storm.

Then the frayed system asks for proof.
Proof that the fall was real.
Proof that the bruise belongs to us.
Proof that breaking
was not our fault.

Meanwhile, comfort speaks of sacrifice
as if sacrifice were weightless.
As if hunger were homework.
As if dignity could take a number,
sit down,
and wait.

So hear me—

when my own hands tremble,
when the stairs become a mountain,
when the rooms go cold
and the days narrow
to one long, dim hallway,
remember this:

We were never burdens.

We were people.
Roots gripping the dark earth.
Embers refusing the wind.
Bridges built from one another.
Hearts beating behind closed doors.

We are still here.
Still here.

Not asking to be carried—
asking for the ground to stop giving way.
Not asking to be praised—
asking not to disappear.

We were never burdens.
We were people.
We are people.

And we will not
be abandoned
in silence.

Late-Summer Colors

2026-08-24T06:06:14.321-04:00

Late-Summer Colors

Goldenrod lifts its yellow flame,
while Joe-Pye blushes, tall and bright;
native asters softly frame
the fields in blue and violet light.

Morning dew lays pearls in view,
each petal shines with silver-blue.

Coneflowers wear a rosy crown,
while purple ironweed brushes the sky;
chicory stars look softly down,
and snowy boneset rises nearby.

Black-eyed Susans face the sun,
with golden rays and centers deep;
marigolds glow, one by one,
where painted butterflies may sweep.

Monarchs drift on amber wings,
swallowtails sail through sunny air;
painted ladies dance in rings,
then rest on blossoms bright and fair.

Sunflowers tower, bold and high,
zinnias scatter colors bright;
cosmos nod as winds pass by,
and dahlias bloom in petals tight.

A hover fly tiptoes where golden seeds lie,
crossing the sunflower beneath the blue sky.

Bumblebees hum from bloom to bloom,
honeybees sip the clover sweet;
dusting gold through garden perfume,
they carry summer on their feet.

Spotted jewelweed, orange and small,
dances beside the shaded stream;
cardinal flowers, red and tall,
burn like sparks within a dream.

Hydrangeas fade from blue to green,
hardy hibiscus opens wide;
Rose-of-Sharon joins the scene,
with lotus floating at its side.

Blue vervain raises slender spires,
and every breeze becomes a song;
summer blooms with jeweled fires—
a rainbow garden all day long.

At sunset, crimson clouds unfold,
and every flower dims its light;
the garden glows in rose and gold,
then folds its colors into night.

Tiny Teapots, Big Adventures

2026-08-23T08:04:35.640-04:00

Tiny Teapots, Big Adventures

Five Delightful Characters Filled with Courage, Kindness, Curiosity, Glitter, and Adventure

Ruby

Red captain puffs steam
“Full steam ahead!” she cries
Brave heart leads the way
Through clouds of warm, rising mist
She leads with courage each day.

Bluebell

Gentle Bluebell dreams
Quiet wishes steep in warmth
Calm tea warms all hearts
Soft dreams drift across the room
Warm kindness fills every heart.

Dot

Lids bounce; questions fly
Sleepy duck sounds fill the air
Her wonder now grows
Each small sound brings a question
Wonder keeps her wide awake.

Stripe

Glitter fills the room
Sneezes make grand theater
Sparkles everywhere
One bright sneeze sends glitter high
The whole room begins to shine.

Pip

Small silver teapot
A brave toot shakes the time train
Quiet hearts can soar
Though small, Pip finds strength within
And rides where adventures call.

Strike A Pose

2026-08-21T07:50:16.082-04:00

Strike a Pose

In my family,
we have degrees—
degrees in Shopping,
with honors in Bargain Hunting,
from Infant Training
all the way to Advanced Masters.

It’s a lifelong pursuit,
a glittering pilgrimage
down aisles paved with possibility,
and we are a dedicated bunch.
Thrifting or runway,
clearance rack or couture,
we treat every outfit
like a canvas waiting for its masterpiece.

Design is not merely clothing—
it is architecture for the body,
a little engineering of the soul,

a way of telling the world,
I have arrived,
and yes, I planned the entrance.

Designers like Susan Graver
and Kim Gravel
can turn a sale into an art form,
a clearance rack into a treasure chest,
a cardigan into a declaration of confidence.
They wave their fashion wands
and suddenly style is singing,
while self-esteem stands taller
in a perfectly chosen shade.

They rescue us
from fashion faux pas,
snatch us from the jaws
of questionable hemlines,
rearrange the stars,
straighten the planets,

and bring the universe
back into fashionable alignment.

Because without them,
what would we wear
when destiny comes calling?

A robe?

Absolutely not.

We must master
the magic of first impressions—
because, darling,
you never get a second chance
to sparkle at hello.

So come on, girls—
get your mani-pedi,

book that massage,
let your skin glow
like the morning sun
on a brand-new window display.

Then settle bottom-side-down
in your favorite chair,
queen of your own little kingdom,
and rest those hardworking feet.

Rest.
Refresh.
Recharge.

Because when you step out
into Spring,

you won’t simply enter the season—
you’ll arrive like a parade.

The flowers may bloom,
the birds may sing,
but the sun?

The sun won’t know
where to shine first.

So—

Spotlight on.
Chin up.
Colors bright.
Confidence blazing.

Let’s go shopping, girls.

Let’s turn the sidewalk
into our runway,
the mirror into our audience,
and every doorway
into a grand entrance.

Strike a pose.

And make the whole world
look twice.

Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

2026-08-20T06:09:12.672-04:00

Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

Sadie and Pal are dead now—
since November, more or less.
Which seems like a long time ago,
but grief has its own address.

Sad Cornelia.
Sad Connie.
No bears at Bear Mountain.
The Trailside Zoo is bear-less now,
which feels like poor accounting.

The heroes of my heart,
I like to think,
are not exactly gone.
They’ve slipped into another dimension
and carried the good stuff on.

Down some secret tunnel
beneath the mountain floor,
where bears have endless blueberries
and nobody asks for more.

Meanwhile, here I am,
with cholesterol,
with fat,
with the mysterious determination
of my body to attach it
to my belly and my hips.

But my heart is fine.

So, suck it up, Connie.

It’s not forever.

There will be bears again.

Eventually.

Once they upgrade the habitat
and presumably get the paperwork

and whatever else you need
to make a bear comfortable
in the modern world.

And then the names.

Oh, the names.

Sasquatch and Sam.
Palisade and Peek.
Sable and Spruce.
Hudson and Highlands.

Ramble and Ridge.
Picnic and Basket.

Actually—

Maybe the last two.

Picnic and Basket.

Tell me that isn't a pair of bears
who know exactly what they're doing.

But before we get there,
before the new bears arrive,
perhaps we could ask the visitors
to stop treating the park
like the landscape is indestructible.

Rest, people.

Let the mountain breathe.

Let the trails be trails.
Let the woods be woods.
Let the bears, when they return,
have something worth coming back to.

Sadie and Pal are gone.

The mountain remains.

And somewhere, I hope,
two enormous bears
are having an excellent afternoon
in another dimension—

probably eating berries,
probably ignoring us,

and absolutely
not worrying about their hips.

Beyond the Loudest Voice

2026-08-19T06:42:51.210-04:00

Beyond the Loudest Voice

People like us listen beneath the noise—

outliers, sparks beyond the media’s pull,
able to think without being carried
by passing opinion.

We are creative, vigilant,
lighthouse eyes sweeping the dark,
recognizing what threatens our shared humanity
and meeting it with clear, steady eyes.

We live among you,
work beside you,
train our bodies and minds,
learn from those who know,
and move with the restless tide of humanity.

We notice what others miss—
what we can see, hear, touch, and smell,
the thunder already gathering
beneath the horizon.

We face the world as it is
while imagining what it might become—
through changing climates
and uncertain markets.

We recognize misinformation,
manipulation, and opportunism.
We refuse to do harm
and stand beside the vulnerable—
children, those who serve,
the elderly, and the sick.

We make plans and follow through.
We volunteer, fill what needs filling,
and keep hope turning
for those who cannot.

We live by principles,
accept sacrifice, when necessary,
and become bridges
where others cannot cross alone.

We do not echo the loudest voice
or mistake one road for the whole horizon.
We sharpen questions
until truth catches the light.

So listen deeper.
Question bravely.
Stand together where the road divides.
And carry the light forward.

Because truth is not the

loudest voice; it is the clearest light.

The Hollow Nest

2026-08-18T07:10:12.311-04:00

you came in
wearing rain
like borrowed skin.

your shoes grew wings.
time ate its hands.

memory, a cracked mirror,
kept your face
in every shard.

the wine tasted of rust.
the moon drowned.

but you never came.
the door dreamed you.

by morning,
I held only feathers—

you nested in the hollow I became.