Song Steps Peace Bird-A bird song…

I video taped this today. A singing bird and even the sound of man… airplane in the background… it is in the contrast that one feels the value of life.

What is man made and what is created by nature and where the two meet !

Reading by Hudley 3/17/2026

We live in “the best of times and the worst of times.” Darkness and light play a game upon us all. Terrorists initiate fear in us all. It is a time to focus on what is enduring in life as the planets, the stars and Spring. The changing of the season is remarkable, accurate and even mathematically perfected. Humor, poems, and music move us to be less hateful and to show empathy proudly. As the wind blows on a warm Spring Day take the time to see the ritual of life.

Today I am thinking about Bernie Sanders and a little peace bird, a synchronicity, which can lead our footsteps towards a tickling of heartfelt humor and baskets of embracing hope. We need to follow our footsteps of synchronicity,

I authored this poem for my father years ago. It is about birds. Not human footsteps but the continuity of singing bird steps.

A bird song…

Today I heard the sound of a singing bird.

What type of bird I do not know?

A sparrow or maybe a blue bird sings

This lovely song of summer and spring.

I’ve heard this singing many times before

As an infant I heard the singing near

My parent’s pool

As a child I also heard the singing

While sliding down a grassy hill.

Now as an adult of forty

I remember all the times I’ve heard the singing

The same song but from different birds

This lovely song of summer and spring.

In California I’ve heard

Their tunes hundreds of times

I’ve changed so much since

The first time I heard the birds singing ‘tell now,

I assume I will hear the same song

A hundred times more,

Until I grow very old.

I think of the song

Of the singing birds

Of all the birds who have sung the song

So many birds, singing the same tune.

I wonder and I’m comforted

Listening to the tunes of the singing birds

It is the ‘ever living song

This lovely song of summer and spring.

For some day when I pass on

As the many birds, who have sung their songs

My children and grandchildren

And great-grandchildren

Will hear the same song,

Hopefully linking us together,

As the same song links

The sweet birds together.

The singing from the sky

The trees bringing us all together

The song will not have changed one note

This lovely song of summer and spring.

~ Holly Cornell May 23, 1993

(Hudley)

On my mind.

Oft’ my WordPress shelf

on this green day before the spring equinox

I pull a picture down.

A rendering I captured of Dad

Glad I did…

His birthday was on the 2nd of December

his Death March 17th…

three years now gone?

Once a day of dancing and drinking

has taken a different tone.

Even through grief

…faded with time…

He is still on my mind today.

I imagine him dancing

with denizens on the Pleiades

happy and content.

Dad before death

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/shelf

Longing

The heart and the mind often long for different things.

Longing for understanding where the two come together in knowing peace.

Where one does not try to outsmart the other.

Longing to fit in and longing to run away.

Longing to build a bridge and hang with Hermes.

Longing to create…

Never ending…

Longing for the dead

miss them.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/longing/

Pleasures of Twilight Time

Don’t you love when forgotten smells and feelings unite from youth! I mean the good ones like rain, earth, eucalyptus trees, pepper trees!

The deep secret crevices where grey clouds mock youthful pleasures!

Now is the time!!

The youthful gates of being lost in playing with and in the earth!

Grateful for the memory of the hill and the valley.

Where the land meets the sky,

Falling into the sky and that place,

If only this brief twilight time!!

Poobah…

Animus with the Wind !

Ancient Egyptian human-headed ba-bird, gessoed and painted wood, Ptolemaic period,
332-330 BC. H. 5 inches. (12.5cm)

“The wind is in truth the ALL-Devourer, for when the fire dies out it goes into the wind, when the sun sets, it goes into the wind, when the moon sets, it goes into the wind, when the waters dry up, they go into the wind, for the wind consumes them all. Thus it is with respect to the divinity. And now with respect to the self. The breath is truth the ALL-Devourer, for when a man sleeps, speech goes into breath, the eye goes into breath, the ear too, and the manas, for the breath consumes then all. These are the two ALL-Devourers; wind among the gods, and breath among living men.”

Passage from the Khandogya Upanishad

http://www.minervamagazine.co.uk/features-content/feature-2011-07-01.html

A woman engaging her Animus

Thranduil, Elfin Knight

She’s not there.

If she laid her egg sack, which she most likely has, I have not seen her. Every year she comes and I paint her image, or take her picture. From the pool mesh fence I take her and let her crawl over my shoulders. This year only she indirectly shows herself. A floating exoskeleton on top of clear pool water, or images from friends. Her Praying Mantis tree with the beautiful purple anarchy flowers are as a waterfall and arbor waiting for her return.

She will be golden green, large and graceful now. She facing death. I wear her tattoo on my left wrist. The purple anarchy flower. Last night at a local club again she told me that I was at the right time and place. I was meant to be here, even though she was not. The leather jacket with silver studs addressed me.

The young man stood in front of me. There splashed upon his back, drawn and painted, is her anarchy flower. Holding up my wrist I knew it to be true. I tapped the young tall man on the shoulder and showed him the image. He acknowledged it and the music blew through and around us. The longitude and latitude the continuity of life. It was all meant to be, I was where I was meant to be…. but she was not there.

Short Poem Play

TRIANGULAR POEM

To Abraham

This is a poem I created on a triangular form for a fellow student in a poetry class at Los Angeles Valley College. Abraham was a wise mature student taking a course with a bunch of young adults, and his presence added a unique dynamic to our discussions. With a twinkle in his eye, he often teased us playfully, bringing laughter to the classroom, while his occasional use of Yiddish added a rich cultural layer to our learning experience. His arms bore the marks of history, as he displayed Holocaust tattoos that were faded yet powerful, telltale signs of a life filled with both suffering and resilience. He was a survivor, embodying the strength of those who had endured unimaginable hardships. Abraham once graciously invited the class to his modest yet warm apartment in Van Nuys, where we shared not just lessons in poetry, but also stories of our lives, dreams, and aspirations, creating bonds that went beyond the classroom walls.

Every wall was covered with bookshelves filled with a variety of books. I found a book by William Blake there that day from one of the dusty shelves! I made this to remember Abraham, a simple man of extraordinary insight and purpose! I still have this and it is now sitting on my hearth.

Triangular Poem By Holly D. Cornell

“Future…A a ABRAHAM invited a bunch a kids to his apartment to… dayyyy… aroom fulla books and paintings SATURATION… And the helicopter flew overhead, transforming into A a ANGEL.”

“Abraham’s books in his apartment are filled with magic. I picked one up it told me what I was thinking. What is a mystic, yesterday and today, about life and death, and a soul that lives on… Masters hold on to the books they’ve created I know this to be true.

I had a lesson from “Blake” today, he said “inspired seers and prophets-where the imagination is most alive.” He said, “To keep the Divine Vision in times of trouble.” Is this who you are Abraham? Is this what you do?”

“Your homes like mine- a block from the river- A cottage filled-with many… Books and paintings and images and things most precious to you near the sound of the racing cars. I’m embarrassed to share mine. Linked, yes linked, I know we are linked someplace, where helicopters fly overhead… I have Neptune in mine like yours, I have a mother and a child in mine like yours, I have imagination and the future like yours, and the link that binds is love.”

Singed by Abraham Pesah Lenkawicki 3-11-1998

Yiddish – PLAY BALALAIKAs.
A young lad is thinking, thinking all night
Would it be wrong, he asks, or maybe right,
Should he declare his love, dare he choose,
And would she accept, or will she refuse?
Chorus:
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika,
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, play Balalaika,
tumbalalaika – let us be merry.
Maiden, maiden tell me again
What can grow, grow without rain,
What can burn for many years,
What can long and cry without tears?
Silly young lad, why ask again?
It’s a stone that can grow, grow without rain,
It’s love that can burn for many long years,
the heart that can yearn and cry without tears.

Flopside Comics : Sickholy Friday Easter flashback

While the Fuck family was sitting around the table wondering if they would be doing easter eggs this year, and wondering who would be the bunny to hand out the candy, a comic good friday flashback came to Mr. Shit’s mind. He has punkarama dementia and is not on the up and up.

“I think JESUS followed in his mama’s footsteps!!”

“Oh really, ” said Mr Pee Wee Gutter?

“Maybe so,” said Mr. Crap !!

“He may have a fucking point. Heysus was not a cabinet-maker like his dad. He had a whole bunch of dames following him around and paying his experiences too,” said Mr. Pee Wee Gutter!!

“This goes against my belief system dudes. I refuse to be the bunny,” said Bloody Elbows.

Then Mr. Fuck picked up a book he found in the trash a few days earlier.

“I read in this book that Heysus was a good cook. He liked to barbecue all sorts of fish for his fucking buddies and did free poetry readings!”

“Remember to be more than an asshole….Flopside comis suck and so do you!!”

Ichabod Crane in a 1960s straight legged suite, A bow to Saturn and Jupiter…

1960s straight legged pant suit.

As we approach this year’s Aquarius celebration of Saturn and Jupiter both in 0 degrees Aquarius 2020 December 21^st, I think back upon a time of my life when this song from the musical Hair was immensely popular. I have been watching the two planets hang together over the last couple months. In clear eyesight. Two thousand years from Pisces to Aquarius what will this bring to humanity…? What will tomorrow be like… we sure could use a lot more light.

Mr. Kennedy was a tall grey-haired man. He kind of looked like Ichabod Crane who wore a 1960s straight legged pant suit. He read my poem to the whole class. When the well-read and the popular girls looked around at me, I should have given them my tongue. I should have stuck it way out so they could see it as clear as the sun. I didn’t. I just sat in my seat as I am now…. years later. I was happy to be understood. I still am.

To Mr. Kennedy who taught with kindness.

http://www.drapervisualarts.org/?page_id=10

Paper, pencils, crayons, and watercolors were always around the house. Grandma’s old player piano was in the boy’s room with a pool table. We lived a rustic life. The smell of food, the sound of children, parents and nature contrasted the rather harsh world of a classroom. Going to school was not for me. It was social torture where I turned off, only to turn on during time on the playground.

In second grade I remember Mrs. Bracka shaking me,

“No Holly, I told you do not do that. Put them in alphabetical order!!”

I would just write down any number when it came to math. The smart girl went around the room correcting everyone’s papers. When she got to me, she said,

“You got them all wrong. I will have to give you an F!”

She kept trying to get the teacher’s attention while she was correcting papers; after correcting my paper she went pee all over the chair next to me.

When I got to 6th grade it was about the same. I only watched the clock until kickball on the playground. I was put in the back of the class in the slow learner section and believe me the other kids let us know it. Until one day when Mr. Kennedy asked the whole class to write poems.

He said,

“Write about what you feel, write about what interests you or inspires you.”

Mr. Kennedy, who played the song Aquarius over the PA sound system at Serriania Elementary school, woke me up to the power of writing.

This is my first poem.

What will tomorrow be like?

Will there be day or night?

Will it be like today?

Or will there be other planets too,

For us to play.

Will there be rockets taking us to Mars, Venus, or Neptune?

This is what people think about,

If we wait awhile, we will soon find out.

Mr. Leprechaun’s Ode to the Dandelion

I am sure there are multi-billion dollar businesses to kill the dandelion. ~ Mr. Leprechaun.

“I noticed that there are dandelions growing in everyone’s garden after the rain.

I am sure there are multi-billion-dollar businesses to kill the dandelion.”

~ Mr. Leprechaun

I have wild places in my garden where I let the dandelions grow freely. The birds like them, and the bees and hummingbirds love them. Yellow green sturdy little wild things they are. I love them too. This is an ode to them.

While almost asleep and with the window open to feel the breeze during my nap time, I heard a little story in the wind …

“Did you know that if you let the dandelion grow in your garden and on your lawn, it is the perfect place for a little leprechaun to rest; in case they cannot find a mushroom that is?”

“Oh,” I said.

“If you walk by and see one drinking, it may very well be dandelion beer. They will ask to share some with you. Their pints are about as big as they are. It would be about a cup full for a human being.”

“I see.” I yawned.

So, the story I heard is this and it became strangely intimate.

“If you are kind enough to take a sip of me earthy brew, a couple of valuable gold coins will show up on your front door dear.”

“Really I whispered?”

“Yes, and as you pick up the gold, whisper to the wind how the beer tasted to you!”

“I see.”

Mr. Leprechaun continued on,

“I want the truth lassie. No lies. Then I will give you two more gold coins.”

I spoke,

“I hear you.”

“Share this story… if you will, Because I need them dandelions to make me brews!!”

I nodded and said,

“Most assured, yes.”

Then the Leprechaun sang and danced…

“Drink me brew, drink me brew!

“Three pints for me and one for you

Dandelions make a great big stew.

Green, yellow and nectar too.

Birds are singing and flowers are wooing.

Feet are dancing and twilight is coming.

We are here to dance and laugh.

Rich with gold, gems, and beer!!

Dandelions here, Dandelions there

Let them grow, let them grow!

Me dear, me dear

Let them grow me dear!!”

Mantis Jazz cafe

Going to make a Liverwurst sandwich with Roma tomatoes on French bread with mayonnaise and mustard; a couple drips of grape seed oil and vinegar. Salt and pepper and baby I will chase that steamy Pluto away.

I saw her come out after the boys, from that steamy deep place, all I could do was shake my head…knowing that she was a friend. I saw the steam come up and her t-shirt was damp. How many guys from the band came out of there? Who knows…?

Dreams…those dreams can be washed away with a film, food and a cup of Coffee . My libido is somewhere down there. Up here I don’t want to exercise or talk romance… maybe a few hours in the garden will chase steamy Pluto away.

The saxophone and the xylophone move baby move me into the cool zone…

Double Arrogant Bastard with Santa…

‘Twas the fucking night

Before a fucking glorious and righteous holiday…

And all through the fucking dump

Not a fucking creature was fucking stirring

Not even a fucking rat…

The cigarette butts lined up with no care

In hopes that his fucking lighter

Would instantly light the butts there…

Squatting in a cardboard fucking box

Cozy and warm…

Then…

What to his fucking ears

Did he hear?

But a sound of a drunken Santa

Walking down his alley

With a couple of glass-tinkling beers…

“Hey Santa could your spare

This old fucking punk a drink?”

“Yes sir I’ve two left…”

SO they stood in the alley

Fucking Santa wobbling a lot

Mr. Fuck laughing

The beers he fucking drank up…

Then he put Santa in a Taxi

Sending him home to his fucking Penthouse apartment …

Waving good-bye out the back taxi window… Santa yelled,

“Fucking merry glorious and righteous holiday to all!!!

Bitchin’ and out-of-sight!!

wicker candy basket

Mr. Po Po the portable cat in the wicker candy basket

Laying on the candy,

Lying in the basket,

Laying on the candy,

oh ya oh ya…

Thankyou for the offer…

A dialogue with my shadow and the moist earth.

Egg sandwich with burnt bacon… !!

“I have come to learn how to use power in the right way,”

I asked him?

He replied,

“Use it only with great responsibility and compassion,”

And he held out his hand to me and smiled.

~ Pg. 5, Joy Michand The Saturn Pluto Phenomenon.

Shadow is pulling while the moist earth is whispering, there is a polarity for my attention today.

“Refrain from giving too much,” said the cool breeze!

As women who no longer bleed…we tend to write, heal and serve too much!

Shadow with head held high and wearing a sly grin said this to me,

“We must attend to the ways of the world girly girl! Defend yourself, draw your lines and fly the finger when someone cuts you off on the road while driving….”

“Oh yes shadow I remember doing that. We thought about tattooing my finger with a big praying mantis with a crown on her head. Look at the queen mantis you….”

“Then the moist breeze embraced me saying, “Take time, slow down and turn your back to the ways of the world. Feel the rain on your tongue!!”

“Whispering moist earth, I hear your love that heals me. I will not give so much time to my blog writing. I will attend to writing alone and will not share as much…!!”

“No not at all and for a while, until you complete what you have to do at home now!!”

“OK….”

Happy Birthday John Lennon …and to the Ford Falcon where I learned this song…8 track-tape.

Mantis

My totem, medicine and shield

nature politics

the mantis knows how I feel…

Hamburgers rule the universe and you too!!

Mr Fuck, Hamburgers and the fucking full moon….

Yes I’m on the way up

megalomediamaniac

jumping rat…

Give me some of that

fucking hamburgers rule the world

and you tooo..fool.

“The path of its departure still is free.” Mutability

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is bernie-wrightson-bernie-wrightson-mary-wollstonecraft-shelleys-frankenstein-unused-illustration-original-art-c..jpg

Bernie Wrightson (American, 1948–2017)

Bernie Wrightson Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s Frankenstein Unused Illustration Original Art (c. 1975), ca. 1975

We lived in a little art loft over a quaint bookstore up town Whittier. Ames is the name of the bookstore. A funny fellow with a beard owned the place. To get away from the overwhelming nature of the business I was involved with: I found this cave in the city. A new world opened to me at Ames. Books came alive and one of the most influential books I found there is the classic story, Frankenstein Or The Modern Prometheus. Mary W. Shelley’s novel inspires me on so many levels and I cannot thank her enough.

This is a quote for the day. This quote speaks of life and freedom resonates there. I love the reflective and subjective nature of her book. I recommend this gem to everyone: read it and life will not be the same…if you have read it already, “so it goes!”

“If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene can surprisingly mean a great preciousness to us.”

I think and feel Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote The Modern Prometheus. Or maybe Mary and Percy authored the book together. Percy’s poem Mutability was written before the novel which seems very revealing to me.

“We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.

We rise; one wandering through pollutes the day.

We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;

It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free.

Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;

Nought may endure but mutability!”

Page 99: Chapter X

Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

Mary Shelley

Mutability

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!–yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest.–A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.–One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same!–For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Helen’s Romanza.

Helen Jewel roving reporter for Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine.

Image taken before a Halloween Party in the middle of the 1980s. Her costume, Helen as her mother.

“Tell your friends everything. Give away your secrets.

Be wise as serpents and gentle as doves.”

~Allen Ginsberg

“Him all wait for, him all yield up to, his word is decisive and final, him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves as amid light, Him they immerse, and he immerses them.

Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people, animals, the profound earth and its attributes and unquiet ocean, (so tell I my morning’s romanza.) All enjoyments and properties and money, and whatever money will buy, the best farms, others toiling, and planting and he unavoidably reaps, the noblest and costliest cities, others grading and building, and he domiciles there…”

~ Song of the Answerer by Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass

Helen was our roving reporter for Flipside Fanzine. She has an amazing character that challenges me to this day! She grew up in Fullerton California and later ended up living in Whittier. She came from the kind of family that sat around the dinner table and talked. Her mother and father expected the children to give a speech about their day. Helen’s father might ask her sternly,

“What did you learn today?”

The words of Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, and Jack Kerouac inspired her life as a teenager. Helen was a few years older than the average punk during the 1980s punk scene. When she asked us to include this interview with Allen Ginsberg, we teased her. It is a good thing she persisted. Helen weaved together important elements in her short interview with Allen Ginsberg with what was happening at that time in punk rock history. It is an excellent read.

One can study the history and literary accomplishments of Whitman, Ginsberg, and Kerouac but it is the link, the alignment, the spiritual rebellious thread that pulls me always!

Thank you Helen!!

“Punk shows suffering, so it acknowledges the real”

Flipside Fanzine 36 Allen Ginsberg

“A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Mummification Note…

On the way home from picking my kid up from school we talked about Ancient Egyptians. He is learning about different aspects of their culture. He is studying mummification. He explained to me in detail how organs, such as the brain, were pulled out of a dead person’s nose. All organs were taken out or the body before starting the process of mummification.

He said the heart was not removed because they believed that the heart was the most important organ. It did the thinking. What a wonderful thing for my son to realize. Egyptians understood life with the heart not so much the brain, defiantly a lost art in our culture. They loved cats… even the mummies I hear!!