Much has been said
against me
however,
I will not be spiteful
or allow hatred,
the beast of darkness
that resides
in the black jungles
of arrogance
and ignorance,
to infect me;
for that is no reason
to give way to anger.
So I refuse to let anger
ugly my heart;
for anger
is the scorpion’s poison
of peace
and love, it’s sunlight.
I choose light
contentment and happiness,
as poetry’s not a contest
of winners or losers;
it is the essence
of a poet’s soul.

There's something strange going round down on the farm
With the animal noises and speeding of cars
If you listen it's a bit different, see can you hear it
But Farmer Jones doesn't see any harm

The pigs are out cleaning up after themselves
As the cows ****-a-doodle-do
The chickens aren't afraid of anything else
And the horses greet you with a how do you do moo

The string beans if you please are fit to be tied
And the potatoes no longer see eye to eye
The broccoli round here is now carrying spears
As the tomatoes run for their lives

It's Mrs. Jones that really has him worried though
She dolls up and dresses fancy at night
The way she lately behaves has this farmer quite afraid
So he stays days in the field, out of sight, out of mind

With the goats that communicate with an oink
And the sheep learning to drive the car
Yes there's something strange going round down on the farm
But Farmer Jones doesn't seem to see any harm

Back in my teenage college years
I was told about “Autistic kids”
Who lived in worlds of their own,
Seeing things through weird and wonderful specs
In social isolation,
Frightening in its completeness.

At sixty six I since have learned about many
Of their “traits”:
Their obsessions, inflexible routines and
Panic
At all change.
Their inability to read
Emotions or social cues
Or innuendos
Or irony.

I have worked with those with Aspergers,
Colleagues, friends and clients –
Indeed with people all over
The Autistic Spectrum.

And the main thing I have learned
In all these years
Is that in my own way…
I am one of them.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\10\2018.

Not many people know
where the old road goes
I’m older now and it seems
there are more and more
       paved roads
that lead to nowhere —
   most of the time

As a kid, living miles up
  a rough potholed,
country road — a hike away
from the edge a small town
  out in the sticks,..
you come to know onliness,
blind to a journey alone

   I never stepped on
cracks in a town sidewalk —
  never learned what
  "superstitious" was,
    like the other kids
        from town

It wasn't the cracks
  in the sidewalk
I feared to tread;
steppin' on 'em breaks nothing
  already broken —

It was just all so different
than the long walk home
where that old road goes —
grandma always said:
"follow the creek upstream;
it'll always lead you back
  where you belong"

   The washboards
in the steep narrow road
up the hill, were like
  muddy stair steps
in the rainy season

Sometimes I followed
on up the creek below
to the upper log bridge
     swimmin' hole,..
where I learned to listen
to the sweet melody
of unclouded days;
and for a moment
I thought I belonged

     I still haven't
found my way out
  of this memory
I’m holding onto —
because life is just
an unstoppable
season, passing by
    on its own;
   like the way
     rainwater
  in the swollen
creek bed flows:

   And I'm just
another passing September
no one will remember —

   most of the time


Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018

THE  SWEET  SERFDOM
I sit beside you and forget the world,
and find myself on wings that take me high
to glide with clouds so white, so chaste and pure
that only dreamworlds such a sense ensure.

Your hands have smoothness that tickles my heart
and gives it female warmth that once it starts,
I can't detach my heart that gets your own
as what your warmth creates is magic crammed.

Your words are said with such a female tune
that stirs the feelings l'm so fond to live.
They give the rapture  of a farfetched song
that begets love and forces it to yield.

Your softness is not just what women have.
It is so touching that my heart can't skip.
Once felt, it shackles me with magic chains
whose serfdom is much sweeter than free will.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
___________