An emotional wind,
just to clear the daily fields,
to ask a moment after,
with childish tenderness.

They have a soul
like an old building,
with a million windows,
and one locked door.

They are so different,
more than a straight line.
They save the world,
seeing, feeling, not less.

Not a doctoral degree,
no frame that fits.
Perhaps don’t read the words,
they think beyond two and one.

They burn the dinner,
tangled in their inner world.
Flickering light, voice—
A scratch of structure is too much.

States of agitation,
flow of information,
and the beautiful creatures,
make sense without logic.

They give to this dimension
more than they’ll ever know.
Paradox in the crowd,
unclassified,
a blessing for society,
yet invisible.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                      Spectrum Cable 4

                                       For 1 May 2025

Spectrum is usually more dead than alive –
O! For a newspaper at the foot of the drive!

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                         Spectrum Cable 3

                                          For 24 April 2025

Spectrum stops working at the fall of a leaf
Such fragility! It beggars belief.

Smile lines or frown line
It's a bit hazzy

They both look same
You couldn't possibly discern them

From a first meeting
You need to be a fixture

To tell which ones fit the puzzle perfectly

I think it's amazing to smile through pain

Look it into its eyes
And flip it off

But I also think it's groundbreaking

To acknowledge not being OK

To be scared
To run away from the slightest uncertainty

And finally let the water-fall flow

I've lost the gift of water-flow

But I'm holding on to the gift of smile

Doesn't matter what spectrum
Fits the case perfectly

Colour is dangerous;
you fall into it.

And colour can swallow you,
and like music it is super emotional.

It is hard to stay distant.

Those who
Withstand the darkness
Could gaze the Moon
Even better

Thus
Whenever
There is
Imperfection

Make it ART

I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.

A line to define us is what you imagine,
When you hear the words,
Autism Spectrum Disorder,
It generally happens.

You place us in order,
Based on our physical representation,
And here come the words that I must slaughter,
Before you draw this misrepresentation.

We are not,
The terms ‘high functioning’,
Or ‘low functioning’,
In fact this is actually quite impolite.
To give a more representable label,
Please use the terms,
Severe Autism,
Moderate,
Or mild.

Every autistic person,
Has a different set of strengths and needs,
So do not presume the ‘functioning’ term,
As it tends to arrange and mistreat,
Every autistic person,
Who experiences challenges,
In different versions.

With these terms,
We have created the gap between neurotypicals and the autistic on our own.
When after all,
A better understanding is all we need to be realistic,
Because we all share the same bones.

So, no two people you meet with autism,
Are categorically the same.
We are a spectrum of many beautiful colours,
And we are all here to play the same game.
There are multiple areas where we can succeed,
And just like you,
Others, where we are not so great.