My autism's a part of me,

But it is apart, you see.

...

Who are you?

With your ‘normal’ view.

Are you just one thing, or are you a person

With thoughts & feelings, that are your own unique version.

Preferences, ideas, talents, and dreams?

That are bound by senses that meet at their seams.

Are you fat, short sighted or visually impaired?

Are you ever wondering why I just stood and stared.

Those may be the things that I saw the first time I meet you,

But you’re more than just your ‘normal’ diagnosis…. True?

As an adult, you have control over how you’re defined.

Your normality means your perceptions are refined.

So why would you single out one characteristic of mine that you can make known.

As a child, I am still unfolding, I’m not fully grown.

Neither you nor I yet know of what I am capable.

If you think of me as just one thing, then one thing’s inescapable.

You run the danger of assuming I have no chance of achieving.

And my heightened senses know this, it’s only you you’re deceiving

For I am not endowed with any ordinary sense.

You need to know this before I commence.

You take for granted sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

Never once realising that these things can be as painful as hell

For me.

You see.

My world often feels hostile, and makes me so fearful.

I may appear withdrawn or belligerent, whilst others are cheerful.

Or mean to you, or antagonistic,

Defending myself, then going ballistic.

You tell me we’re going on a trip to the shops

And out of the world my safety net instantly drops.

My hearing, you see, is hyper acute.

But I’m put in the car, though I loudly refute.

At the shops, walls of people jabber and whoop.

The loudspeaker booms and adds to the soup.

Music blares and lashes and whooshes.

Tills beep and cough, a coffee grinder swooshes.

The meat cutter screeches, a baby starts wailing,

I’m starting to malfunction and am rapidly flailing

As trolleys pass creaking, and fluorescent lights hum.

I’m starting to panic, but also turn numb.

My brain can’t filter the input, the voltage is massive

I’m in overload with no chance of staying passive.

My sense of smell is stratospheric.

That fish on the counter is NOT atmospheric.

The man in front hasn’t showered today,

That Stilton cheese – someone take it away!

A baby goes past, it’s ***** needs changing.

Things are going faster and turning deranging

They’re mopping up pickles on aisle two with some bleach and a rag.

My stomach is churning, and I’m starting to gag..

And there’s so much hitting my eyes!

This trip has turned into the world's worst surprise.

The fluorescent light

Is not only too bright,

it’s that flicker.

The space seems to be moving, getting quicker and quicker.

The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or saying, or being.

There are too many items for me to be able to focus.

The world starts to drain me of my internal locus.

My eyes try to compensate by tunnelling my vision

Fans on the ceiling, twist my senses into nuclear fission.

All this affects how I feel just standing there,

and I can’t even tell where my body is in space, do I care?

You’re yelling at me now, and shaking my shoulder

But the fiery fog is down and is starting to smoulder

It isn’t that I don’t want to hear your instruction.

I just can’t understand, due to mass self-destruction.

You're shouting now, but what does "£$%^&&% NOW! !£$%^&*" mean?

My senses will **** me in a collusion so obscene.

Once we’re back at the kids home, it all feels less absurd.

And now when you speak, I can hear every word.

Simple instructions, that I know off by heart.

And I cling onto these so I won’t fall apart.

You tell me what you want me to do next and I’m able to reply.

Now I’m happy and it’s easy for me to comply.

Now I’m OK and I’m running about

And performing my ritualised songs, which I shout.

Then a visitor grabs me saying, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” – This means danger!

I can’t stop the horses, I’m me, not the Lone Ranger!

And I’m thrown into panic when what you mean is, “Stop running.”

But I don’t know that! Those stampeding horses are coming!!

That’s my life, you see, it’s not “a piece of cake”

When there’s no dessert in sight and you’ve made a mistake.

When you say, “its pouring cats and dogs,” I see pets flooding from the sky.

Tell me, “It’s raining hard,” so I won’t fear the animals will die.

Puns, sarcasm and allusion

Simply generate confusion.

Tell me facts and keep things clear

So I can live, yet not in fear.

It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when my senses are reeling

When I don’t have a way to describe what I’m feeling.

I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or perplexed.

But I can’t find the words, and lash out, angry and vexed.

Be alert for my body language, or my gestures and obsessions

Then you’ll handle my feelings like your own treasured possessions.

Watch out for me compensating for not knowing the right word

By mimicking my favourite film star, or something just as absurd.

Rattling off words or whole scripts, which will leave you confounded

That I’ve memorised from Disney, because they make me feel grounded.

They may come from the TV, or speeches, or a book

And though they make people give a funny look

I just know that saying them gets me off the hook.

Show me, show me! I’m visual, you see.

And I’ll understand rather than you just telling me.

And be prepared to show countless times.

I’m listening, despite my ritualised rhymes.

Visual supports help me move through my day.

They relieve me of the stress and I feel OK.

I don’t have to remember what’s happening next

For I operate on a visual text.

This makes for smooth transitions in my life

And we’ll finally progress without anger or strife.

I need to see something to learn it, because spoken words are like steam to me;

They evaporate before my mind's eye, and are gone instantly,

Before I even have a chance to make sense of them,

They've died in the ether, leaving me in mayhem.

I don’t have instant-processing skills.

Instructions and information are my life giving pills

Images can stay in front of me for as long as I need,

and will be just the same in years, for they'll never recede.

Without visual help, I live the constant frustration

of knowing that I’m missing big blocks of information,

Not to mention falling short, by being a misfit

And I'm helpless to do anything about it.

Unlike other people, I'm unable to learn

If it's normal interaction for which you do yearn.

I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough

And people are stern and people are tough.

They think I need taking in hand and need fixing.

Never knowing the world and my brain are tranfixing

I avoid trying any new things, for I'm sure I'll get 'dissed'

And another grown up will be angry and get 'real ******'.

But no matter how “constructive” you think you’re being.

Look for my strengths, though they're hard for the seeing.

There is more than one right way to do most things.

It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the swings

But it may be that I simply do not know how to start

They just think I'm weird, and set me apart.

Teach me how to play with others.

Remove my autistic shrouded covers.

Encourage other children to invite me along.

They might learn something of value from my life's different song.

And rather than spend my day as separate, secluded.

I might show an ethereal delight at being included.

I do best in games that have a clear beginning and end.

Random play is something my fears won't transcend.

And just one other thing, a sort of confession

I cannot interpret a ****** expression

Or body language, or other peoples' emotion

So in group situations I'm resigned to demotion.

I want to learn, I want you to teach me.

Reach into my mind and help me to see.

If I laugh when Tommy falls off the climbing frame,

It’s that I don’t know what to say, nastiness isn't to blame

Talk to me about Tommy’s feelings and teach me to say,

“Are you hurt, Tommy, I'll get teacher, then you'll be okay?”

If you don't I'll meltdown or blow-up, and get in a stew

And this is a thousand times worse for me than for you.

For my mind will go into overload

My sense of equilibrium will start to off-road.

For I'm well past the limit of my social ability.

As those off road lights glare at my own disability.

If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented

And my behaviours will abate, less frequently lamented.

Keep notes about me and a pattern may emerge.

As your understanding of me will gradually converge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication.

It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to each situation.

My behavior may have a physical cause.

Think for a moment, just have a pause.

Food allergies and sleep problems can affect my behaviour.

Just look for signs, for you might be my Saviour.

Because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

That blunt my affect and cause my mood swings.

Throw away thoughts like, “If you would just—” and “Why can’t you—?”

You didn’t fulfill every expectation your parents had either, that's true.

And would you like to witness a constant rewind.

Of the traumatic deficits by which you're defined?

I didn’t choose to have autism.

Or to live with this division

Remember that it’s happening to me, not to you.

But without understanding, my chances remain few.

With love and support, my horizons are broader

But I can't live my life by other peoples order.

Patience. Patience. Patience, are the three words we need to live by

For my dreams to be reached, and my confidence fly.

View my autism as a different ability

Rather than as a freak show disability.

Look past what you may see as limitations and feel for my strength

I may not be good at eye contact or conversations of length

But have you noticed that I don’t lie, or cheat at a game

Or pass judgment on people, and make them to blame?

I rely on you, if you can make me your personal vocation

All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation.

Be my advocate, be my guide

Be my strength, stand at my side.

Love me for who I am, and not what you know

And we’ll see just how far I can go.

Matt Revans 2014
©Copyright

Did i got squashed?
A dog is on the rush,
Right behind me,
Quick glance
To another man
A painting and a brush,
Needed to get washed.
But please, hush.
Then a little shun, a **** whooshes,
Woke me up from my dream.
Monster crashes,
To my face,
The morning gleam.

Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly,

Hovering above the clovered knoll,

Swaying like wheat in speckled sun.

Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream,

The bleating goats exchange existential crises,

Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset.

Behind me,

In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts,

Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak

Rekindle and animate in the orange beams.

I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter.

A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain.

Somebody loves me.

Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.

Dragonfly, flying
against the wind; that
whooshes and whooshes.

they say that there are things that you can never unsee
images forever burned into the folds of your brain
and yet I think that there are even more things that you can’t unhear
those things that you want to drown out with music you didn’t even know you had

like that song you’ve just found
and it is new to you and the words may not be that clear for now
but a part of you understands
a part of you feels the string of notes every single moment that song lasts
a part of you understands somehow

like cars passing by the street outside your house at midnight
they are mere whooshes in your dreamlike state
their lights stay for too little of a time
and you can’t help but wonder
of where they are rushing to or what place they go home to
whooshes on cement carrying stories you will never know

like the little crack of disappointment in a relative’s voice
when they learn that you want to be something other than what they want you to be
and you try to laugh it off
but it’s a sting you never thought you would feel again after all this time
and then suddenly how well you’ve been doing doesn’t seem to matter
every single time you thought your smiles could reach the sky doesn’t seem to matter
because how can achievements in a path they disapprove of be something to be proud of?
how can something you fit better into feel wrong?

like the soft ripping of a paper envelope as it’s opened
and you’ve been tense for months about this one thing
and here it is in black and white and colors you wanted to associate with a new beginning
but instead it is all of what your worrying nagged you about
it is the words of the voice in your head printed out on thin paper
here is where the world feels like it drops
the only sound is of the letter being put back into its envelope
gently willing it to disappear

like the silence of someone after you speak
and you hear everything else like a click of a pen or a shifting of positions
your mind runs over a hundred, a thousand things
maybe they didn’t hear what you said?
maybe they don’t want to talk about it?
maybe they don’t get what you’re saying?
maybe you should start a new conversation?
you understand that silence should not be regarded as something bad
but here you are
choked by the possibility of them thinking you’re annoying
and that voice tells you to shut up
however the silence makes nerves tumble out of your mouth
why can’t you stop?

like the dull tapping of your fingertips on a keyboard
it’s been a while since you’ve allowed yourself this
months of pushing down the emotions that tug at you
and all you want to do is punch the words out of you
but there is nothing in the muddle that used to serve you so well
there is nothing because the thought of doing this pulls you deeper into the abyss
how you loved doing this before the world decided to tell you you do it wrong
you may have said that this was a part of you
and it is now another part you have lost

like the short bursts of shouting that you hear every time you take out your earphones
and you are reminded yet again why you keep them in
you are so tired of the voices, so tired of the fighting
you hear the scrape of the dining room chair you’re in as you push away after a meal
and you know too well that that is the last sound you want to hear outside of the music you blast
sometimes you think about how a lot can be different if only some events did not happen
and it is cruel to think that but you do it all the same
life had been peaceful before
now ruined by something you don’t have control over anymore

like the soft music at a small gathering
and there is laughter and glasses clinking and the shuffle of everyone’s steps
you block out that thought in your head that digs its claws
but as soon as you are driving home and staring at the streetlights
everything hits you at 50 miles an hour
you wonder how long your smile stayed there
you wonder if anybody sees it falter
and you can’t even explain to anyone why this happens
because you don’t know the answer yourself

like the constant questions
about why you want to do this or why you’re like this
asking about what you’ve decided on after years of confusion and debates with yourself
and they are too curious, too questioning of how you came upon those decisions
they try to offer explanations of what they think can be better for you
and it is like they do not trust you to know what is best for yourself
they think that what you want and the way you identify yourself isn’t what should be
and all your life you’ve been told that you can’t be this and you can’t do that
so now what should you be?

like the thud thud of your tears on a pillow
and you don’t even know where it hurts anymore
all you know is that when you hold that plushie you’ve had forever
a thousand pinpricks run along your arms and your chest
breathing will never be easy and here you are
too aware of the sound of choking back your cries
because there are things that the world doesn’t have to know
and one of them is how there are days you fracture
after weeks of not even knowing what it is exactly to feel

like the goodbyes after a few hours of talking in a cramped café
you know you’ll see them again but there is an emptiness as you go home
a part of you acknowledges the fact that they aren’t that far away
another part feels the longing for another hour, another hug
you know of each other’s schedules and how it is not practical to keep meeting up
but you want to cling to something other than your pillows and your wavering sanity
and having them with you has helped in a way that you miss instantly
as you are once again plunged into the reality of it all

it is the clock ticks as you wait for something to end
it is the steadying breath you take as you reel yourself back from the hell of your thoughts
it is the song you now use as a lullaby when your system refuses sleep
it is the drum of rain against windows as you try to find yourself again

there are sounds I will never unhear
and there will be days that I can’t stand to be me
but there will be sounds that pull me back
there are days that I continue to fight the voices
and that is what I should always remember.

The boom of artillery roars in my ears.
A deadly projectile whooshes over my head,
Slamming into the luckless soul behind me,
And heavy feet beat out a rhythmless tattoo.

Men - are they warriors, soldiers?  Gladiators?
They shout encouragement to their comrades,
And screech obscenities at their adversaries.
Reduced to savages, they are consumed by bloodlust.

Something lands nearby.  
It strikes the ground, bounces, rolls to my feet.
“Get it!” someone cries out desperately.
A grenade?  I lunge, lift it up, hurl it away.

The battle rages on, the artillery still booms,
Men still shout.  I want to run, to hide,
But I can only wait for it all to end
When basketball ends at 12:35.

We are human
Walking traumas
Left untreated
Open wounds
Being leeched
To treat
The wrong fever
It is incongruous
Being inoculated
Against the wrong disease
Vaccinated with apathy
So we don’t feel
The sores that bleed

But you have to laugh

We are mortal
Not merely men
Nor women
More like
All the things
Around and in-between
Searching
Sub-consciously
For peace
Trying to sustain ourselves
While losing
Everyone else
Crying

But you have to laugh

We are little boxes of flesh
Lego people made to fit together
Chipped
Scratched
Lost and found
Each stress tearing at our flesh
Rending our skin
Like a thresher
Building internal and external pressure
Till we need release
****** and or emotional

But you have to laugh

Ready to cry
Sometimes
We are ready to die
Till the brain twitches
Till the broken switches
Leave you in stiches
And you see something strange
Irony or absurdity
Life twisted in its purity
On the verge of exploding
Not really knowing
But something hits
Something fits
Presses the right button
Slapstick
Stupidity
Intellectual curiosity
Sanity flipped on its heels

But you have to laugh

A chortle a choking gasp
The tension breaks
The air whooshes past
You have no control
You have to laugh
The world doesn’t change
Much
The feelings are still there
But with each laugh
It gets easier to bare
It’s a chemical reaction
With endorphins and stuff
But I don’t think you care
It’s just what you needed
To fight off the despair

So I say it again you have to laugh

then from the grimy floor
of the lavender fields' portaloo swells
an endless summer, and it creeps
up the blood orange walls;
each time i take a breath,
the plastic warbles like an underwater thing
we make little whooshes together  
it swells up and leaks out yellow

like i fear the girl's head will,
across the road,
all shaved and shiny like a soft boiled egg
fit to crack if the wrong car swerves
the wrong way...
anyway,
cancer?
at such a young age?

or the bees outside
springing up cushions,
decorative soaps, honey,
chocolate even out there from the earth
and i can't kick back and laugh
at how much they must be worth
because my god-

i'm scared of bees-

especially with the lavender
mingling with the sweat
in the soft part behind my knees
because what if they chose to stick there
and build empires from my flesh instead?

i'd be like that little girl;
as good as

anyway
sometimes my thighs conduct
like they're made of brass
and there's hail marys in the dust
tiny earthquakes caused by trucks
the tip of an ice cream cone
that isn't soggy

that's good enough

i stayed a little longer
than the trickle did

I'm empty of everything that early in the morning. No sleep, no hunger, no profound instinctual compulsions that you'd guess live deep in the bowels of the morning, when only the least complex form of each person exists. When it's that dark and that quiet, the heart is the only thing that matters.
          I breathe, but each breath whooshes like wind through one open window and out the other. There's no substance in there; lungs don't catch and hold on. My chest moves hollowly, mechanically, as if it's some household appliance running incessantly. Like a light bulb glowing in a deserted house.
          My eyes stare anywhere, at anything, at darkness and nothingness and up through space and time into worlds where each speck of dust is an infinite entity. I'm restless, too hot under normally snug covers, my arms wanting to reach out and grab hold of something more substantial than what I have. Have you ever had that feeling? Of just wanting to reach out, out, out into the atmosphere, farther, longer, feel the power reverberating through your arm, and feel the stretch of your muscles and tendons? My cheeks burn--I know they're red.
          I turn onto my side, I stare out the window, I watch the murky orange-pink of the streetlight far away, slightly blurred by the ***** glass.
          My stress is tangible, emanating out of my body, filling the air with a cloud of decay, stifling me in my bed. I reach up and touch the ceiling, less than 2 feet above my head, feeling trapped, my temples are a newly tumble-dried button-down shirt firmly pressed under an iron. I'm aching, and it's all my fault.
          My dreams have been wispy, morning haze, almost indistinguishable from real life. Reminders.

And then the snow came,
Covered the world in white.
A music box of listless thoughts
like pictures out of frame.

It whooshes by so swift,
so quick and beautiful.
One side of the street is slow.
The other is fast.
Opposing ends,
cations.
Magnets,
pulling, tearing,
into one beautiful waltz of latewinter hurrah.
It is so beautiful because not a sole has touched its fall.
Perfectly ****** and smooth.
It is infinity,
never-ending
and terrifying.
Only until the morning breaks
and the people will scuttle from their perches and they will tread
all over its happy white sheet.
What a shame when the morning comes.
Let it stay like this forever.
It is all white
Turbulent
fast
scary
blurry
Nowhere, not anywhere will you see a tread.
It is perfect and always.
It brings me closer to myself
and further from all else.
It won't require a signature
and it doesn't run out of ink.
It is suppliant and healthy.
It will always be.
However, it will melt when the sun beats down.
The sun will come and **** the core.
It will shun out all of my comforts and leave me to be where I want to be the least.
God of night,
shun that terrible sun. Let it be gone forever.
Never let it find me.
Forever hold me in your embrace.
Fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall
forever and ever more.
From heaven to earth
the designated gift from God.
Down from the fat lady into our palms
fall fall fall fall
churn my mind water, churn my dreams.
Me, on the ground.

There is a light in the distance. So small and halogen.
It is amber to the core.
A siren in the storm.
Hearth of the madness.
Half-moon of serenity.

Oh I will never understand my words.
Never will I begin to learn my meaning.
What what what does it mean?
I never will understand.

God, what a great and terrible beauty.
What the hell have I done to you?
You were perfect and now a mess.
It is all my undoing. Why have I done it?

Please forgive me.
Or let me learn,

Let there be light tomorrow. Forget this night.

Now I can never stop, for it never stops.
Why should they be mutually exclusive?
I cannot rest until it is gone.
IT WILL NEVER BE GONE.
I can never get proper sleep.
I SHALL FOREVER BE A SHELL.

Sleep, says the amber half-moon.
Sleep and let all your troubles fall like a cell in the storm.
Let your mind be lost in the drift of snow.

Amidst the mosaic
of fall’s vibrant finale,
in motley piles of brown,
red, and green
she performs each of her steps
like a frantic symphony,
stomping a storm of leaves
onto the street- each one
crumbling and crackling
beneath her feet.
She laughs with limbs flailing,
leaf bits sailing
in the cool November air.
She pushes and kicks,
whooshes and picks the perfect
spot of soil for her creation.

Once her leafy
blanket has piled high,
she takes a few steps back,
breaths in, and dives.

I look down from blue skies on high.
Birds fly,
And sing.
Clouds make their rounds.
Shifting shapes,
Take the form of peace,
Content with itself.
The wind whooshes and whirls my hair.
I smile at its gentle caress,
Happy to receive an old friend.
Together we surf the heavens,
Bid our greetings
And farewells,
To the Gods above.
Feeling safe and protected.

Arching across the firmament,
I become separated from the wind.
Frantic,
I search the sky for any sign
Of my wayward friend.
I ask of the birds:
"Do you yet glide upon the breeze?"
"No," said they,
"We must flap and flap
Just to stay a flight."
Worried,
I look down at the clouds;
Still moving,
Shapes still.
...
And dark.
So... Dark.
Lights flashed within.
A terrible boom sounded,
Causing me to loose focus on my peace,
Leaving me to fall downward,
Ever downward towards the raging storm.
Panicked, I yell to the Gods in the heavens:
"Please, I have lost the wind,
And without it,
I am left to plummet!"
I was scared.
Would the Gods save me?
Would the wind?

My prayers unanswered,
I plunged into the abyss.
My hairs stood on end
As electricity arced.
The sound of thunder,
Deafened my ears,
Leaving a hollow ringing,
Screaming,
Thinking it's the end I begin
To sing:
"Above the clouds I knew peace,
Tranquility,
The love of friends,
And songs of birds.
I was free to smile,
And happy with my lot,
High above the human rot;
But now I fall.
The Gods too cruel.
The wind is gone;
And storms duel.
If this is the end,
Then perhaps I will rise again."

As the last lyric left my lips,
I broke through the clouds,
Fighting off hail and sleet,
As I spun out of control.
Rain began to soak me,
Leaving me shriveled
And wrinkled,
As if I'd aged a century.
I can see the earth now;
My sweet mother,
Who had nurtured me,
And taught me to soar.
She too was also sodden.
Rivers flooded the ground.
Trees were being torn from their footing.
Lightning struck repeatedly.
A blinding cacophony,
That left dark scars on her skin.

Humans ran where'd they could.
Some climbed mountains,
Other dug into her flesh.
Parasitic cowards,
Unwilling to face their fate.
Their greed and avarice
Were what led me to the skies,
All that time ago,
When I cried to the great mother:
"They take and take and take,
Yet never do they give to you.
Once they worshiped you
With offerings of laurel
And incense.
Now they insist upon stealing your life."
Warmly, she brushed away my tears,
Saying:
"My dear nymph,
They know not what they do.
Just like you,
They too are searching for peace.
Though, they are not a part of me;
They do not pray to the Gods.
They do not dance with the trees.
They do not sing with the birds.
They do not blow with the breeze.
Much like lightning,
They are static,
And ever racing.
Life is a competition they feel they must win,
Regardless of the cost."

As the memory faded,
So too did that feeling of falling.
Looking around,
I saw light that was bright,
Instead of dark.
Clouds parted to shine brilliant rays,
Pristine,
A rainbow curved over a mountain top,
And birds sailed once more in leisure.
Looking down,
I see that I'm floating
Just inches from the ground.
Then feel just the slightest cool kiss
Brush across my cheek:
"My friend! You've returned!
And not a moment too soon!
For if you had been just a single second later,
I would have reunited with the mother,
Six feet under."
A new smile bloomed on my lips,
Relieved to be alive,
Yet also sad to see the state of Gaia;
Flooded and scarred.
She was unrecognizable.

I whispered to the wind:
"Set me down dear breeze,
For I must commune with the forest,
And help heal the damage
Caused by murderous men."
Unexpectedly, the wind lifted me up,
But not towards the heavens.
No,
The wind raced me to the nearest mountain;
Rainbow still curved over,
Where the humans huddled
In their ragged masses.
Stricken, I fought against the wind,
Wanting only to fall again:
"Those men and those women,
Threw me away so long ago.
They made me feel such pain and sorrow
As they hewed my forest
To satisfy their insatiable hunger,
Forgetting those days of peace,
Where nymphs helped lost humans,
And humans composed beautiful poems
About nymphs.
... And their great mother."

The wind did not listen,
Setting me down in the center of the pestilence.
I cowered,
Wondering why my friend
Would act so cruel?
The humans around me shied away.
Some yelled "demon".
Others "fiend".
I cried then,
Feeling other than,
And yelled at them:
"Stay away you barbaric heathens,
I will not let you cut me again!
Nor witness you harm my mother!"
Then, I felt the wind...
It nudged me towards a crying child.
She wasn't much taller than myself.
I felt... empathy for it.
Together we cried tears of fear,
And sorrow;
Both victims of life's losses.
Mine, in the past.
Hers, in the present.
Sobbing, I asked her:
"Why do you cry young one?"
She wailed:
"I lost my mommy!"
My tears redoubled as I said:
"I too have lost my mother,
But it is not the same.
You see, dear child,
I have been watching my mother die
For far longer than you have lived,
Or will live.
So do not cry.
Instead, go offer some incense and laurel
To the spirit of Gaia;
Pray to the Gods.
Dance with trees.
Sing with birds.
Blow in the breeze.
Find peace in nature as your people once did,
And compose a poem for me,
To read in Elysium.
...
If you do this,
A mother you will find.
I know, because I asked the Pythia,
Long ago,
In a different time."

You were once
A random etcetera,
Woman I hardly knew;
Best friend I always wished for
Muse I always dreamed of,
You came into focus  
Out of the blur,
Now you are my synonym
And the world is our antonym,
Let's become an onomatopoeic,
Sound of joy,
Two drops dripping upon the waters,
A splash a spray or sprinkle
Whooshes in the breeze,
Fluttering flags of independence,
A sign for all to see,
Two souls united  
Inseparable hearts,
Beating as one
To a tune all our own,
If we inspire before we expire,
Let no one extinguish this fire...
© okpoet

A happy song plays in a happy home
Hums of the chorus along with sound of the chores

Unceasing noise of laughter
Clatter of children's games

Sitting together in the balcony
Breeze beats at their talkative face

Nonchalant old stories of shaking voices
Whooshes of the fast moving fan

Girls laughing elegantly
at their mischevious plan

This is the story of a happy family
Oblivious to what trauma could be

In the same home where there is no gloom
Where colorful and variety of flowers bloom

Also stays the little princess who sits and weeps
Witnessing the false face of a doublefaced creep.

A catamaran whooshes past
Epilogued by the propeller with which it steers
Marking each and every ripple
Without hesitation, without fear
I'll take the next wave

Twisting wind whooshes,
Thunderstorm’s uncontrolled fits;
Town and country floats!

I told myself,
when I got in-country,
I'd fake it,
act like a saint,
do enough
just to survive.
'Cause in reality,
I didn't really want to hurt
anybody.
Well, so I thought.
When I heard my first explosions,
felt a few whooshes,
experienced some automatic rounds
whizzing
just overhead,
so close,
nearby,
I thought
what the ****,
I want some blood,
those ******* are
really trying to ruin
my ******* day
by killing me.

When the night silently whooshes
Over the sky,
It becomes that time of day,
The time to recline
And watch Dwayne Chapman and friends
Apprehend the wanted and charged
In the Hawaiian splotches of land.
Every cut to commercial
Happens at the ****** of each episode,
Starving the soul for what might happen...
When really the cut-scene continues
With less action than Beth, Dwayne,
Leland, Sonny, Cleo,
And Baby Lyssa may stir before a break.
Cars, cameras, and people
Move in hot-pursuit.
And thus the setting of the TV series
Isn't the only dimension
Captured.

There’s a bright white light
crack in the dull gray clouds
today.

The collection of cars
that cruise by
are louder then
the winding wind
that whooshes through
the empty trees.

No leaves
that I can see
on those wild dancing trees
but the buds on their limbs
are already starting to bloom.

Now these day clouds
hang heavy
ready
to release
their dark gray
rain loads.

I wait for the water,
but I shouldn’t have bothered.
The clouds merely tease
but never release
a single drop for me.

Sometimes it takes the sky to open my eyes
To what's shone, coming and wrong,
To what's bright, rich and right
Sometimes in the emptiness of the night
when I lie awake to your choir of snores,
I chase the Devils of idyllic futures and more,
I hear me in them, in laments of glory, such songs,
and watch the warm creep by from feelings thought ever gone,
it ends,
yet when I truly wake to the scarlet rise
through the smog and maze on the horizon
I realize that in the center of concrete bushes,
as the wind of doubt whoosh whooshes,
I'm standing awake in the circle of change and growth
And I've waded through the black sludge of failures malicious moat,
and now I see me
as the dirt's swill stills
and I look upon my face
for the first time without distaste
and know that between this mud
and the roaring horizons blaze
stands a champion here present,
self made.

Twas partly on account
of yours truly being incarnation of Samson;
spouse and I wed
please fate, don't say alopecia didst tread;
though atheist to higher power
yours truly pled
heart sank analogous
to plumbline made of lead
as each strand falls out of my head
without being replaced by another,
albeit veritable dead
cells comprised once luscious locks.

Futile effort to bemoan
underperforming hair follicles,
nevertheless I rank as just one
limey, measly, and nasally outlier,
(nevertheless able bodied, minded
and spirited wordsmith) doth dare
to express honest to dog distress;
Now tis lament to thinning hair,
yours truly doth beseech cosmic creator

donned as devil in disguise
rudely barging into
mine Scottish tartan matted lair
non-responsive to fervent prayer
revealing how mine paternal
genealogical trunk mane lion
whooshes like a red bull at lightspeed
vis a vis tempus fugit
galloping manic tear.

Early this year
gentle as calm ocean waters
lapping along a weir
thumb and forefinger
of right hand would peel back,
(via diagonally flipping motion
asper turning pages of calendar
representing father time
regarding personification and progression)
of fleeting seconds, minutes, days,...

gets flipped over to veer
in one direction (linear)
thy head immediately
lost hirsute thickness,
I starkly share and lament
those suffering male
or female pattern baldness,
and can't hope noticing
limp decreasing strands
intermixed with increasing

number of gray ones
sends shivers along small hairs of spine,
gloomy feeling linkedin
with old fashioned meaning of queer
really ambling along tragicomic stream,
he evinced how gargoyles mockingly leer
in conjunction dreams fraught
with frightful haunting monsters jeer
loosing sleep and kept raggedly awake
ring sound reverberating

hair splitting, jump/
kick starting decibel jamming
primary cranial gear
aye tell mice elf nothing to fear...,
yet maximizing this plight with poem 'ere
Yukon also temporarily part
blond, brown, gold,
et cetera locks mud dear
regarding inexplicable
rhyme without reason

invites compulsion, fixation, obsession...
why keratinous filament
growing out of the epidermis
(made of dead, keratinized cells)
matters so much, that one
unnamed garden variety generic
**** sapiens would
rather be dead than bald.

Raining.
The soft delicate eye drops fall from the clouds. They are silent, until moment of impact.
Raining.
Despite the randomness of their descent their explosions against windows and such create a unique tune, a consistent sound near impossible to simply imitate. It calms me. Though the drops my freeze my skin they warm my heart, and relax my mind.
Raining.
Just add a little and it’ll trap kids inside, and water a garden. Add just a bit more and suddenly it becomes more powerful, destructive, dangerous- the soft pit-pat becomes replaced with gigantic WHOOSHES and CRASHES and it sweeps through and leaves nothing useful in its wake what was once merely a subtle nuisance has now become a harbinger of loss.
Raining.
While one place takes in the peace and quiet, the other receives hateful waves.
Raining.
It’s almost as if something- or someone- is crying.

The Robin’s egg blue

Of the pillow

I have in headlock

Is slightly too chipper

For the blue

Reflected upon my face


The oscillating fan

Gently whirring

In the background

Blowing

Smalls whooshes of air

That send shivers up my spine


While I sit there

Limbs wrapped

Around the blue pillow

In a cool embrace

Longing

For the warmth of his touch

That familiar foam
Spits
Tumbles
Bubbling up
Whooshes
When we were young
When I am old
Gritty feet
Salty nose
Bluest blue
But that’s not all
Some murky green too
Gulls overhead
Weeds down below
Watch for the flash
As the sun dips low

Chirps, Tweets, Whooshes and Hurrahs!
Making words to capture sounds:
Onomatopoeia.
Making words to capture feelings:
I hear ya! I Love ya! I See ya!

Sounds of birds,
Sounds of wind,
Spontaneous sounds of Joy—
We make up words to capture them,
To sing the Rapture that’s within,
With Rapture, play, employ.

Chirp! Chirrup! Tweet, tweet, tweet;
Woosh! Sigh! Whistle! Roar!
Give cheery Highs!
To the birds that fly,
The wind that bends and rises,
To the One and Only Consciousness
That Enlightens and Surprises.

Sounds of feet—tap, tap, tap.
Sounds of laughs—Ha, Ha. Ha.
Sounds of water—gurgle, murmur, roar.
We sing to the birds, the wind, the streams,
To the ocean and its shores.

We sing to footsteps, laughter, stones,
To trees, to leaves, to butter, batter, fences, thrones.
Sharing our rhythm: Clap, clap, clap;
Sharing our tune: Ah, Ah, Ah;
Sharing our Love, our songs, our poems.

Nature is kind:
She responds with a tweet,
With a murmur, a flutter, a swoop and a dart,
With Wit and with Love, and with Art.

With Play and with Glow,
With fast and with slow,
With waving, with bending, with sways, and with Silence, with Magic, with Loving, with Flow.

We know She’s our Mother.
There is no other,
She responds with Love, Play and Flow.

She responds with Love, Play and Flow.

.

she had a mind like a brushfire
ate the testicles of men at a glance
and knew how to foreplay
my weaknesses like loaded dice
Gingiva Racklehaus AKA The Tarantula
had me in a state of moral exhaustion
in an emaciated Assyrian odyssey
laced into the spokes of her chariot
I know she won't always have
the sickle moon *** she has now
and made that scientific analysis known
people who are honest are always in trouble
but I needed her help to get out on parole
having been caught collaborating
with the lead in my pencil
handwriting analysis gave me up
darkness blends with truth
confessing under a barber's hot comb
to nothing but having looked at the stars
you can't put a fence around that
being the only ethical conclusion
I tried a last ditch gambit
but she liked living with a gun to my head
demonstrably much more than I did
because it amuses me is no answer
gimme your brains cowboy
or I'll blow them across the room
she had already cut out my heart
blew it up like a rubber balloon
my prayers did absolutely nothing
and I go shopping for an online exorcist
as it whooshes about the room
upsetting the cat shocking the monkey
and giving the turtle spasms of mania
which for him and his hard umbrella
was a slowly unfolding historic epoch
but I knew who my hard umbrella was
and sent a signal out on Ginger's web
the response was back lickety split
answering the age old question
where do we hide the body
but in plain sight so here I am
I amused her and we married
even a sociopath will enlist
after an *** kicking by the Gods
we're all hungry for a new day after all
so by all means don't **** your TV
leave in on full volume until
the snow makes you smart
failing that give it to someone
who knows how to make it work
to read a civilization's spoor sign

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon

Sometimes I think beautiful thoughts
in words of story and prose and poem
I think these come from the ether
and yet they appear at times
competing with Presence
I am seen each time
and that one seen can fall away
Just scales shedding thickly
now leaving only tender almost like raw flesh
gleaming with translucent light
Tell me a future as you have spoken this past
Are we not always right here and right now?
Can we not correct this time error soon?
This is how I know is it not the mind -
the mind would have this hand print different words
Yet spirit whooshes through it all
blowing over every opposition
because I promised

A classic car
turquoise

blue
with chrome

WHOOSHES

by in futuristic
flurry

it's style and make
now

etched in my mind
as well as a desire

to go back to
a time

when things were
simple

and all it takes is
fifteen seconds

to make your claim
of fame

with me

Whit Howland © 2020

i could never touch anyone with holy hands
with sacred blood dripping onto my feet

i could touch someone with hateful hands though
these tortured hands that i never chose in the first place

some say God isn’t real
but i see, hear, smell, feel Him EVERYWHERE,
EVERYWHERE He walks, every path His holy feet tread

He didn’t give me holy hands
but He gifted me a holy heart
a heart that loves every little inconsistency in humanity’s despair-filled eyes
and maybe i don’t like myself too much
but that’s because my heart is too holy
to brave my ugly touch

good souls live on, but so do bad ones
sadly
death lives on and life dies

my unholy hands will never be able to strip death from my skin
not even my holy heart could conjure up enough power to defeat such a tough barrier
   but maybe if i tried to find death, she wouldn’t want me to discover her

the buzz in my ear settles when i step foot in the garden i cultivated
out of my love for tranquility
i trace the water with my ***** fingers
and i replenish the desperate and diffident soul inside of me
clearing the scabs i collected from the hail storm
the rain never comes after
the clouds just stay dark, hovering around me
the clearing in the forest is just from demolition sites
the unholy hands of stone cold zombies chopped down these evergreen trees
holy hands could never do such a barbaric thing

some still say God isn’t real
but how can He not be
when i see Him in the wind, in the whispering creek, in the mountainsides, in the gold mines, in my mind, in the garden i cultivated myself with my two impious hands?

how can He not be real
when i hear Him in the silence, in the ruckus, in the schoolyard, in the pigeons flying across the city scapes, in my sister’s voice, in waterfalls, in “i love your outfit” compliments?

how can He not be real
when i have a holy heart?
who gave me these ventricles
these blood vessels, if not Him?
who gave me this haven, this place for my fears to be put to rest?
who sheltered my body when i was a complete mess, if not Him?
who never struck down on innocent men
but taught them how to enter the place of rest to inhabit for when their bodies are too frail?
how can He not be real?
you tell me

my holy heart will never shatter, will never be stomped on
by a bitter boy with blue eyes and a bad bearing
his fiendish hands shriek with iron vines cast upon his knuckles
in desperation, in trepidation, in complete and utter fear
i wish i could heal him with the touch of my hands
but they are unholy
and they aren’t worthy

i can place him in my garden, feeling God in every breeze that whooshes across the lawn
he’s asking, “why does this place feel so familiar?”

“i’m not sure,” i mumble as i clutch my chest, feeling my holy heart beat warmly for the first time in the longest time.