Thursday, July 31, 2008

Another Good One by Stacey on Autism

As autism organizations and medical professionals alike voice their outrage at inflammatory comments made by controversial talk radio host Michael Savage, about most autistic children simply being "brats," the head of the network that employs him appears to be taking measures to pull out of a public relations tailspin. Savage, who in the past, has taken aim at the legitimacy of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and other behavioral disorders, called autism a "fraud" and a "racket" during his July 16 broadcast, adding that "[i]n 99 percent of the cases, it's a brat who hasn't been told to cut the act out."

Savage's outrageous remarks have Poetry by Stacey coming back at him with a fairly good spanking in the form of the written word:

Mr. Michael. Savage is the only man,
Voicing an opinion like no one can,
Lack of knowledge, causes anger to breed,
Upsetting parents, all part of his deed.

Clearly obvious his brain's not in gear,
He needs a firm kick to be placed on his rear,
Never learning to run before he leaps,
Lack of common sense is what he reeks.

For every parent of an autistic child,
Mr. Savage's radio rant sent them wild,
His callous speech on this neurological disorder,
Showed his true colours, he's out of order.

His claim that Autism is a fraud and a racket,
That parents claim welfare to make a packet,
Insulting these children by calling them brats,
Did he really think anyone would put up with that?

The barrage of insults he continued to use,
Calling them morons this is verbal abuse,
Stating only one percent of cases are real,
The other percentage are acting, he thinks is the deal.

For every child or adult that has this diagnosis,
This condition can give a different prognosis,
Symptoms can range from mild to severe,
But either way it can cause many tears.

Mr. savage needs to be taught the facts,
Learn from the families of those he attacked,
If he looked into the eyes of an autistic child,
The knowledge he'd gain would be worthwhile.

Instead of blaming their mum's and dads,
He should talk to them and learn the facts,
These special kid's parents, will no doubt tell,
Insensitive remarks can make their lives hell.

By Poetry by Stacey

Monday, July 28, 2008

Poetry Potpourri

companion by Rick Mobbs

. Loyalty, from lirone, author of the blog, Words that sing (and they do)

. Bone tree (for Georgia O’keeffe), from Tiel Aisha Ansari author of the blog knocking from inside

. weed it out - half a poem, from gautami tripathy, of firmly rooted

. Beyond the Obvious, by Rose Dewy Knickers, author of the blog live/laugh (or is it Dewy Knickers?)

. Here is The Dog, from Pam, at amputated moon

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Encore! Encore! Just one more Paisley, pleeeze?!

I feel almost mischievous enough to keep posting Paisley's poems so I can re-read them as I type away. She keeps me spellbound.. she just has that way about her.. maybe we're locked in a mind-meld somewhere in another sphere.. okay,, okay,, last one is below entitled Time:

a reprise

it came upon me, as a thief
silently, stealthily.. stealing
my beauty,, my passion,, my dreams,, my desires...
i was swept up from behind,
now i'm caught
i am held fast,,
i am struggling
but the feather like fingers have taken hold..
slowly entwining themselves around my very soul...
coiling,, choking me from within...

I stand motionless... waiting
afraid any movement.. may propel me forward
when all i seek,,
is to go back...
as if i no longer have any control
as if the fates have finally won
and i have lost...
all but what i see...

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Why Paisley?

Why Paisley? Because she'll paint the colors of her soul in words.. and your's, too..

I can't claim to know the back story on Jodi's title for her blog Why Paisley? and it really doesn't matter. I like paisley patterns.. and I wear it well. Had she named her poetry blog Why Plaid? well, I'd have to ask that question myself. Visions of Arnold Palmer and Bob Hope out there in the back 40 of a golf tournament wearing We're-Wild-and-Craaazy-Guyz-in-plaid-pants is enough to last a lifetime, thank you very much. No, when I think of Paisley's poetry I sense the delicate curves of her words; I hear soft-toned murmurings and barely-perceived vibrations flowing through chakra-shocked bruised layers of deep coloring; I see pale swatches of longings, far out of reach, and the streaks of carefully placed tenderness like fingers over braille. Paisley has the ability to get into your mind. She can affect your sensibilities. Paisley is positively.. riveting. Take her following poem Paint me a Picture, written in collaboration with Rick Mobb's painting titled Let Your Tears. See for yourself-

let your tears com
let them water your soul
by eileen mahew

let your tears come,
let them water your soul
let them mix with the ash
of passions fire, grown cold

let them brighten the bruises
let their salt sting the scars
let them fill your lifes palette
let them color your art

let them mix with your blood
and your hurt and your fear-
then paint me a picture
i can see, feel, and hear....

His Love

underneath the stairwell
on the red pleather bean bag chair
she listened to the voices,, and she
could tell that they were mad
she dared not move a muscle
she fought hard not to breathe
she waited for the silence
that told her she could leave
she would sneak up thru the cellar
and out the back porch door
she'd look back and see her mother
lying passed out on the floor
she would whisper, "i fucking hate him.."
and then out the door she'd go...

today had been a good day
she'd got out before the fight
she heard him hit her mother
and hoped she was alright
she knew she couldn't stop him
and trying just made it worse
damn that demon alcohol
in her life it was a curse
tomorrow would be a new day
meek and mild he would be
afraid to lift his eyes up
afraid that he might see
the swollen eyes and cut blue lips
that symbolized his love....

don't blink

our birth marked the end of innocence
a new generation had been born
a time of freedom and drugs and sex
of violence and racism and war
all lines erased, no right, no wrong
tune in, turn on, drop out...

by junior high the lines were drawn
there was no backing down now
the world owed us a living
and the time to collect had come
get out of our way, man, we know what we're doing
and can't hear a word you say...

oh yeah, we walked on the wild side
we pushed it all to the limit
if it don't kill you, it'll make you strong
don't blink now, it'll soon be gone.

tomorrow breaths hard, now, at our napes
in a world so out of control
running amok on paths we fought to tread
what seems like, oh, so long ago
when we saw the world thru youth colored glasses
that we can't find, or we lost, or we sold...

no longer indestructible
not ten feet tall or bullet proof
we bemoan the world we knew back then
when in our youth, we ruled
the scepter passed on long ago
yet no one said a word...

oh yeah, we walked on the wild side
we pushed it all to the limit
if it don't kill you, it'll make you strong
don't blink now, it'll soon be gone

Please follow the linked last line to read the remainder of this poem at Just Paisley?

Nature Has Him in Its Sight - Scot Young

Time to share another poet that captivates my attention and admiration every time I land on his blog. This wonderful poet would be none other than Scot Young who graces the pages of Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers: Lest They be Angels in Disguise with some of the most beautiful and provocative poetry on the web today. Scot's range of subjects that he gets into seems to have no limit; he seems to cruise in hyper-vigilance mode and doesn't let much get by him. His ear is to the wind and he eyes things like an eagle. He reminds me of life seen from the aerie's nest. Nature has him in its sight, although he might jest it's the other way around. Ha! Funny how the Great Spirit seeks out its own; taps the shoulder of its earthly manprey to give a flash of intuition or revelation. Here's examples of what I mean. You gotta love'm!

A Haiku Love Sonnet–

blue-moon.jpg –Waiting for the End of Yesterday

sometimes we travel
deep into this naked night
and see yesterday

eager to reconstruct
bits of a fragmented dream
with lost dialogue

wait for fading light
to kiss the soft of angel
wings warmed by the day

not an easy job
turning the orange sky dark
not an easy job

rearranging the planets
hanging a blue moon

Haiku Sonnet: Ozark County

March 18, 2008


hands held on weathered
glades set with yellow primrose
side step cactus that

stair steps down through oak
scattered woods hidden from noon
day tourists lost and

dodging dirt road ruts
this path leads to our hidden
waterfall off that

ridge spilling into
a shaded pool reflecting
soft blooms of dogwoods

in filtered light we
scratch our names on mossy rocks

Summer Morning #2 Haiku

July 12, 2008

summer morning
silence broken by light
rain on a tin roof

Summer Morning #1 Haiku

July 11, 2008
This is the first of three summer morning haiku from our Ozark hideaway.
summer morning–
yellow swallowtails dance on
wild bee balm


July 3, 2008

I spend my time
collecting stones
large ones for strong corners
flats for the cap
cobbles for plugging
the holes mixed
each day
to hold it strong

I spend my time
collecting stones
working in layers
laying each one to fit
like a puzzle
in this perfect wall
that protects the things
I own
and sometimes own me

I spend my time
collecting stones
set them around this
ancient oak
spreading arching
protects from sun
and storms
built high enough
to dream well under
a marauding moon

I spend my time
collecting stones
my father’s trade
this art passed down
with bleeding hands
fit to chisels
chipping stones
making them fit
sealing it up

I spend my time
collecting stones
but sometimes I
leave one out
of the perfect wall
…… rock removed just
long enough for you
to slip in
before new mortar
is mixed
I cannot tell you
where it is

run your hand slowly
over the surface

do you see it?

Reading these few poems ought to make you feel one with nature; like falling on your back into the tall field grass; ready to dive into a fresh, cold, crisp mountain stream; dive off a high cliff on a hang glider or watch an eagle scope the swoop like Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Oh, WOW. I'm having a John Denver moment! You can, too. Now get yourself over to Scot Young's blog posthaste and have yourself a piece of Scot's delicious naturescape!

Scot lives in Missouri with his wife and 3 daughters. He's a high school principal and finds time to teach graduate classes, and a poetry class beginning with the Beats. Scot can be found both on the internet and in print and his poetry credits include publication in The Beat, Spoken Word, Asphalt Sky, Potpourri, Hemingway's Shotgun and Pleiades.