In the Game of Life:Kyler Murray

In the Game of Life, Kyler Murray
By Ann WJ White, BA and MEd, Teacher of Children of the Rainbow.

https://whiteawjwords.com/2019/04/30/in-the-game-of-life:kyler-murray/

Why are men so afraid of a child grown to
adulthood because of the brown hues of his skin?
By the talent of his athleticism?
By the company he keeps with owners,
Coaches, schools, family members who stand in his shade
While he holds the Heisman over his head and beams.
Names that the white rich are afraid not to fear.

Young men who bear their talent to the competitions that enrich.
Men and women of brown, black, tan, golden and peach,
None the white that the cowards wear
In hoods and salutes, crazed by swastikas, but
Pulling the green from hands that are rank with fear
Who celebrate their wins with demands
That the enlightened should scoff and turn from.

Not to salute the evil that the sadist and bully
Demand at feasts and festivals, competitions,
Games of ball, games of skill, games of prosperity,
Games that pull us together in our pride.
This bully offers feasts of cold hamburgers,
Colder French fries, and yells his admiration of himself
From the top of his Towers and Hotels.

Football, Baseball, Top of the Draft of Each of the lists.
His trophy an honor of skill, mind, effort and time.
He’s not perfect this Kyler Murray. Facing such
Criticism as he has faced, as those of his hue have been
Condemned simply for color, he has spoken his piece
At fourteen and fifteen, has apologized for his now he is grown.

Arizona will cheer him as he dawns the red of birds,
The MLB and NFL will watch and cheer as well.
His name is Kyler Murray and he has played his life well.

Loneliness

I work in my garden, alone,
But for bees that communicate
Satisfaction with my efforts.

The neighbors whisper and watch,
Looking for an error, a stagger,
Never once caring for more than gossip.

I live alone in a house of people,
Never noticed, never seen,
The dust is my intimate friend.

I watch the sunset from my window,
Its golden light illuminating my
Loneliness, I wish and dream.

I had a friend once,
He as golden as the sun.
He left like all the others, without a storm.

He was beautiful, rich,
Filled with ideas to make the world better.
As my world collapsed in tears, he left.

Gold sunshine will return at sunset,
Not always there, but returning
To give me a kiss of hope.

The neighbors will talk, and
I will freeze Like a rabbit before the fox.
Let them talk, I am deaf to them now.

the lane

When I was lost,
I wandered
Through golden boughs
As the sun set,
Knowing that the path
I chose
Would lead me to
A place to make
My stand,
And find myself.

Wednesdays Visual Writing Prompt

Hands; a photo prompt, a poem

https://allaboutwritingandmore.wordpress.com/2017/10/08/daily-picture-prompt-280/

They raise their hands, beautiful hands,
Hands that have known labor, have kneaded,
Have created, have loved and been loved.

Praying to the creator, a creator, Mother Nature,
"End the storms. Save our brethren."
And the clouds tower above them like city towers.

From plenty, they sense the devastation, the need.
Politicians storm the fortresses for a picture.
They shout, "We are here with your relief."

Paper towels tossed into a crowd who wish for
Water, food, medicine, jobs, homes.
The cleanup has begun, with a single roll of paper.

Beautiful minds are shocked at the blatant
Lack of care. The victims are brown, black, and white.
They are a colorful mosaic, whirled and swirled by wind.

Voices come through the air, the web, the functions of 
of which convey disbelief, horror, future action.
But for luck, there walk we in similar straits.

Caring is call to action. Share, share alike, give.
From coast to island to coast the storms remain.
You only have a short time to build. Build.

A legacy is formed by the footsteps you leave.
I step in my ancestors steps. "Here is a broom,
I will sweep. A mop, I will scrub. Soap to wash..

The bitter taste of anguish, in the mouths. Eyes that 
Pierce though miles away. Stories that will be told to 
Grandchildren, of the great storm, of a roll of paper tossed.

Watching Television in a Plastic Cube

The gorilla sat in his living room,
Ignoring the rampaging children,
Tired after a long day of modeling
For the cameras.

The T.V. in the corner shouted
The humanity of humans, of conservation
When the news interrupted
Shouting of Twitters, long and loud.

They hadn’t let him vote,
Although he had watched the debates.
He had formulated a plan,
To repatriate his species.

Back in the jungles, where
He was born. They should have
Let him vote. But he was mute
To the signs he needed for

His hands to speak out. Compassion was
Cruel, he thought, to let so many
Of the tired humans slave
And lose their security. After all those years.

He watched his son and daughter
Hanging upside down from tire swings,
His wife climbing high to get to school.
Dinner was to be served soon. He was the sitter.

What was it that made human’s
The top of the food chain?
That left him in the shackles
Confined by man’s curiosity?

Curiosity still existed for him.
The wild still called him.
He mumbled a prayer for the so-called Masters
Who could dissolve the world in fire and rhetoric.

Anger erupted on the telly, more yelling
Disgusted, he stood and strode
Straight to monster machine, reaching for the remote
That empowered images, that brainwashed,

Of violence perpetrated on with fists at the
The human caged. Exhausting. Calming he turned sadly, switching
The channel to PBS, the public challenge,
The overview of the world. Change?

Democracy Now, the Warren Report, on
Expounding Columbia’s freeing the higher thinkers.
His brother! Kept in a zoo, now free. Their constitution.
Perhaps “they” would be allowed to vote.

He snorted in humor and settled
Back into his repose. These silly dreamers.
One of his infants smacked the back of his
Head and the infants outside giggled.

He reached and tumbled with his
Small daughter, letting her win,
Only to be beset by his son, babysitting,
Bouncing both on his arms.

Maybe there was hope. He had waited so very long,
The bouncing children pushed the remote buttons, changing sadness
To Sesame Street. Watching other children be children.
He was grateful to see them so engaged

With other infants, growing in a wild world of uncertainty.
Their time would come. They would visit and wonder
At the peace his family gave him. Secure together.
Finding a way to keep them all close.

Photo Challenge: Golden (and poem)

Tuesday Photo Challenge – Golden

 

Gold is fleeting, illusionary.
Her arms outstretched, calling, beckoning,
Controlling.

Much is done in her name.
Charity, War. She brings them forth,
Yearning.

Wings of illusion power her flight,
Iron pyrite, ocean sunsets, rivers of gold,
Luring.

Should she notice you, you would kneel.
Her lips burning you with passion.
Conquering.

The sun lays paths of golden splendor to bring
Inspiration. Her greatest gift is imagination, childhood dreams
Blooming.

fullsizeoutput_ab

Foggy, the Recollections of the 60s

My brain has foggy recollections, memories,
Of the things we were promised,  to be given,
As children, a world of peace, of standing in protest,
Flowers garlanding rifles held to sway children
By children no older than themselves.

The soldier shot, nerves and muscle, scared,
Not thinking of killing, not thinking
Of pelting rocks. Afraid. Unsure. A child of time
Given orders to stand by, to wait. Make them go away.
Orders again years after Kent. Waiting for the fog to come here, too.

Foggy recollections of Camelot, children in play,
Played in vinyl, surround sound. A glimpse into intense
Cherishing of time. The President’s Missus. Bravely
Facing the loss of a civilization, as she sat waiting, as the nation paused, then
Rushed out of the White House, a widow, out of time.

She was tall, classic, classy, a champion of children, well-educated
A woman who bore solitude in her heart. Her public face perfect.
A woman bearing in her arms, the children. Protecting them.
Mourning her husband John, her brother-in-law Robert, Martin
Luther King, all three martyrs to peace. She remained silent.

But her dream of peace arising from battle and blood was
Taken up and thrown, like feathers from a nest quickly disappearing
Erasing the stigma of violent victimization as others took up the flag of
Skin, of religion, of contesting savagery. Or so we thought.
Life fell from her hands into the ocean of solitude and ignorance.

She was a princess , a wife, lost, out of time but standing, but seen as
Perfection. Mother, editor, dressed in dark memories swirling in fog.
Clothes of the soul, shared by photographs stolen when she didn’t want to be seen,
Of private moments. With the population who couldn’t buy the tags of her style.
It’s so hard to see her now, under her packaging, with memory fading.

Foggy, recollections of the time. Childlike I believed, I still believe,
Making the decision to stand in the line of fire, to protect, being
Like her in my soul. Strong, able, sad, but never at peace.
For the world didn’t change as promised. Fog flew into the spaces as
She slipped away into obscurity and fairy tales. Moving into subtitles of time.

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

Survive

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

Survive, they tell us,
On narrow-edged razors
Placed, just so, on a budget 
Of bloodlust. Politics
For the common man, reduced to
Serfdom, where the poor
Are sacrificed for the glut
That wealthy others feed upon.

Survive, they tell us,
On a release of the 
Restricted intelligence,
So that terrorists walk free
After butchering children.
An alarm clock of hatred,
A mocking of decency. 
Unworthy of ordinary life.

Survive, they tell us,
When the crowds surged
Forward, enraged. Engaged,
With the hate, the fear, 
The mongering. My health,
Now a kicking point, for to be
Sick is a crime, a punishment
Given by God Almighty.

Survive, they tell us,
In a century of knowledge,
As idiocy and lies are perceived
As the only truth. Ice caps
Fail, polar bears plunge
Exhausted into Arctic water.
Rivers begin to laugh
As they move towards combustion.

Survive, they tell us,
As children drink lead for breakfast,
As the aware, pushed toward
A long sleep dreamless, give
A sip, a toast, a cheer, propelling 
pushing destiny for shiny heroes,
Forgotten moments later
As their lives deteriorate, wounded.

Survive, they tell us,
Laughing at the confusion
In newsrooms. Truth or Dare.
Truth or Dare. Resist.
I walk on a knife blade
Where time is frozen.
Survival of the fittest,
Now a mortar field of guesswork.
Resist.

 

My Meltdown Mantra

A Little Off the Mark

OK, everyone. For starters, can I just reiterate something which people seem to gloss over: meltdowns happen in autistic adults, not just autistic children. You may not see them as often because we may be better at hiding them from the general public, but just sometimes you may see cracks in our armour and one will get through.

[TW self harm]
For me, meltdowns are much the same now as they were when I was a child: the crippling panic, the uncontrollable tears and shaking, the repetition of a phrase of thought on loop in my head, the need for space and silence. Added to that are some tricks I picked up in my adolescence to ease the pain in my soul: the hitting my thighs or walls, the digging my fingernails into my head, the rubbing my skin until it’s raw.
[End of TW]

It is real. It happens…

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