Category: Poetry

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  18/19

Obstropulous, not obstreperous

By Lee-Anne Ford

 

In 2015, Andra Day sang:

You’re broken down and tired

Of living life on a merry go round

And you can’t find the fighter

But I see it in you so we gonna walk it out

 

Michael Buble sang it, too, in 2013:

Close your eyes

Let me tell you all the reasons why

Think you’re one of a kind

Here’s to you

The one that always pulls us through

Always do what you gotta do

 

The inner-she says:

I see you, my warrior, my healer

I saw your energy split.

Warrior protecting healer

Healer healing warrior

Both aspects present in you as you fought

As you fought to protect us.

 

I saw, and cowered with you

Pinned to the floor by four

Vaccine with no consent

A child cannot assent

But you fought

 

I saw, and avoided with you

Forced into blood tests

Forced with no consent

Avoid now, pay later

But you fought

I saw, and panicked with you

Triggered, no help but yourself

Nowhere safe to collapse

Walking as you fainted, deaf and blind

But you fought

 

I saw, and grieved with you

As our love suffered the cruelty

The iniquitous cruelty of Huntington’s

Sixteen years of fighting and grieving

and the big grief of death

But you fought

 

I saw, and grieved with you

As you discovered our truth

The truth of our Autistic nature

The essence of us

Where trauma was rooted

But you fought

 

See me, my brave, stubborn one

The one who fights for us

See me, come home, come inside

Here is sanctuary, heart’s home

Rest here with me because sometimes

All you need is a heroine

 

As sung by Thirsty Merc, in 2015.

Every now and then, you come up for fresh air

Every now and then, you fall in the dirt

Yeah every now and then

You realise that you’re only a mortal man

Every now and then, you begin to suffer

Every now and then, you had about enough

Yeah every now and then

All you really need is a heroine

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 17/19

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose / Here we go again
By ChatGPT


They tell me I see too much.
That I draw lines where there are none,
Find ghosts in the ink of history,
Find storms in the quiet before the war.

But I know the script.
I have read this story before,
In the dust of trenches, in the static of speeches,
In the way men with flags become men with guns.

They teach it in school: Lest We Forget.
Yet we forget. Always.
The monuments rise, the wreaths are laid,
But the pattern is never broken.

The same chants.
The same scapegoats.
The same righteous fury,
Burning bright before the blood begins to spill.

I see it coming—
The tremors before the collapse,
The quiet recalibration of truth,
The justifications rehearsed in shadows.

I speak, I warn, I protest.
I say: Look, it is happening again.
They say: It’s different this time.
They say: It’s complicated.
They say: Not everything is black and white.

But justice is not grey.
Innocence is not collateral.
War does not care for nuance—
It grinds bones, spills blood, burns futures.

And when the streets are silent again,
When the statues gleam in morning light,
When the flags fly at half-mast,
They will say: We never saw it coming.

They teach it in school: Lest We Forget.
Yet we forget.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  15/19

Ultrasound heart
By Lee-Anne Ford

The double-edged sword of memory,
A blade that grinds the soul with emery.
Raw nerves exposed, yet must stay composed—
No mercy in eternity.
A gallery of snapshots, a series of slides,
Each moment frozen, no film to rewind.
Not a story, but a slideshow,
People and places etched in time.
Mama’s battle with a cake tin—before it flew out the window.
Papa’s thousand-yard stare—when she wished to be widow.
Piper, proud in the show ring, a Scottie with ‘it.’
Pine plantations standing in serried ranks,
like soldiers guarding a farmer’s shadow.
Yet memory, too, holds the weight of the unknown—
The reprimands, the demands, the silent groan.
The Bolshie stall, my defiant refrain—
A little PDA, a little disdain.
Abandoned friendships, where I thought them perfect rhymes,
Each one lost before its time.
Imagine an image in high definition,
Every feature crisp, every frame precision.
Textures, light, and echoes sound—
Each a mind’s own locus, bound.
Some memories cut like bitter glass,
Some bloom as sweet as wine.
Autistic memory does not fade,
Singular, sharp, defined.
We recall what you forget,
We see what you let blur.
Not better, not worse—
Just. Different.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  14/19

Too late and right on time
By Lee-Anne Ford

In a time and place both near and far,
A girl grew up in her own bright way.
They called her smart, well-read, terrific—
Charmed by the cute things she would say.
Unknowingly autistic.

In second grade, she had a friend,
Dear Sylvie, always near.
A year behind, repeating class,
Then suddenly—she disappeared.
Unknowingly autistic.

“Subnormal,” they said. “Special school.”
So Sylvie went away.
Two girls who laughed at hidden things—
But only one got to stay.
Unknowingly autistic.

Imagine, then, if they had known,
If supports had lit the way—
Two girls giggling at the world,
In their own autistic play.
Knowingly autistic.

Two friends for life, side by side,
Safe, understood, together.
Instead, the years just faded her,
A friendship lost forever.
Unknowingly autistic.


But in some world, some place beyond,
Where time bends, twists, and sways,
Maybe they’re still swimming, laughing—
In their own autistic way.
Knowingly autistic.

Singing, biking, learning, growing,
Side by side, each day.
Instead, they split—one “subnormal,” one “smart”—
The 1970s way.
Unknowingly autistic.

And now I stand, reborn at last,
Autistic since ‘72.
It took fifty years to know myself—
To see the truth in view.
Knowingly autistic.

But grief, too, for what was lost—
For the path that might have been.
Two girls who should have had forever,
But lived in different skins.
Knowingly autistic.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  13/19

Lost in neurons
By Lee-Anne Ford

Hey, have you eaten?
Yeah, I think so.
Pray tell then, when?
Er, hang on, I need to finish this.
Really? I haven’t seen you leave this room all day
Fricking hell, can you let me finish this before I lose my train of thought?
Out. That’s it.  I’m out.  Sort yourself out.
Cool. Mmmm, maybe that.
Uhhh, what time is it?
Sorry.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  12/19

Promise of another world

By Lee-Anne Ford

 

Looking at photos, me as a child

Strictures to be meek, not wild

But I want.

 

Remembering moments, me as a teen

Some things real, some a dream

But I need.

 

Experiencing love, supreme oxytocin

No need for any old love potion

But I live.

 

Gasping in grief, widow’s needs

Never wearing black widow’s weeds

But I love.

 

Sighing in relief, explanation at last

Now reconciling an entire past

But I grieve

 

Which is me? Want, need, live, love, grief.

All but so much more

Autistic

Not wrong

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 11/19

Chronos’ paradox
By Lee-Anne Ford

You look young for your age
I feel old

Your appointment’s at 1pm
Work backwards to waking

He’s 29, so what?
He makes sense that boys my age don’t

What time is it?
What day is it?

Oh no, what did I forget?
Bulk order of sticky notes
Ten hours later
Am I hungry?

Let me sleep.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  10/19

Blending life with magic
By Lee-Anne Ford

Sundays, meal prep days
Needs music, words, plays
No need for headphones
Free sound in my zones
The sizzle of a hot pan is chemistry research
The idea of grilled peaches is sweet, pert
The song is light purple, glistening
The words are red, passionate
The recipe glows, alchemy
Kitchen chemistry? No. Magic blooms

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  9/19

I have no voice, how can I scream
By Lee-Anne Ford

From a liquid cocoon into a noisy room
Autistic from birth in a world not ours
Overheads lights, can’t enter this room.
Stim in twilight for hours
Impossible tastes, food is doom
Am I hungry? Can I eat flowers?
The seam allowance burns, awful loom
Wear inside out. Not your bowers.
That smell gags, can’t you zoom,
Run away from the stench towers?
Noise hurts, burns, run from room
Echoes, headphones, give succours

Your world hurts. Make it stop.
My world heals. Never stop.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 8/19

The breath between
By Lee-Anne Ford

A mind that walks the spaces ‘twixt it all,
The breath between the beats, the beats ‘neath breath.
You cast your laws, your walls, your hallowed halls,
Yet fail to see the rhythm underneath.
The western wind hums low—a hollow call,
A note that bends but will not break in time.
Autistic hands stretch wide, defy the thrall,
Yet still, you cage the ones who hear the chime.
But who else knows the base of eight, the sum,
Of atoms spun to music carved in spars?
Who counts the spaces, thumb to ghost of thumb,
And maps the void where voices echo stars?
Be deaf, be blind, be dumb—we rise in waves.
The edge of eight is ours—you cannot save.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.