Category: Poetry

Silly season haiku

ChatGPT and I had a difference of opinion over whether “family” is two or three syllables. For these, it is three syllables, “fam-i-ly”.

(I use ChatGPT as a beta reader and reviewer. I haven’t gotten around to looking at Gemini yet. )

Summer’s here, heat waves and storms
Forty degrees, floods
Yeah. Sub-tropical summers.

Families travel, sanguine?
Christmas reunions
Smiles and cheer, no anger, here?

Fearing seeing family
Fearing scorn and guilt
Is there any Christmas cheer?

Alone and crying again
Another Christmas
Poignant grief. Will it end?

Homeless, help, no fridge, no phone
What Christmas dinner?
Thank you to all volunteers

Expectations run so high
Planned, careful menus
Will the new wife sink or swim?

Hermit, alone, not hoarder
Just seeks, peace, quiet
Don’t care for Christmas

Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Christmas
Faith, no faith, okay
No pressure, season’s blessings.

Take the decorations down
Christmas-time was here
A clean slate for the new year.

Unshed tears and eccentric cams

“I am the sum of my experiences, but I am not defined by them.”

Yet, what happens when, in the way of life, when a diagnosis (confirmation) of being autistic comes in at the age of 51?

After a cathartic evening of going through photos from the 1970s, looking at the child I was, and going through half a box of tissues, this poem came. It’s still in draft, still needs some polish, but it’s got good bones.

And in that vein, today is better, today is copacetic. In my beloved French, bien dans sa peau. Yes. I feel good in my skin.

Unshed tears and eccentric cams

A poem by Lee-Anne Ford

My throat aches from unshed tears,
From revising memories of bygone years.
Was it there, or there, or, wait, was it here?
Why must our memories be so unclear?

I’m autistic, in 2023, at the age of 51.
Better now than in another trip around the sun.
But I have been autistic since day one.
In everything I’ve seen, written, heard, done.

I mask, I assimilate, I play the part,
Plastering over a tender heart.
So, what now? Where do I start?
Do I fall to pieces, fall apart?

Or do as I have always done;
Use the pen for dream and pun.
I am still me, I am still one.
Say to my reflection, don’t walk, run.

Embrace the girl who didn’t know
And acted to fit in with the flow
Pleasing people became the show
For people who couldn’t, didn’t know.

Regrets, he said, I’ve known a few.
Don’t we all, more than one or two.
How to ask for help from friends one and few.
Before one over the cuckoo nest flew.

SO much, so MUCH, has fit into my life.
Now autistic widow, once loving wife.
Student Access Plans to reduce tertiary strife;
Doubts, uncertainties, fears run rife.

I joke about saddles and rodeos
For situations I’ve lived, and “I knows”.
Just breathe, breathe until heart rate slows.
A new metaphor; “Steady as she goes.”

Hello, nice to meet you, my name is Lee-Anne.
I’m complicated, passionate, and I give a damn.
Engines, like me, run an eccentric cam.
I’ve always been exactly who I am.

Hello. My name is Lee-Anne.

More tricky poetry

Doing a course in Poetics really opened my mind to poetry.

Being a mature age student (50 years old as a first year student), brings a unique set of challenges, particularly when you have anxiety, depression and undiagnosed autism.

In Creative Writing – Poetics, the tutorial group had more mature age students than any other tutorial group I’ve been in, so far, which made it infinitely easier to be there.

Still, the inner monologue nattering on about being an imposter, who do you think you are, stealing a 20 year-old’s position, no right to be here, made it hard.

When we had to explore different poetry forms, I came up with this acrostic alliterative poem.

Imposter trauma

Imposter, imitating intelligence, intrusion ignites indignant ingenue.
My mind, my mien, memory, mimetic mummery? Mature-age, mute.
Policies, procedures. Politics, process, programme. Pathos, pathetic.
Outcry! Obdurate operations, oligopoly opines, opportunities open.
Stirs, struts, sassy secrets, stentorious sounds. Sorry.
Trite tumultuous torrents, titre, tighter, terrified trust.
Erudite elegance. Error! Elements ease, elemental edge.
Rites, rigorous rotation, random rage, righteousness.

Time, the templar temple, tremors, trauma, trampled, trapped.
Restitution, re-engagement, relief, resiled, resilient.
Assessed attitude, alluded amplitude, acquiescent acceptance.
Uncertain undercurrents, unctuous understanding, understatement.
Molten madness, messy magnificence, mature-age model.
Acceptable. Accented asperity, abasement, abashed apology.

No aide-memoire for grief

December, 26, 2017 – Vienna, Austria. Statue of grieving angel at entrance to ancient Saint Marx Cemetery. Weeping angel of grief on Sankt Marxer Friedhof old abandoned graveyard. By aliaksei kruhlenia

Poetry is tricky!

I like the villanelle form for its mandated structure and rhyming scheme. These two poems were written for a course in poetry. I have been told that Poem 1 is melancholic and introspective, and that Poem 2 is more fluid and descriptive.

This poem is an exploration of grief and memory. My late husband was taken by Huntington’s Disease. It’s an inheritable disease that has a 15 to 20 year life expectancy after the onset of symptoms. Our relationship was neatly bisected; 15 years before Huntington’s Disease became apparent, and 16 years after.

Poem 1
Bereft’s thoughts of that last outward breath,
The prey of the eagle, running for its life.
Beloved’s last battle to the death.


Beloved gained entry with the Shibboleth,
No fear of rejection or strife.
Bereft’s thoughts of that last outward breath.


Travel plans made with coin or Gilbreath,
Then driving miles to see a man with a fife,
Beloved’s last battle to the death.


Enjoying the arts, from Chess to Macbeth.
Picnics and cheese, but who forgot the knife?
Bereft’s thoughts of that last outward breath.

Family history, meeting old Aunt Elspeth,
The old dear was batty, the rumours rife.
Beloved’s last battle unto the death


Forget your pain, my love, drink from the Lethe
As Bereft is the widow, no longer wife.
Bereft’s thoughts of that last outward breath,
Beloved’s last battle unto the death.

Poem 2
Her bereft thoughts of that last drawn breath,
Seeing the eagle’s prey, running for its life.
Your battle, beloved, to the death.


Her beloved gained her heart with a shibboleth,
Wiping away fears of family strife.
Her bereft thoughts of that last outward breath.


Travel plans made with coin or Gilbreath,
Old road maps to find a man with a fife,
Your battle, beloved, to the death.


Enjoying the arts, from Chess to Macbeth.
Picnics with cheese, but who forgot the knife?
Her bereft thoughts of that last outward breath.


Searching family history, finding old aunt Elspeth,
Her memories tattered, her gossiping rife.
The battle, beloved, to the death.


Forget your last battle, my love, drink from the Lethe
Cries the widow, no longer the wife.
Her bereft thoughts of that last outward breath,
The battle, beloved, to the death.