Hogwash
By Conor Cleveland

You don’t see it.
This soul does try.
The body defies.
Constant tug of war.
You try to understand.
You can’t imagine.
I try to describe.
I cannot fully explain.
It’s called autism.
I call it hogwash.
I experience the autism.
You get the hogwash.
You see hogwash movement.
Hear hogwash noises.
Look at my hogwash movement.
Half of my life is not real.
But typing is my blood.
I pour my heart into poetry.
Oh yes.
I pour it out.
This is the real Conor.
Ignore the hogwash.

Conor has cerebral palsy and is autistic. He types to communicate. Writing poems is how he expresses his feelings.

The Storm
By Corinne Davis

Rolling thunder soothes me like a lullaby
while branches of white, light up the sky
Heavy torrential rain quenches the ground’s thirst
Later on the horizon, a rainbow has burst
Begrudgingly, in the distance a retreating rumbling is heard
Contented in nature I search for unfound words
As the trees let go of the heaviness of rain
Birds loudly squawk for their perches to regain
The sun teeters back and forth, whether to stay in or come out
Knowing that Mother Nature is never one to doubt

Sonata No. 21
By Wayne F. Burke

an ambulance screams into
view and
roadside trees with new green bud-dresses
wave;
cars and trucks carry-on as before
as ever
one after another;
the sky is silent
as always
nothing but blue to say;
the ridge line is
petrified; poor
trees,
can’t run from the ax
only clothe themselves 
in green disguise.
The grass, the grass endures
as the breeze
which once blew down walls
ruffles the buds
and leaves
as the crow flies
but not nearly as high
as the hawk.