The Kids That Changed My Life

when you are walking down the street or
in your highschool or college
or just driving to work and see a disabled person
wheelchair or not
don't feel sorry or petty them cause
they would not change or take away there disability
because it has made who they are today
but when you are thinking about having your own kids
here are some interesting facts

one in one hundred fifty kids are born with some type of Autism
one in one hundred eighty have one of the four types of c Palsy
one in one thousand have Down Syndrome
you have a 10% chance in having a disabled kid
even if you nor your partner have a disability
scary?
I don't think so

my life was changed by
one of those “disabled” kids

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poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Get It Up

Silence spans the canyons gulf
Between our hearts born disconcert
The hours conjugate the minutes
As reticence grovels our reproaches
Lies retreat through the French windows
Across the brick of Flemish bonds
As two pigeons stair their Interest
Cooing as their rapacious femurs
To observe the mirror of primate counterparts
Remotely connected in physical detachment
Between the stale sating sheets of pheromone odour
Sweating evaporation of delicate furor
She looks obsequiously at you with lightning speed
An annoyed smirk from a spoiled queen
Just as your breath implodes as your fingers twirl
The Excrement of passion is your autistic hell

All because the snake is crippled
And the king has lost the scepter

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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6-11 (true Story)

A softball game,
With two 7th grade teams.
In a open grass field kids play,
In the hot sun.
Along the first base line, were the moms
Cheering their girls on.
It was the top of the 8th inning,
No outs and Centrals down by one.
Junction City is up to bat,
Central out in the field.

It took four pitches to get the batter out.
Gale Anders is up next, strike one.
Turning to terror in the next swing of the bat.
The ball goes flying over the fence,
Missis all the moms, all but one,
Nursing her baby she didn’t see the ball coming.
The ball hits the baby in the head whose life has just begun,
Just three weeks ago ReBecca Purkey was born.

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poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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A C*******s - well, OK, seasonal - plea..

Art brings a smile and a message.
Thus the art of ‘Christmas’ cards…
(and I use the word loosely,
as its public use is now disapproved…)

A folded card: that’s four smallish sides to fill.
An appropriate seasonal smile on Page One;
Page Two requires nothing,
blank but room for something else to say
in lieu of that family catch-up print-out page
your children will have helped with; or maybe not..

Page Three offers a seasonal message – but
watch out these days – ‘you can’t use
THAT for THEM…’ oh of course, they’re,
what exactly? Crypto-Buddhists?
Lapsed Amish? Richard Dawkins and
his, er, dour or smiling family ?

Page Four – the great let-out

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Old Gate Off Its Hinge

Old gate off its hinge.
Matted like a lapwing in the long blond grass.
What is there to distract me from?
I pass, but not as a predator.
I seek the high field at the end
of this narrow dark road at dusk.
I’m out for stars. I’m out for solitude.
Like these deep cuts in the road
my scars have taken me out for a walk
in the gathering darkness,
nothing to keep in
nothing to let out.
The sumac denuded.
The last of the asters ruined.
There’s a farmhouse back here
abandoned years ago
like an old book in the basement
under the covers of its collapsing roof.
And the ghosts of two children
hidden deep in the woods

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poem by Patrick White
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The Anger Behind The Swing Of This Axe

With every swing of this well worn axe.
I'm thinking of you.
The anger burns right through.
Images flash across my brain.
It's like I'm watching the most hated reruns on television.
And no matter what I do they just keep playing.

I wish I never meant you.
I wish for something sweet instead of something so bitter.
I've been told the taste will fade.
Well I'm still waiting.

With every swing of this well worn axe.
I'm thinking of you.
The anger burns right through.
Images flash across my brain.
It's like I'm watching the most hated reruns on television.
And no matter what I do they just keep playing.

I wish I never meant you.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Veterinary Camps

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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University Of Central Florida Volleyball

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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