POETRY with Lawrence Spiro
The song “Swinging on a Star” (1944) is a timeless funny song. It was sung by Bing Crosby and composed by Jimmy Van Heusen and lyrics by Johnny Burke. Yikes I’m dating myself.
From Our New Contributor…
Hi, my name is Ethan Bell and I’m a young adult on the spectrum who is non-verbal. The poetry I write is a raw and real perspective from my life. I love to open up and express through poetry because it helps me be vulnerable. My thoughts are constant so being able to focus and write my thoughts out in a poetic way is a big deal for me. I hope whoever reads my poems can relate and enjoy what I write.
Inside Layer – By Ethan Bell
Many to say not possible
The things I want to say.
My dreams they are all feasible
Wait for just the right way
Discover my inside layer
The depths will be hard to measure
Having to live in behind a barrier.
Not too fond of thoughts buried like treasure
Useless was my intellect
The having wanting waiting.
Never to harbor your respect
The truth is still there, just time I’m biding
Now I will break the world open wide
This is me finding my stride.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
High School – By Ethan Bell
Full hallways,
Lust for freedom
Individuality
Near adults seen not heard
Dreams are big
Fixed gazes broken by screechy blasting bells
A kind of chaos I’ve come to trust.
Highs higher the lower we go.
Food for souls is taken
Pride built yet unfinished.
Made to stand out.
Lets me fit in
Pseudo-Euphoria
by Willow DuBrovin
A harmonious melody entraps, a plethora of notes fill my brain.
Loud and sound, born to soothe;
a distraction from a hallucinating pain.
Higher and higher, the volume goes, the concert has no limit.
Unbeknownst to me, my ears cripple with
the ripple of songs of an euphoric minute.
The bathroom condensation warms my skinan
apricity-
I step in the shower and it’s scalding hot.
Instantly, my mind coolstranquility-
The burning sensation? An afterthought,
and too, the euphoric feeling of a blistering rot.
I lift my fork, a daring move, one no-one has yet to make,
towards the steaming dish of spicy noodles,
born to make the weak quake.
Bite after bite of a thousand flavors; I am reborn in its midst
and I lose my senses slowly to a habanero pepper with an euphoric bliss.
So tell me why such euphoric feelings require such bodily risk?
The pain: a requirement, or a consequential trick?
Rising a coaster; jumping a cliff; a year-long lover, or an abusive prick?
The zenith of euphoria is nothing without its ironic, imposing wit,
and so with a given epiphany, I stun to the thought that I am victim,
to a pseudo-euphoria’s paradoxal twist.
