Author: poeturja

I'm an independent poet--since the age of four--and a Romani drabarni (Gypsy herbalist/adviser). Recently taught myself to play ukulele and now a wannabe songwriter. Prefer writing poetry simply, striving to compose musically, including talking blues, folktales, and memoirs of life. All music genres inspire me, but I especially vibrate to Classic Rock, Folk, Romani (Gypsy), and Cajun with an emphasis on guitar, ukulele and violin music mainly in a Minor Key. I hope to heal souls and maybe poetry can accomplish that. https://www.facebook.com/RomaniGypsyBooks https://poeturja.wordpress.com/ http://t.co/JSvNROn15t

ON AUTISM

When the first fish
Walked out of the water
On newly-formed limbs
The ferns and trees
Must have clucked
Blaming these new mutations
On vaccinations
An adaptive immunity
Present in the seas
On affected chromosomes
From chemical run-off
Into the water
Now that there is an
“Alarmingly” high incidence
Of autism,
And being HFA
On the spectrum
Myself,
I cannot help wondering
Whether we are the
Next evolutionary step
Is it just time
For a change in humanity
Like a new human
Who is unable to understand
The expressions on the faces of others
Yet is also unable to lie
Like a new human
Who seems alien
(So alienated we are)
Yet intelligent “savants”
Who have often brought
Gifts as important as Prometheus’
Fire to mankind
Will we someday be labeled
(Our genus and species)
By binomial nomenclature
As Homo autisticus
Rather than Homo sapiens?
Just wondering…

© 2015 (repost) Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Autism Awareness ribbon

REMINDER: NOT ALL AUTISTIC PEOPLE ARE THE SAME

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ACHROMATIC BLACK

 

*Scroll down for a YouTube video*

A hueless color
Completely absorbing visible light
It’s why I wear only black
Born in the wrong century
Incorrect body size
It’s why, despite the breakdown
Of facial skin beginning to fossilize
I Amy-Winehouse my eyes
Disguise my hands with black lace
Goth Granny needing moonlight
Bathing me in a silvery beauty
Short and going dumpy
No longer a cutie
But hey, I’m alive
But hey, I’m self-propelling
But hey, I’m happy in my
Quirky feminist way
It’s a new day
And we Baby Boomers
Who cannot afford cosmetic surgery
Sneer at botox and chin lifts
Avoiding mirrors during the day
But hey, we’ve got the secret of youth:
Classic Rock
And like Jagger sang
I’ll paint it black
And like Amy sang
I go back to black
Now I’m off to sing and play
Songs about glorious black
Creating a memorable sound track
As another birthday approaches…

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Amy Winehouse

 

 

 

SO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT AUTISM IS LIKE?

(APRIL IS AUTISM AWARENESS MONTH. THIS IS A REPOST)

I know there is a protest by Autistics Against Autism and I understand. I, too,
object to the way we are all grouped together or treated as if we are a disease that
needs to be eradicated. I suppose, since I come from a time before autism was
diagnosed and lived in a vacuum, not knowing what was wrong, I appreciate any
information that has arisen since the birth of Google. We are all different. This poem
is ME! Not Joe Blow, not Jane Doe! My particular experience. Love and Peace to
us all…
Autism is standing still while
Everyone runs for the cliff edge
And you want to know why
Before joining them
But the surge pushes you down
And they thunder across your back
And you’re bloody but not broken
Because the rage keeps you sane

Autism is always being chosen
To be
The Cheese
In Farmer in the Dell
The Cheese stands alone
In the middle of the circle
As baby classmates point and sing
And you cry
But the next year you don’t cry
You will never let them break you
At least they won’t know
You care

Autism is getting it wrong when a boy flirts
Confusion from what he means
Interpreted by his ego
Thinking you’re indifferent
To his oh-so-obvious charms
And he hates you

Autism is being nice to a boy
Who seems like a friend
But not realizing
His ego cannot allow someone like you
To be kind
i.e., flirt (must be, he reasons)
And he hates you
For showing interest in his
Oh-so-obvious charms

Yet autism is like everyone else
Loving friends and movies
Books and games
Dreaming of being asked
To the prom
And buying a dress
To transform the lightning and thunder
Into rainbows of love, peace and happiness

Autism is loving sex and drugs and rock and roll
But luckily learning that drugs can take you
Where you don’t want to go
Because you can’t come back
But some nights you think
Maybe that’s not bad
What’s to come back to?
Only thunder and lightning and rain

Autism is when married
Choosing a dysfunctional like you
Yet he becomes an adversary
Family and friends roll their eyes
And laugh when he reveals your secrets
Meant only for him
It’s not like you’re barking like a dog
Or flapping your hands
Everything looks “normal”
But there must be some type of invisible mark
That all can see
Except me

What do they see?
What did I do?
What did I say?

Answers? No, so
Although I’ve never been a head banger
I want to badly butt
My head against theirs
Make them see
I’m like them
I am!
But I don’t know what to say
My tongue gets in the way

Children come
One is finally labeled
“Somewhat autistic”
What does that mean?
No information
Never heard the word before
No idea I am
We’re all so different
But children raised
In the offbeat way
AKA, autistic
And their lives
Get drenched in different shades of rain
Thunder, lightning
Mudslides

What is Autism?

Autism is traffic jams
Oncoming headlights in
A foggy, dark night
Thunder drowning out your heartbeat
Automobile stereo’s base line ripping through your brain

Autism is thunder in your soul
As rain pours from your eyes
And lightning jerks your strings

Autism is knowing you are safest locked alone
In your room
Where no one can hurt you
But the curse is
Like everyone else
You crave society…

© 2015 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

 

 

BLUES IN THE AFTERNOON

To live with no regrets
True translation:
To live and take
Responsibility
For those incidents
We do regret
There is no time machine
No way to return
To the scene of the shame
So easy to forgive others
Hard to forgive ourselves
Especially if we were children
Helpless
And victims of family
Out of control
Eventually attracting
Friends, spouses
Ripping apart our soul

Maybe three in the morning
Is heart attack time
But for me
Three in the afternoon
Is when I sing the Blues
Blood sugar down?
Morning high
(Brought on partially by coffee)
Has fatally crashed
Blues between noon and dusk
My heart’s an empty husk

Not much natural blue
In Nature
Rare birds
Rare flowers
Blue reserved
For sky and sea
Morphing to Indigo
A representation
Of Third Eye Wisdom
Along the chakra rainbow
Fourth House of the zodiac
Home
Capricorn in the Fourth
No easy way to say this
Not an easy natal moment

I so hope I can struggle to my end of days
In self-made love and peace in a glorious blaze…
(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Picasso’s Blue Period, Old Guitarist

RED SONG-IN-PROGRESS (memoir)

Red Rover Red Rover
For Red to come over
Childhood game
When our blood did flow
Scrapes and red-tinged bandaids
With young bodies
Pulsing like Native drums
At American pow-wows

Red
Blood
Life
Flood

The beat goes on
The heat pulsing the blood
And then one day
It changes…

Flirting and hurting
Judged, loved or hated
Trying to walk dignified
Through teen years as the
Moon monthly controls
Female tides
Red flow meaning
Safe another month
Slut-footing past the boys
Pulsing like Gypsy tambourines
At doo-wapping City corners

Red
Blood
Life
Flood

The beat goes on
The heat pulsing the blood
And then one day
It changes…

Sleep with legs straight
So blood will circulate
But I awake
In a tight fetal state
With that artery
Behind my left knee
Pulsing like Santana drums
At Woodstock

Red
Blood
Life
Flood

The beat goes on
The heat pulsing the blood
And then one day
It’s gone…

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Red#1

WHITE POEM 1

Saw a ghost last night
Not a woo-woo one
Saw a man by a white piano
Banging away
Every once in a while he’d say
“This one will go platinum”
Looked like Lennon
But his iconic face
Was off a bit
Surreptitiously glanced around
For a white bed
Nothing
But out of the corner of my eye
Was a bit of a white mini
Long black hair
And wondered
Ghost?
Time Travel?
Parallel Worlds?
Listened to the song
Knew it wasn’t one I’d ever heard
Knowing all John’s songs
Bopped my head
Played air ukulele
Yep, this one would go platinum
But hey
Suddenly back in my bed
Bottle of hemp oil
On the night table
Near my head
And wondered….

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: WHITE 1

(Working on a new book about chakras. True, white isn’t a chakra but then,  white is what we see when all wavelengths of light are reflected off an object)

 

FRAGRANT RELEASE

When days are dragging me down
People seem made more like daggers
And I’m saturated with sadness
That leaks onto the grass and dirt
I have my ways
Of relieving the pressure

There is music, of course
Reading, writing, chocolate
But a forgotten feeling
Resurfaced when the FDA
Became involved with herbs
Raising prices
Banning bottles and jars
Of alternative medicines

So after a few days of
Rejection and feeling
Like invasive vines
Are creeping all over me
When my people skills suffer
From autism
When once again I become
The mistress of the
Inappropriate remark
From autism
When no one will tell me what I have done
I crawl into my magic center
That has room for only one
Closing my eyes
Until a vision appears
And I hear
Triple, triple
Make a ripple
Pour and stir
Blood Root and Myrrh
Plantain and Golden Seal
And other herbs so ideal

It is New Moon
And I add 100 proof vodka
And daily shake the jar
Extracting Earthen properties
In watery medium
As wind stirs the contents
And fiery moon distills and augments
Relaxing as I add and mix
Handle and sing
Wondering
How I could forget the peace
Brought by the release
Of endorphins

Then, when
The moon is a silver medallion
Metal more precious than gold
I sieve and save the healing liquid
Add melted beeswax
Breathing loving words
Passing along the peace
Inside tiny jars
That will hold
An ageless recipe
Of earth, water, air and fire
Ingredients working together
Like a vocal range in a choir
A mystical tether…

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Herbs and Dogs and Strings and Things

RARE AIR

A picture makes it worthwhile
To read a thousand words
But it’s hard to reconcile
Phytoplankton
Tiny marine organisms
Cranking out the oxygen
In Earth’s atmosphere
Good things come in small packages
Mom said when I complained about
Height, or the lack of it
Maybe
Maybe if Mars
Or some lone planet
Light-light-light years away
Would have life
As we know it
Tilling the dirt
Salting the seas
Firing away the ice
Scenting the sky
With an invisible aroma
Of after-rain cleanliness
Or pre-lightning electrical fire
Maybe
But for each positive theory
A negative one exists
Science has discovered
Oxygen can now be generated
In the absence of life named
“An alien imposter”
Maybe it’s not a pretender, though
Maybe like me
Suffering from Imposter Syndrome
(Am I really a poet, for instance?)
But it can be
Merely an alien phytoplankton
We all wear masks
Whether aware of them or not
So I say
Let’s give it the benefit of the doubt
So what if they were produced
Abiotically
(Like that word?
Or am I being “pretentious”
As some say?)
Abiotically in multiple simulations
“Simulations”
Phony! Made up!
My laywoman’s thought is
You may produce oxygen
But what side effects will occur
In years to come
Life as we know it may surely be alien
The real false positive for life
Phytoplankton forever
Keep your simulations
Give me the sweet air we sometimes can see
Through your polluted sky
And nurse the phytoplankton
Making sure they do not die…

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Phytoplankton, http://www.racingextinction.com

MARCH MADRIGAL

Ides of March
Caesar’s dead
St. Patrick’s Day Druidic snakes
Killed or fled
Mardi Gras music and tasty food
Women’s Day international history renewed
Aries influence on the 21st day
Spring Equinox awakens our lost sense of play
Many family birthdays
Around the full moon
What were the parents doing
Nine months ago, that previous June
March is fun but April’s best
‘Cause it’s my birthday’s
Once-a-year chocolate fest
Can’t wait!

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: SPRING SWAMP PICNIC

American She-Poets (34): Clarissa Simmens, A Passion for Shakespeare

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Clarissa Simmens

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A couple of weeks ago The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt was Spinning With Shakespeare. Readers were challenged to write a poem using phrases from Shakespeare that have come into general usage. It was fun. The poems were great. You can read them HERE.  Meanwhile, it happens that Clarissa Simmens has a passion for Shakespeare, so much so that she does a yearly poetic homage to WS…

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