The Aspie aspect of me
Conjures up scenarios
Twisting and turning
Through my neurodiversity
Sometimes making them real
They’re so logically true
But when up against
So-called reality
Tells me I’m wrong
Am I? I ask myself
How do we know
What is below
The river’s surface?
How do we decide
If there be dragons
Who comfortably abide
In the corners of the world?
Is it a lie?
Maybe I’m neuroacceptant…

(c) 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: James E. Grey Preserve Withlachascotee River

head game

my entire sense of reality
rattled like a snake’s tail
since you called
since we spoke
can it be true
is it really you
or a holographic image
created self-delusionally
seemingly sprung to life
out of my sorry emotions now dead
like Athena’s birth from Zeus’ head
what is the truth
and, significantly
is it provable……

(c) 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons, Athena born from Zeus’ Head



Before age three

Not much of a memory

Then a new reality begins

As the theater of life


Years of tears and smiles

Love and rage

If blessed, then good health

If lucky, then material wealth

Ah, but entropic biology

States not much can last

All is supersonically fast

As we segue into

That third reality

Mirrors screaming

With altered faces

Losing family and friends

Unable to fill up empty spaces

And we want

We want so bad

To believe that deep down

People are honest

People are true

Especially people like me

Who don’t have a clue

About subterranean actuality

And we hang on

To the old reality

But we are wrong

The sands are slipping

Burying the hourglass base

Filling up with a reality

Devoid of grace

As we helplessly wonder

Who committed this crime

This ravaging by Time

And reality a lie

As we prepare to die

What was I thinking…?


© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Budapest Timewheel at night, Atlas Obscura



Two years of an unappreciated garden

Now all gone to unremitting green and brown

How I long for reds and blues

The day sobs out for vibrancy

Need something rare as a hummingbird

Spotted without tear-stained spectacles

Porky-Pig-pink flowers reaching for the sun

But it all takes work

Fertilizer brings relief while wrecking aquifers

So sandy soil

Once the bottom of the Gulf

Holds out for salty seaweeds

Blooming algae

Leaving me a blistering memory

Of our once-fertile

Yet fantasy-driven


Impatient for reality,

Should have known it would be



And empty…


© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE:  John Everett Millais – Ophelia



I sometimes think you died in the hospital

And me, famous family denier

Cannot accept or just doesn’t know

That the heart attack was fatal

Drove you home from the hospital

Talked to you

But maybe I conjured you up

As I broke down


No physical contact

So don’t know if you’re a ghost

Would my hand penetrate your shape

If I reached out to touch?

Don’t really want to test my theory

We sometimes speak

Mostly, you’re a disappearing specter

Silently, suddenly appearing in a room

Sitting quietly

Staring at me


No one has seen you in years

Just me

So I question my fears

Are you real?

My shattered soul

Is taking longer to heal

I just don’t know


At night I hear a voice


A clickety-clacking brain like mine

Leaping among the shoals of conception

Tumbling in the tides of ideas

Am I reading your mind,

Or do ghosts communicate like that?

Must I pick out the important parts

Of your manic communication

In order to gauge sanity?


I sometimes believe you survived

I sometimes believe I’m the one who died…


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Ghost (Mirror Online)



Double fog curtain


Emanating from roadside marshes


Winding around the dips and curves

Of the gray matter

Rumored to contain

The seat of the soul

Yet a slave to

The delicate heart

Misty comfort, though

A hidden place to go

Inside and out

Pull over, just stop

Can’t see where to drive

Pretense no longer needed

Not driving anywhere anyway

Not thinking anything real

Just drifting in the embrace

Of my new-found friend,



© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE; Morning moon & sun in the fog




(#TBT new poem, same old lost path)


The bridge is out

Going nowhere

(As I am)

Expected to walk

My honest path

Somehow stumbled onto a

Yellowing brick road

While the wizard west of me

Hiding behind the curtain of potency

No real name

No identity

Siren sings in his masculinity

Is he real?

Can bots be programmed to write poetry?

That’s what he must be…


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens

IMAGE: me on the Suwanee




The four o’clock poem

Has struck again

When once the words

Poured out during

My morning shower

They now prod me awake

After a restless, useless sleep

And here I am

Tapping away

Peering in dismay

At the pre-dawn computer screen


Wrecking my sight

Of not only the words

But also what I need to say


Does a confessional poet always confess the truth

Or is there a bit of fiction

In everyone’s life

Something we don’t even recognize

Because our reality

Is different from everyone else’s

Is fiction allowed

Or can we create instead of recording

The truth

As the universe knows it

As others think they know it


Writing is a philosophical dilemma

And although millions of literature majors

Write countless papers

About the poet’s symbolism

What do they really know

About the poet’s blah, blah show

Most importantly

What does the poet really know



© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)






Life’s reality

Based on unproven beliefs

Is a leap of faith


Who comes in the night

What child is this

Playing with a dollhouse

Trading the figures with friends

Moving them to different situations

Making up scenarios as the night progresses

Where am I?


I dream

Sitting around a dining table

Unrecognizable furniture

With a family never seen

Yet, though no one calls me

Mom or Sis or even Darling

I belong

They are not celebrities

Definitely not my home

But it is my own

Where am I?


I dream

Walking around an Atlantic Ocean seashore

Ships bobbing on frantic waves

Of strong-smelling salt

Yet never been here before

In my waking reality

Where am I?


The child trades me off again

To a troubled one

Who keeps me out of the house

Forcing me to walk down dark alleys

Speeding away from a stalker

My heart races in the night

My mind shouts wake up

Take an aspirin

Instead, I continue running

But the house is gone

Where am I?


Now I am with you

In a blazingly beautiful white room

I know you

But now there are two

Strangers, looking at us

We walk them out the door

The house is on a cliff

We are suddenly beamed to the shore

Like a sci fi special effects movie

Water, wheat fields

In Wyeth-like faded colors

We look up to see

The woman from previously

With a machine gun pointed at me

How can this be?


Oh, to be back in the dining room

With the unknown family

Or waking up in my bed

Is any of it real

Or is it all in my head?


Fantasies and dreams

Have their own reality

Tell me, where am I?


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Jamie Wyeth