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Poetry : If Only I Had Known...
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Posted by sylvia on Wednesday, December 14, 2005 (17:33:47)
By Brian Henson
If only I had known from in the early days in life
The years of mystery would not be there;
If only I had known, and read, and understood it all,
Then I would never say "There ain't a prayer!"
If only I had known about this descriptive term or phrase,
About this way of seeing things askew;
If only I had known, back then, that I was not alone,
Then contact would be there for me and you.
But I did not have any way to find the unknown key,
As no one else at that time had a clue;
However, since I have found out about this way of life,
That has brought us together--me and you.
We see the world so differently, ...seems strange to even us;
But in it we are still alive and fair.
Some day, when we look back upon the days of our own lives,
We'll wonder why we even had a care...
So different is this way of life, that no one can describe
Just how the person sees the river flow,
Nor how the person hears the lark or rustle of the leaves,
As everything is sudden, but still slow.
The competition's just not there, nor is the need to crave;
The need to claim possession is unknown;
And each small blade of grass is seen as life unto itself,
As every whisper is felt to the bone.
As we adapt to this new way of being in this life,
And with it, show our empathetic side,
We'll not be short of friends, and we will sense the growth of hope,
With all of mother nature on our side...
Brian Henson ©2005
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Poetry : A Rose, By Any Other Name...
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Posted by Sylvia on Tuesday, May 17, 2005 (19:04:39)
By Brian Henson
If you had AS, just what would it "feel" like?
To me it's a rose bush all lavish with blooms,
And although many others do search out the flowers,
There's more to a rose bush than what one assumes.
For one thing, the rose bush is often quite viney,
And needs to be held back or grows out of shape;
But one thing that makes it quite awkward to handle
Is that it has thorns on it's bio landscape.
These thorns are a nuisance, and often cause scratches,
And while many feel they would like them to part,
Those thorns are a part of the rose's own makeup,
And one must take thorns with a feeling of heart;
But lest we forget all the petals and blossoms
That show all the beauty a rose can expose,
The one thing that makes this rose unique in essence,
Is non but the scent that it gives in one's nose.
So, AS is seen as the thorns and the blossoms,
But under the surface, the scent is the key,
And as there are so many types of rose bushes,
The AS is ladened with diversity.......
Brian Henson ©2005
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Poetry : The Silent Spring
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Posted by Sylvia on Sunday, May 08, 2005 (22:32:26)
By Brian Henson
The hum, the grind, the music beat--
They start to surge in force
Until the bang hits in the ear,
And one escapes the source...
The source is the environment
Where sounds are uncontrolled;
And yet when asked to ease the strain,
The quest is seen as "cold".
As there is no alternative
Than to escape the bang,
It's like one's trying to escape
The bullet and the gang...
Once out, and far away, relief
Is felt, but now alone,
The individual must face
A life next to a stone.
That stone is not a social byte;
But humans crave to be
Connected to another kin
Through their humanity.
So as the person, who begs peace
And quiet times, essays
To reach out to the world, he finds
That time is but delays...
Delays in understanding peace;
Delays in silent form,
Delays in seeking inner strength,
Before the silent storm.
But these delays do not annul
The want of reaching out
To others who have felt the peace,
And put aside the doubt.
As more souls put aside the doubt,
And listen to their heart,
The silence will increase to force
The noise to, then, depart...
Brian Henson ©2005
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Poetry : As The Feeling Lives
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Posted by sylvia on Thursday, March 17, 2005 (00:41:25)
By Brian Henson
I feel in you the subtle variations
Of what the human senses do reveal.
There is no firm or universal format;
Each person is a sign of the appeal,
Appeal to find a fellow human being
Who has the same intensity and frame
Of mind as one, but still a variation
As one does not seek one just quite the same.
The mystery is there, but so's the bonding,
As no two people are just mirror clones;
And though the depth of soul is oft elusive,
It never gets down deep inside the bones.
The surface is far more important symbol
Of how the other human is, indeed,
And lest one get the false impression,
A smile is something that most all will heed.
Your intuition is so strong and balanced,
As you can sense the need before the voice,
And this bestows an image of a human
Who shows respect for others, in their choice.
The deed is more important than the purpose,
But shows that empathy is still alive,
For those who still appeal to other humans
Who, for their bonding grace, do still survive.
We are but simple souls, and yet so varied
In how we see the forest and the trees,
And how we search for others who are caring
As well as showing their humilities.
Brian Henson ©2005
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Poetry : T h e I s l a n d
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Posted by sylvia on Sunday, October 24, 2004 (21:51:24)
By Brian Henson
Way out, on the island,
'Tis but a retreat
Where water's the buffer
'Gainst both cold and the heat.
The mainland is distant,
But still within sight,
As others see island
In darkness and light.
The island is tiny;
A cabin is built,
But, due to the waters,
There's more than one stilt.
The owner is feeling
A sigh of relief,
As there is such stillness
On land and on reef.
The world and it's numbers
Is not to be heard;
As nature consumes one,
In thought and in word.
And when one must go
To the mainland for shops,
The pressure is there
From the folks and the cops.
But back to the island
One whiffs in a breeze,
As there is no need to
Bow down on one's knees.
The life on the island
Is lacking a yield,
As each creature there
Is on one playing field.
The sun sets and rises
To declare each new day,
As the waves crest the island
And the fireflies play.
It's a sad day when one has
To leave isle for good,
As each part of the island
Is part of one's blood.
But the island will be there
In spirit and form,
Long after departure--
Beyond any storm.
Autism's the island,
Where many retreat
As they feel for being,
Away from the street...
Brian Henson ©2004
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