Kate Meyer-Currey

Trailblazers: Opening the Doors of Neurodiverse Perception

Welcome to the neurotypical world,
neurodivergent changeling. It wasn’t
your choice to be born this way, under
such a wayward star. 

You’ll find equality legislation hasn’t
got with our different beat yet; the
way is full of pitfalls like closed doors
and glass ceilings. 

So here are some of my tips to start
you off along life’s rocky road, to dodge
those obstacles like Supermario and
shine with your own light:

One: don’t turn the other cheek when
they attack: go for the jugular.  

Two: words hurt worse than sticks and
stones; they break you inside, so answer
back. Avoid profanities, though. 

Three: don’t try to be a pleaser to fit in;
they won’t accept you anyway. 

Four: you’ll get noticed whatever you do,
so square those shoulders and walk tall.

Five: sometimes you’ll forget that you’re
‘different’ until some idiot reminds you.
That really sucks. However, you’ll make
them look the fool. 

Six: you’ll get understanding from people
you might have crossed the road to avoid.
It may change your life. It did mine.

Seven: there’ll be days where it all
feels too much to bear, where you are
diminished. You’ll retreat, regroup,
and come out fighting. 

Eight: your sense of humour will be
savage, and unique. You’ll have the
last laugh because you don’t take
yourself too seriously. 

Nine: your moral compass will set you
on the right path, just avoid being a
self-righteous protected-characteristic
snitch.  

Ten: pick your battles wisely; it’s tiring
fighting all the time. You’ll find that others
will take up your cudgels because they see
your struggle is real. 

Finally: this is a lot to process as your life
is just beginning. It won’t be easy, but no-
one’s is. Your way will not be mine. 

But you’ll be a streetwise guide for those
who’ve been lost in the dark. We all were,
banging at closed doors with bleeding
hands.    

Someone like us helped us see our spark
wasn’t gone; just dimmed by adversity.
New doors opened into brighter spaces. 

Their awareness reignited our inner fire:
we are torchbearers: blazing comets
leading others by our light.

Kate Meyer-Currey moved to Devon, England, in 1973. A varied career in frontline settings has fueled her interest in gritty urbanism contrasted to her rural upbringing. Her ADHD instils a sense of “other” in her writing. Kate has published more than fifty poems and her first chapbook, County Lines, will be released this year by Dancing Girl Press.

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Robert MacDonald

The Local

(for all the places of ill repute
that nurtured wandering souls
and spirited their troubles away)

Welcome, friend, to a great quiet place
To be yourself of an afternoon, to share
What there is of light, to drown sorrows
In the rich music of shared enjoyment.

Welcome, stranger, to the last best place
For cheerful chatter, mild swings in mood,
Simple gifts that greet each and often drift
Into moments of unlikely friendship.

Welcome, pilgrim, to road end, destination,
Where the moment is lived in high hopes,
The answer is soon given without question,
The gamblers all win, the prize is peace.

Welcome, reader, to a story about to end.
The best things in life are simple, not secret,
And take shape as ordinary people convene
To live good lives that need no explanation.

Robert MacDonald has been a graphic artist, typographer, community activist, publisher, information architect, program director, programmer, and designer. Having spent most of his life in big cities, he is now nestled into the grasslands and orchards that overlook the lakes in the outrageously beautiful Okanagan valley. He finds profound solace in the virgin wilderness upland from his home. He is transcribing several decades of poems from notebook to computer, and otherwise productively biding his time.

Sandra Fees

Petunias, After Watching the News

My cart rasps
………..as I wheel up one aisle
………………….and down the next.

It begins to rain.
………..Begonias and petunias
………………….unruffled, prosper. 

Other carts squeak too,
………..the gardeners barely
………………….glancing at each other. 

All of us besotted
………..with freedom pinks
………………….and flared leaves. 

It’s the yellow-blotch pansies
………..with their purple masks
………………….that unpetal me. 

I gather six. They are
………..a desperate beholding.
………………….I am as close to knowing 

them as to anyone.
………..The rain slackens
………………….but I am drenched 

with the scent of humus
………..and the ache to plant
………………….something living 

that will never know
………..what it means to end a life,
………………….will never have the means.

Landscape with Junco and Comb

Some days I prefer to be the bee
with its pockets of pollen.
Others, junco’s bowl of smoke.

I adore the mind of the small,
what is curved and quickening,
what moves with grace, 

savoring, saving.
But never the macadamed,
my feet scorched against its trouble.

Teach me, little ones,
to hold by instinct so clear a purpose:
to brush echinacea, comb the broad-leafed—

and not a thought to maladies,
given at birth to this handiwork,
jubilant and bejeweled.

Sandra Fees has been published in Sky Island Journal, Chiron Review, and other journals, and her work is forthcoming in SWWIM, Nimrod (semi-finalist, Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry), and Common Ground Review (honorable mention, Poetry Contest). She is a former Berks County Poet Laureate, Pennsylvania, and author of The Temporary Vase of Hands (Finishing Line Press, 2017). You can learn more at sandrafees.com.

V. Jane Schneeloch

Questions at the American Moderns Exhibit
Georgia O’Keeffe: Green Yellow and Orange 1960

Following the serpentine green lines
and yellow and orange shadings
of O’Keeffe’s abstract,
I find the smallest spot
of blank canvas.

One of her later works,
the recorded guide explains,
and I remember reading about
John Poling who helped her paint
as her eyesight was failing.

And I wonder
is it still your vision
if someone else holds the brush?
When does the need to create
overtake the need to be the creator?

And what do you name
the canvas that escapes?

Retired from teaching English, Jane enjoys writing, watching the birds at her feeder, and spoiling her dog named Kat. Her poetry appears in numerous journals and two collections: Turning Over Leaves (Antrim House Books, 2015) and Climbing to the Moon (Finishing Line Press, 2009). Her blog, “Musing Over my Oatmeal,” explores various topics. Her plays, In Hiding and The Test, were produced at the Drama Studio in Springfield, Massachusetts where she lives.