condition: by Su Zi (a Poem)

convinced of colitis
the accusing finger under the ribs
the worm tantalizing the fish
and with a pain more jointed than any insect,
this is digging fingernails into the arches of your feet
bruising cheekbones with your knees,
that is your position of supplication.
you dream of movies made outside of
    Nonexistent banklike architecture
of neon, Mardi Gras masks,
an illicit silkiness from which
    no one is exempt.
fading is the curry chicken, or the
barbeque ribs spicier than reggae
fading are your speeches not lit with sudden moans
and bloated goes your waist, inflamed inflamed
bloated you go, a dead fish.

~*~

End Note:  This poem is from Su Zi's new collection Chicago Poems. Click here to check it out.

~*~
Su Zi is a poet/writer and artist/printmaker and edits, designs and constructs the eco-feminist poetry chapbook series Red Mare. 

Publications include poetry, essays, stories and reviews that date back to pre-cyber publishing, including when Exquisite Corpse was a vertical print publication, and a few editions of New American Writing. More recent publications include Red Fez, Alien Buddha and Thrice. A resident of the Ocala National Forest, with a dedicated commitment to providing a safe feeding respite for wild birds, and for a haphazard gardening practice that serves as a life model for all aspects of her work.

The Life I Lead by Lisa Jones

Maybe if I pretend
I don’t see

The way you look at me
This cane will fade
And I’ll feel whole

Maybe if I pretend
I’m beautiful
You’ll love me again
Like a woman
Not a dependent cripple

Maybe if I pretend
I’m someone else
I can live a life
Without fear of being
Trapped in this body

~*~
Biography:  Lisa Jones writes poetry as a form of therapy. She lives in Ontario, Canada.

Not for Me by Julie Stevens

When I want to disappear
I look down at my feet,

imagine my head nestling under my toes,
or I wear my smile
overflowing with happiness and hope they won’t notice.

But there’s butterflies in my tummy
flying so fast I might fall over.
If I bite my nails or twiddle my hair,
they might decide it’s time to rest
just for a minute.

Today’s the day I don’t want to be here,
today’s the day I didn’t want to get dressed,
so I’ll wear my mask
pretend to be happy,
walk with them
looking my best.

~*~

Julie Stevens lives in Cambridge, UK. She has had Multiple Sclerosis (MS) for 30 years. Her poems tend to reflect the impact MS has on her life, as well as other topics close to her heart. Her poems have recently been published in various magazines, online and in print, most recently The Blue Nib, Crossways, The Honest Ulsterman and Dreich Magazine. She came second in the Dreich Chapbook Competition with her chapbook Quicksand. Her website is www.jumpingjulespoetry.com.

gears by Su Zi (a Poem)

alright

all night long I watch the traffic lights change,

and I listen for the coming of ice.

the police come and pet my hair.

day comes with watery shadows on the white walls

it comes with orange juice

rice taped into a diary

and the pale moments of tenderness with the cat.

but still every week I dream I lose my teeth

standing at a pay phone

dialing

nowhere

dialing

and still there are those long dead weeds

at the freight yard

where I sit in my wheelchair

pulsing with the speech of steel.

~*~
Su Zi is a poet/writer and artist/printmaker and edits, designs and constructs the eco-feminist poetry chapbook series Red Mare. 

Publications include poetry, essays, stories and reviews that date back to pre-cyber publishing, including when Exquisite Corpse was a vertical print publication, and a few editions of New American Writing. More recent publications include Red Fez, Alien Buddha and Thrice. A resident of the Ocala National Forest, with a dedicated commitment to providing a safe feeding respite for wild birds, and for a haphazard gardening practice that serves as a life model for all aspects of her work.

Two Poems by Kathryn O'Driscoll

Nesting

Bones dislocate from rawened sockets
as the perception of self is wrenched and wrecked aside.
Rib-bones snap and contract sharply concave:
they form a brackenel nest of the interlocking twig fingers
of mothers, of sisters, of brothers and starlight –
the defences set in sticks, in stones, in love, bend
and readjust to allow the shards of cartilage to slip inside
and pierce through a tough exterior, to the heart of the matter.
Dislocate everything and reassemble it differently
because we, ( I ), we, see what you might not;
you’re fucking beautiful.

~*~

An Elegy, A Eulogy

My body is a slow motion funeral. 

It is the shrieks of loss, echoing in a church's vaulted ceilings.

It is the reverberation in the votives flickering. 

It is stained glass liquifying in the sun

and dripping out of its frames,

tearfuls down the ledges. 

My body is an elegy, a eulogy, 

a goodbye long overdue. 

My body is a roof beam coming down on the whole damn place,

hymns and all. 

~*~

Biography:  Kathryn O'Driscoll is a spoken word poet, writer and activist from Bath who talks openly about her disability and mental health in her wide range of poems. Aside from performing poetry across the South West; she’s also a Bristol slam champion who has performed at the Edinburgh Fringe, at multiple UK National competitions and on BBC Radio Bristol. She has a first class degree in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University. 

Fog by Joshua P. Sorensen

Phantom pain! or is it real?
I should know... I do know this.
So simple, like swimming.
Swimming through mud.
Hands quiver.
Medicine helps that.
No drug clears the fog.
The easy, the difficult, the now unreachable.
I slap my head.
Fails to clear the mind.
Somehow?
Makes me feel better.
Expectation management
The key to my survival.
I am not what I was,
But I am still great.

Maybe, I’ll just stay in today
~*~

Biography:  Joshua P. Sorensen is from Orem, Utah (United States).  He graduated with a Masters of Military History from Norwich University. His extensive travels inspire him to write poetry and short fiction. Drawn to horror writing, he particularly enjoys writing monster fiction. His other loves include history, nature, and all things geek. Joshua’s current life goal is to bring delightful chills to all ages, particularly the young. His children’s picture books are available online or at your favorite bookseller. He is a member of the HWA and LUW. He can be found on Facebook: #SorensenVagabondWriter and Amazon: amazon.com/author/joshuapsorensen

Me at My Most Vulnerable by Lisa Jones

I want to hide within myself
Away from everyone and everything
Voices natter inside my head
Feelings swell
Insecurities rise
I don’t know how to control them
A blinding fear overtakes
Flutters in my chest
Brings tears to eyes
A croak in my voice
I’m afraid to make too much noise
Others will hear
See the real me
The one with a degenerative illness
The one who is weak
Has been abandoned
Despite all she gave
The one who feels unloved
Even though all she wants is to be loved
This is me
Me at my most vulnerable
~*~
Biography:  Lisa Jones writes poetry as a form of therapy. She lives in Ontario, Canada.

Dyslexia Runs in Families by Karen Downs-Barton

Light slants into the scullery kitchen
where I am looking at pictures in comics.

Tripe is bubbling in a battered saucepan
while in a Pyrex jar an onion cools in white liquor.

Bapo has rocked back on his one good chair,
balanced between floating and falling.

His newspaper is a curtain concealing his face;
he might be sleeping or pretending, like I am.

I look at the smudged lines of old print,
his earthy fingers supporting the pages.

I scan the images of upside-down people,
whose lives his hold has made a turmoil.
~*~
Note - Bapo:  Grandfather, colloquial Romani
~*~
Biography:  Karen Downs-Barton is a neurodiverse poet from the Roma community. She is a Creative Writing Masters candidate at Bath Spa University, UK where her manuscript explores experiences of a Roma child growing up in the state childcare system. Her work is forthcoming or published in Tears in the Fence, Night Picnic Journal, The High Window, Alyss, The Otolith, The Fem Review, The Goose, The Curly Mind, Persian Sugar in English Tea, amongst others. Find her at: https://thepapercutpoet.wordpress.com

An Untitled Poem by Pamela Hope

Pamela's note:  This is a piece of a collection in progress, on themes of trauma and deformity.
~*~
TW:  Blood and violence

(Untitled)

Get out your knife
                Snatch my blade

Press it into this rotting flesh

Check for marbling, watch for green
The content maggots eating me
Your five sharpened edges

Fingers pinching me
Squeezing this raw meat
Ground up and slab
                I mold around your touch
I squeeze through your fingers

Those blades drawing blood

The vulture sniffs me out
                And caws from afar

Look up
                We see
                                Him circle
~*~
Biography:  Pamela Hope is a disabled and disfigured creative and thinker.  She has a background in education, organizations, and free-lance writing; and currently works in banking, of all things.  Follow her @PamelaHope3.

Push by Kale Sastre

I try not to step on anyone’s toes
But it’s hard with feet doused in concrete
Other women have dainty ballet slippers
And I have shoes made by a mafia hitman

“If you can’t say something nice don’t say anything at all”
and
“Always tell the truth; be impeccable with your word”
and
“A lie of omission is still a lie”
Cannot all live in harmony
Not harmoniously, anyway

Sometimes I don’t speak up when I should
Too often I speak up when I shouldn’t
I never know what to say
And I’ll agonize over it whether I’ve said it out loud or not

Debates are like verbal sparring and
Conversations are practice matches
I have to be on guard for my opponent and
I need to know who my teammates are

I get so tired from the endless acrobatics
Especially when I never wanted to hurt anyone
But exhaustion makes me push harder
Knowing I’m wearing down gives me that extra boost

That pushes everyone
Away
From
Me
~*~
Biography: Kale Sastre is many things including: a writer, an anthropologist, an activist, a volunteer, a Christian, a translator, a cat owner, and a friend. She is also: disabled, neurodivergent, chronically ill, and gender nonconforming. This makes an interesting mix sometimes, and when it does, she usually writes about it. You can find her writings for The Mighty at themighty.com/u/kale-sastre or follow her on Twitter @kalesastre. She also has a list of publications available at aksartor.wordpress.com.

Healing Myself by Venetia Sjogren (a Poem)

there was no need to wave wands
conjure spells or mix magic potions
I did not languish lupine under pale, full moons
nor speak in mystical tongues
no depressants were dispensed
late night drinking, crying and life-bashing
with friends, was avoided
I did not vacillate between telephoning doctors
and damning them to perdition
nor did I spend nights oscillating between a false bravado
and Ophelia-like vapors
I simply stopped
hating my broken body
with its plaque-laden nerves
one breath
one memory
one cell
at a time
and began
to love
me
~*~
Biography:  Venetia Sjogren is disabled grandmother, who lives with multiple sclerosis and end stage kidney disease, an Afro-Latina and humanist. Her brother was born deaf and her niece has cerebral palsy thus she is acutely aware of the challenges of being (dis)abled. She reads rather indiscriminately as her books range from Sci-Fi to Anthropology. She dislikes bigots, peas, anything hazelnut and okra. I know, I know - she is a flipping screwball.  Her publication credits include Poets Against the War and Howard University’s, The Amistad.

A Hostile Take-over by Venetia Sjogren (a Poem)

I have heard it said that love starts with one's self
my conundrum—what happens when even the most basic
component of one's body commences
a revolution
causing pain, blindness, confusion and paralysis
when bastard neurons hijack all the other better parts
causing mayhem, discontent and disorder
I tell you—it is bad enough to lose beauty, youth and grace,
as one ages
bad enough to lose family, friends and lovers
to accidents and other misfortunes
but when the body attempts its hostile take-over
when your bathroom has become a miniature pharmacopoeia
when neurons mis-fire like an epileptic, drunk
whilst doing ballet around an oak tree,
daubed in blue and howling at the moon, simultaneously
it becomes a battle I tire of fighting
one that I have decided to concede
let the neurons have their vainglorious victory
let them have the spoils—
my broken body
~*~
Biography:  Venetia Sjogren is disabled grandmother, who lives with multiple sclerosis and end stage kidney disease, an Afro-Latina and humanist. Her brother was born deaf and her niece has cerebral palsy thus she is acutely aware of the challenges of being (dis)abled. She reads rather indiscriminately as her books range from Sci-Fi to Anthropology. She dislikes bigots, peas, anything hazelnut and okra. I know, I know - she is a flipping screwball.  Her publication credits include Poets Against the War and Howard University’s, The Amistad.

Cry To Heaven by Jamztoma

Cry to heaven
Unloved and unwanted
Roaming the Earth
Lost and cursed
Man-child so weak
Nature's freak
So they say

Depression you got me falling, falling
And I am sobbing, sobbing
When will my troubles end?

Cry to heaven
Lonely forbidden
Underdog forsaken
an Adam-descent
non paradise-sent
unfortunate, hell-bent
So they say

Depression you got me falling, falling
And I'm sobbing, sobbing
When will I surrender to death?
~*~
Biography:  Jamztoma is a published poet residing in Silver Spring, Maryland.  He has a disability that he does not want to disclose at this time.  He has two poetry collections now being sold at Amazon, The PASEFIKA Beat (2013) and Lyrical Mysteries (2015).  "Cry to Heaven" that is featured on here was previously published in Lyrical Mysteries.  You can order it from Amazon via this link: https://amzn.to/2XE7kmG.

Poem by F.I. Goldhaber

Trigger warning:  Brief mention of suicide

NormalPeople

You're told NormalPeople don’t hallucinate;
don’t analyze suicide methods to minimize pain, ensure success.

You're told NormalPeople don’t think twenty things
at once, their thoughts racing from idea to idea to idea.

You can explain how you got from A to two
hundred three. You're told NormalPeople don’t process information this way.

You're told NormalPeople sleep through the night. Their
minds don’t obsessively weave inextricable webs which keep them awake.

You're told NormalPeople don’t have days when just
getting out of bed to confront the world becomes a major achievement.

When NormalPeople explain this, how do you
react? Do you want to settle for normal or flee to your mind's refuge?
~*~
Biography: F.I. Goldhaber's words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer's eye and a poet's soul. As a reporter, editor, business writer, and marketing communications consultant, they produced news stories, feature articles, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now paper, electronic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. More than 100 of their poems appear in sixty plus publications, including four collections. http://www.goldhaber.net/

Poem by Gregory Luce

Trigger warning:  Institutionalized abuse

Not Again

Don’t shock me again
I’ll smile and eat
the rubber meat
covered in
congealing red
sauce I’ll put on
a clean shirt
if someone brings me
one just don’t turn on
that machine and put
the needle away
~*~

Biography:  Gregory Luce, author of Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House Publications), Drinking Weather (Finishing Line Press), Memory and Desire (Sweatshoppe Publications), and Tile (Finishing Line Press), has published widely in print and online. He is the 2014 Larry Neal Award winner for adult poetry, given by the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. He is retired from National Geographic, works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC, and lives in Arlington, VA.

Branching Birds by Hugh Cook

I stare at shifting light
Bleeding through the curt branches
Tapping shadows and sunburnt clouds.
I feel like the wind-caught leaves
Finding themselves walked in delicate circles.

Chestnut and dark cinnamon feathers
Land above,
Looking at me,
From endless black eyes that say
“Beauty remains.”

A teary breeze took the bird off
Leaving me for what
Next drives into my mind’s wild circles.
~
Biography:  Hugh Cook attends University of California, Santa Barbara, studying Writing and Literature. He has authored a collection titled The Day it Became a Circle (Afterworld Books). His poetry has been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Ariel Chart and Muddy River Poetry Review.

Aug 1, 2017 by Noah Renee Shaw (A Poem)

Breakable like a piece of glass,
Fragile,
Don't drop - I'll shatter,
Don't even look harshly,
Or I may break,
When did this happen,
I who stood so tall,
Me against the world,
Survivor,
Now wanting to crawl in a hole,
My gumption is gone,
My strength wavering,
Is my desire in a lost and found,
Help me find me before I disappear for good.

~*~
Biography: Noah Renee is 29 years old and will be 30 on January 21. Noah Renee has been battling mental illness since her last year in college at the age of 22. She’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective disorder Bipolar type, PTSD, and anxiety disorder. She lives with her dad and twin brother.

She can be contacted at noah89shaw89[at]hotmail[dot]com.