I haven’t written much poetry since … high school? I used to be obsessed with writing stories, poems, songs, plays … anything that required putting a feeling into words.
So I’m going to give it another go :)
October is Autism & ADHD Awareness Month, and I’ve been working on a short piece where I try to put into words — and pictures — the excitement, danger, heartbreak, and triumphs of stepping into adulthood as a PDA human.
Please enjoy …
Flight of the Starling
Act One.
Here we go. About to fly. Will I die?
Illustrator: PJ Starling
Maybe. A distinct possibility. My dad, He tried. He tried, And died. He tried, And died. So why should I? Why should I try To fly? You neither should Nor shouldn't Love. You neither can Nor can't. But you are a bird My love. And your wings Ache for the gentle winds. Your eyes Long for the horizon. Your ears Are listening now for the one call That will pierce through the din. The call of your kin. You are a bird, My love. With wings made of the finest feather. The design took me ... Forever ;) So I should fly? That's what comes next? Well, what comes next Is you leave the nest.
The nest was our home, While you came of age. The nest was your refuge, When the elements raged. But things have felt calmer, These days. Wouldn't you say? Things have been fine. Kinda boring. Kinda meh. I hear ya. Very meh. I know the feeling well. Boredom comes knocking When your brain goes on rocking, And your body checks out for a spell. Your brain has ideas, And visions, And plans. Your brain has commitments, And spreadsheets, With projections. Your brain held a meeting While you were at that convention. Decisions were made, You got an email On march 8th. The appropriate Individuals Were notified. But when you got back, It went on to the stack, Of things you couldn't do If you tried. Bored swallows up All the fun. Like a cloud. A big black rain cloud, That follows you around! A big black cloud That's just for you. And mucks with everything you do.
Your wings, My love, Are made of me. Your wings Are but a memory Of my total dedication, To your perfect Education. Your mom and dad They did not jump. Though their wings were perfect too. They would not jump They could not jump. They felt ... the same as you!
They did not jump? I saw them fall! How could they not have jumped At all?? They did not jump. They had their reasons. Sometimes, in flying, We may miss our season. They stayed on the ground, With what was familiar. They heard a story About one who flies. They heard that story, But it was all lies. Lies, upon lies, And more upon that. Lies get forgotten, And taken for fact. Your mother, My love, Was raised by the fishes. They swam in the streams and raced through the brooks. They traveled in schools, And dodged fisherman's hooks. But then one day, She sang a song. A fish that sings? Just doesn't belong. Yes, my love, So she had to choose. She loved her voice. In fact, I'd say, Her voice was her friend, In her darkest of days. I remember. Her voice was sweet, And golden coloured. With the clearest of tones, With the softest of flutters. A voice that would Befit a bird. A voice that wanted, To be heard. Her voice, my love, Was not so welcome. In her house, With n'are-do-wells about. Her voice cried pain, And consternation. Her voice rang true, Of a victimization. Her voice, my love, Was silenced then. Her voice a page, Without a pen. Her voice a falling Midnight star. It now burns dimly, From afar. A bird, my love, When bid be silent. A bird must choose, to chirp or quiet. A bird must choose What it must do. Be loudly me, Or quietly ... You. A bird who cannot Yell out loud. A bird who cannot quack and wail. A bird who cannot Use her voice, Is one who is Destined to fail. Because a bird, Must warble and wail. Must sing and shout, And flair her tail. A bird must call, And call and call. She has to call, And call to all. She has to call, To all! To all! To ensure she never Ever falls. For birds, my love, Our song is key. Our song is living Memory. Our song is felt Inside our heart. Our song is living, Breathing art. Your mother, love, Down with the fishes, Chose swimming over song. Chose the fishes wishes. But oh Those fishes wishes were Much more than she had Bargained for. For fishes birth fishes, Not birds in the sea. Fish are for swimming, Birds out and free. Birds don't belong Down deep in the wet! Birds need the air ... Too wet and we fret!
A bird with no voice, And swimming with fish? A pickle, I'd say, She didn't order with her dish. Your father, my love, While your mother stayed silent, Your father had to run, From a dad who'd gone violent. Your father had a choice, That was no choice at all. Your father chose torture, Or a hole in the wall. Your father was trained, To be good at sneaking. Your father found peace, In the dead of the evening. With nothing about, No monsters on prowl. Nothing to mark him, To sneer and to howl. Your father hid, To hide his fear. Your father chose ... To disappear. A disappearing act Is one of those, When you pull it off so well, You wonder "Where did I go?" A disappearing act, Only doable, By a rat. A rat will do Some of this, Some of that. Where did I go? I'm lost in my game Of hide and go seek. Of sorrow and shame. When you learn To disappear so well. When you learn, That you're safe Inside your shell. When you learn That those who care for you, Have monsters in them ... What to do? What to do indeed I say, What to do But hide yourself away. What to do but hide away, And try not to become the Monster one day. Living with a monster's No bowl of cherries. But the one in the mirror's ... Especially scary. Especially scary. So what does one do When your choices seem grim? When your nature's to sing, And you're out on a limb. You and I see, Without missing a beat. You and I know, This is not a defeat! This is simply the moment, A bird stretches out, Stops hopping on land, With predators about. Flies up to the tree, And on to the next. Calls to his friends, And visits the nest. This out-on-a-limb stuff, For a bird on the wing, Being out on a limb's the most Natural thing. End, Act 1