This poem was originally written in 1996. Although the naive rhythmical structure somewhat gives away my lack of maturity at the time, I don't feel that the alienation I was trying to tackle has actually been resolved. For me, or for any of my fellow dwellers of the middle-ground. My only observation is that now, there seems to be no longer even an awareness of the difference between handicap, impairment and disability.

Between Two Precipices:

Difference is neither here nor there.

What gives them the right to stop and stare.

What gives permission to the "top brass",

To treat these citizens second class.

Stereotyped straight away,

As "those'll need special help today".

Sometimes they need just a slight chance,

To taste a little independence.

Why don't some people heed,

That you might not be disabled OR able-bodied.

Life is not as it may seem.

You may not be either extreme.

Stuck in the middle are the handicapped,

This was originally written after a sleepless few hours at 1.06 am on 28th September 2001. I wenr on to start my journalistic education in the maelstrom of that time.

I had hoped for a reasoned response in reaction to the attacks on New York on September 11th. I fear there is often no reflection.

Silence. All that was heard,

Was dwarfed by one enormous word.

Silence has more power than,

The beating drum of the loudest clan.

More dignity when with minds unclear,

We stand in silence despite our fear.

For only in silence can we hear,

Every sorrow and every tear.

We must be silent when anger unbowed

Stands in an unforgiving crowd.

Or unleash a greater hateful display

Than the one directed our way.

The world must pause for introspection

Too many bloody wars

Too much effect before or after cause

Undiagnosed, unremedied

I lie awake and wonder [in wonder]

Will we ever ponder peace

[perhaps a release from an overburdened mind]

places left behind, experiences yet to come

[the beating drum of movement's supreme god]

leading me to think

over stimulation remedied my undercurrents

Thoughts on disability

Although the following poem was originally written a while ago, it reminds me of a recent conversation with a friend about the nature of normality, physical perfection and the necessity to be an advocate for the rights of minorities to which you belong. I'm blessed to be able to speak for those whose voices are obscured by physiology or psychology, politics or geography. I dream of open airwaves. If you cannot understand, you don't ignore, you translate.

I think I'll shout,

For those who can't

I think I'll dream

While others scream

While others scheme

I think I'll dream.

I think I'll shout

Entertain no doubt

I'll let all the muzzled frustrations out

Of all those who cannot speak.

Those so forcibly meek.

To borrow from Jasmina Tesanovic's superb book, Diary of a Political Idiot, I have always felt that poetry is a biological urge to avoid pain. Or perhaps to express it.

This is the latest manifestation of that desire. Penned just as I left work at around 7am.

It is called Rallying Cry:

What do you do when you can't find silence?
When all waking thoughts turn to violence?
The violence of chronic pain, when unbidden it comes again and again.
When every solution causes more queries.
And life goes on, and wearies.

You take control of yourself,
Because your health is YOUR health.
You raise your head,
Put a smile on your face
And remember you're part of the human race.