As some of you may be aware, one of my three sons is affected with the neurological disorder known as autism.
I have, for some time now, been thinking about collecting together into a book the stories of other parents....stories which will inform, inspire, and possibly offer hope in what can so often be a difficult road to walk.
I've started a blog, outlining the rationale behind the volume and inviting parents to share their stories with me.
Here's the link:
http://mychildalways.blogspot.com
If you're interested....please do swing by and have a look!!
28 May 2010
12 May 2010
New Podcast made on Podbean!!!
Check it out!!!
MaryAnn's made a new podcast and posted it to Podbean!!!
Here's the link!!
http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com
MaryAnn's made a new podcast and posted it to Podbean!!!
Here's the link!!
http://maryannmccarrafitzpatrick.podbean.com
10 May 2010
Buttoned
circle of a moon, in black, four-
holed for the threading, so many
buttons, those with shanks and
those without, the nubbins of
loose threads, curling, brushed away to
the floor, buttoned boots, and
aprons, the first buttons on a
sweater, made of abalone shell, sewed
with pink-red thread that bled
when it was washed, the button
on the doll's dress, this doll,
buttoned and unbuttoned, put
them all on to take them all
off, and again, buttoned up
into a dress that is a floral field, a
pattern repeating down to the hem, the
making and unmaking of her
fastening, fast, of a button at the neck,
and, again, she smiles
holed for the threading, so many
buttons, those with shanks and
those without, the nubbins of
loose threads, curling, brushed away to
the floor, buttoned boots, and
aprons, the first buttons on a
sweater, made of abalone shell, sewed
with pink-red thread that bled
when it was washed, the button
on the doll's dress, this doll,
buttoned and unbuttoned, put
them all on to take them all
off, and again, buttoned up
into a dress that is a floral field, a
pattern repeating down to the hem, the
making and unmaking of her
fastening, fast, of a button at the neck,
and, again, she smiles
Smaller Ponds
lamp crackles to life as the
poet plucks his beard, the other, in
plaid shortsleeves, lights a cigarette,
smoking amongst the paperbacks
woman sits, silent
small fish in a
smaller pond, gutted for the
salt-barrel before winter, ragged
spine white, flesh dried on a rock
beneath the sun
gutted
pale provision salted away
for the cold months, head and tail
sloughed off with a blunt blade
the light goes out.
no more.
poet plucks his beard, the other, in
plaid shortsleeves, lights a cigarette,
smoking amongst the paperbacks
woman sits, silent
small fish in a
smaller pond, gutted for the
salt-barrel before winter, ragged
spine white, flesh dried on a rock
beneath the sun
gutted
pale provision salted away
for the cold months, head and tail
sloughed off with a blunt blade
the light goes out.
no more.
Over Her Shoulder, As She Walks, Overhearing
almost talking into her ear, this one,
mouth corner-twisting at the crossing of
Grand and Gramatan, it's a bad thing
when you see a realtor moving to Stevens...
que linda!! que linda!!
this month the dresses in Amelia's Bridal
are eggplant-colored, their rich sheen
reflecting his face as he shakes his head
side-to-side and sighs,
once is enough, yes, once. enough.
six black crows, strokes of charcoal
waving in the wind, black sedans
double-parked: he had me going in
circles, circles (they break ranks to
let the woman in green pass)
and, you know, I said to him, I
said, if he would only wait I
would have it for him, but he
was too much in a hurry, what
with the car and all
wedding
party
balloon
funeral
from soup to nuts the florist will
serve, with a couple of passport photos
thrown in for good measure
overhearing the very breath inhaled,
exhaled, over her shoulder, soles
pressing the pavement
mouth corner-twisting at the crossing of
Grand and Gramatan, it's a bad thing
when you see a realtor moving to Stevens...
que linda!! que linda!!
this month the dresses in Amelia's Bridal
are eggplant-colored, their rich sheen
reflecting his face as he shakes his head
side-to-side and sighs,
once is enough, yes, once. enough.
six black crows, strokes of charcoal
waving in the wind, black sedans
double-parked: he had me going in
circles, circles (they break ranks to
let the woman in green pass)
and, you know, I said to him, I
said, if he would only wait I
would have it for him, but he
was too much in a hurry, what
with the car and all
wedding
party
balloon
funeral
from soup to nuts the florist will
serve, with a couple of passport photos
thrown in for good measure
overhearing the very breath inhaled,
exhaled, over her shoulder, soles
pressing the pavement
04 May 2010
Framed in Black
*Written for day 30 of the PAD challenge. A "letting go" poem.
balloon sailing off over
the Concourse, blue globe
across all those lanes
of traffic (north/south,
south/north)
traveling too fast for mama
to catch, very soon over
the rooftops, the ribs of washlines
white below
then even
past the beady-black eyes
of pigeons, up, further
and further, past the
moon and even
the stars, held there, forever,
framed in black
balloon sailing off over
the Concourse, blue globe
across all those lanes
of traffic (north/south,
south/north)
traveling too fast for mama
to catch, very soon over
the rooftops, the ribs of washlines
white below
then even
past the beady-black eyes
of pigeons, up, further
and further, past the
moon and even
the stars, held there, forever,
framed in black
And Suddenly There Is That Touch...
*Written for day 29 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: "and suddenly (blank)."
and suddenly
there is that touch to
the small of the back
in mid-afternoon, the
sun starting a slow decline
as the number 52 bus
roars past--then fades--the
black plastic sack taped to
the window of Republica
Cigars blocks the sun as he
sits and rolls, rolls
the tanned leaves into tight cylinders
as hot tar, sticky-black
is poured and pressed into
potholes
she turns and ruminates
on the veins of cracked plaster,
adding them to the list (the damp,
of course, caused it)
and shouts rise up from
the pathway below the bedroom
window, competing with the
summer sound of motorcycles
from the highway
twisting the sheet in her
hands and counting the
blossoms: forget-me-nots, blue-
bells, forsythia like that
growing by the schoolyard,
waiting for the lilacs to bloom
at the white house on the
corner, passing by that
cloud of scent to
inhale deeply...
she sighs and
starts the dinner
and suddenly
there is that touch to
the small of the back
in mid-afternoon, the
sun starting a slow decline
as the number 52 bus
roars past--then fades--the
black plastic sack taped to
the window of Republica
Cigars blocks the sun as he
sits and rolls, rolls
the tanned leaves into tight cylinders
as hot tar, sticky-black
is poured and pressed into
potholes
she turns and ruminates
on the veins of cracked plaster,
adding them to the list (the damp,
of course, caused it)
and shouts rise up from
the pathway below the bedroom
window, competing with the
summer sound of motorcycles
from the highway
twisting the sheet in her
hands and counting the
blossoms: forget-me-nots, blue-
bells, forsythia like that
growing by the schoolyard,
waiting for the lilacs to bloom
at the white house on the
corner, passing by that
cloud of scent to
inhale deeply...
she sighs and
starts the dinner
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