New Book Project.......

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!!

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

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

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.

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

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

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

McCarra/Poetry Broadcast Number 8

Wassaic

disgorging from each car at the
end of this railway line, are the
grey men with hats and cases, news-
papers folded under their arms

some met by wives in sleek sedans--
others walk home in the twilight
quietly approaching, the roar of the
train ebbing away to nothing, as if
it never were

the promise of a moon later, low-hanging
over the station, a
gleaming dinnerplate suspended as if
in a catalogue for new brides,
pale white, brighter than electricity

music rising up, the cricket song,
the scratch of matches, the winding of
the clock--at the tone the time will
be---

No Other Road

*Written for day 27 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "hopeful" poem.

because there is no other road
we lace our boots up and look,

resolutely, at the ink drying on the
page, these floods that would

detail, in an exhaustive manner,
all that has gone before, the

case notes, blue on white, neatly
filed, the various and sundry

applications, forms, petitions and
letters to the editor--a fine

thing indeed, to see your name
in print--

all the while that small wild
bird, quivering, flying in your breast,

the ever-living heartbeat that
forgets to die, somehow, and

lives on, the spark amidst
the dust crackling into a bonfire