“The Moment Right Before” Poem

This was one of my first poems and it is about my many trips to the park with my kids. Autism, more than 10 years ago, was one of those disorders few people really knew anything about; it wasn't as prevalent and talked about as it is now. From first appearances my kids looked like every other kid until they got a closer view of my daughter (who has severe autism) and then ...


“The Moment Right Before”

It’s the moment right before
And after I see them coming
With their big, white smiles flashing my way
And I get that feeling—ache, that’s hard to describe
And it starts with the pleasant conversation:
The trees, the weather, the park.

It’s the moment right before
And it’s a feeling I like to flirt with
For at least a moment or two
But I feel I have not right—like a minority or a hidden plague
But it feels so nice and feels so natural
The way it is meant to be.

It’s the moment right before
I can predict when to tell them
Before they realize on their own
That she’s a little different—a bit off
And save us all from their little excuses
To travel to the other end of the park.

It’s the moment right before
They can become so bold
And redirect their child from mine
By quickly brushing them away
Like a broom sweeping
As if I wouldn’t notice.

It’s the moment right before
A potential friendship dies before it can start.
It’s sad to feel this way, but also learned
From others park moms who don’t understand
About autism. Because she looks just fine—normal
As if my own reflection smiling back at me.

It’s the moment right before
People are drawn to us—like magnets
And I want to repel, before they do
Play the role that I’m the snob
And have no interest in YOU
But I do; boy, do I do.

It’s the moment right before
The color is drained from my face
As if I’ve been murdered and left for dead
To stand motionless
Like rigor mortis
And silent, too.

It the moment right before
It all seems so heartless
But it’s real and today
In a world left too busy
With no time for difficult friends
So I do understand.

It’s the moment right before
They’ll need a quick fix
And a compatible one, too,
But it still hurts
Because there are no quick fixes here
Just the moment right before.

"Autism on a Bad Day" Poem

“Autism on a Bad Day’

The boiling point, melt down, crying fits,
Fist punches, hair pulling, I’d be lucky to come out clean,
Without the beating red. It sounds dysfunctional, perhaps it is.

A part of the brain that doesn’t work quite right.
A wiring that went wrong, if you will. Doctors,
Researchers, Scientists still can’t explain it, so how can I.

I pray that a melt down happens at home
Or while she’s at school—with the well equipped—
Teachers who can handle it, without the tears.

I lift weights, I need to, because in public, and she melts downs,
I must use all my power—my might, keep my cool, say a quiet
Prayer, while heaving the 40+ pounds of fighting, dead weight.

Her legs in the air, 90-degree angle (no angel), pushing against
My crotch, ripping her clothes off, finger nails digging,
Be lucky if she doesn’t bite—no easy feat being 100 pounds petite.

I just do it! People wonder how, praising me endlessly,
As if autism were my choice. And it scares because I forget
Just how much harder I have it. Ignorance is bliss, don’t forget it!

I look around to see, when I choose to see
A typical child and it catches up with me—and it’s hard.
But I must bring myself back to my world and just do it!

“We can do it” an old tin reproduction of a woman demonstrating
A muscle hangs on my kitchen wall, depicting wartime; my
war too--just different--and a reminder when it gets too tough.

"Imitation" Poem

Someone (Okay, a good friend) asked me to share more poetry, so I thought I would offer some from time to time or when I feel that I have 'bloggers block.'

The following poem was inspired by Meghan, who was about 3 or 4 at the time, and who started imitating me while I was getting ready to go out one evening. I always remember working very hard to get her to imitate my behavior--something that is hard to do and teach a child with autism, especially in the early years; tirelessly, I would try to teach her something and have her follow to no avail. But on this particular late afternoon, she came up alongside me and did the unimaginable of which inspired a celebration and tears than just this poem...

"Imitation"

Looking to the mirror on cue:
Standing naked at the mirror—the way she likes it:
Brush in hand,
Long string of pearls draped around her neck,
Long side to back, swaying above her bare seat.
Looking to the mirror on cue:
Powdering nose
Looking to the mirror on cue:
Dabbing lips with rose
Looking to the mirror on cue:
Coloring eyelids to and fro
Looking to the mirror on cue:
I notice the sweetness of a child
Who longs to be like me;
The imitation is perfect--
And necessary
For a mom to glimpse:
That she will be okay—in the normal way
And we smile:
Looking to the mirror on cue.

"Eccentricity" Poem

Many years ago I started writing poetry (when writing fiction wasn’t going so well—still working on that one book by the way). It was an idea of one of my old college professors, he said that when he had writer's block he would switch to writing poetry—he eventually publishing several books of poetry…and not one novel—interesting. Anyway, I tried it and loved it. When people call it “the healing power of poetry” it is such a true title and statement! Try it! I wanted to share this poem with you, it was a favorite when I was writing my poetry and hosted some poetry readings. Enjoy!

"Eccentricity”

Autism is beautiful too.
I see it every day.
I can feel it too.
Running down to the ocean almost naked
But wouldn’t totally naked be so perfect
Feeling the sand, the breeze,
Enjoying this free world.
How wonderful it is to witness such beauty.
A child enjoying this beautiful work of nature—
With such delight.
Running to the water,
Chasing the luscious waves
And cool sprays,
Loving every breaking crest;
Then splash over and over and over again.
Tireless, she could do this all day—
And I could watch her all day,
But I must tire and keep abreast
As to not have her—drift away.
Her face beaming.
Her voice squeaking.
Her joy breaking straight through me
Like each home-bound wave
Breaking on its welcoming shores.

Autism is beautiful too,
Complexities and all.
Her brain the “jigsaw puzzle”
With some of its pieces in disarray,
Her job it to find the way
To put them in their rightful place
And what is left over, is simply left over
And that we will just have to name: Eccentricity.
But, even so, she will connect to say
That I am indeed autistic, but I will be okay
For I am learning to connect and become just like you,
Not because I want to, or
Because I believe that you are more “normal” than I,
But because I have to:
Majority speaks and speaks loudly
And tells me that I must conform
And be just like you and get along;
But a small part of me will always go on enjoying
My wonderful, free moments
At the beach—
Eccentricities and all…