Gypsy Enrolled

Textbook not my teacher. My classroom has no walls.

Lessons learned on wayward turns and strolls out the front door.

Yet a foreign feelings brewing. A yearning for instruction.

For teachings to be measured. A cap and gown induction.

A noble cause, has me pause the gypsy life I treasure.

I yearn to learn the craft I love to publish words of measure.

Words that bridge the social gap, art that mends our time

Bound in leather, I dream to tether my heart upon mankind

writing

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When the End is not Near Enough

Chest holds grenades pulled of their pin

Daddooms counting down those ticks from within

Strokes falling short of a meaningful measure

Beats that retreat, as aching’s trump pleasure

Oh how chambers chime in a pitch out of tune

Rhythms depicting a heart now in ruin

Daddooms void of lust, rings stripped of luck

A life that’s no must, screams a “who gives a fuck”

Oh… but action takes motive, motive takes might

Who’s the lacer of gloves for living this fight?

The pins now been pulled, but whether to throw

Or wait clasping down for more souls than your own

The fight isn’t over, life’s in your hands

Grenades can be tossed to better-laid plans

Throw at the daemons poisoning mind

Let pins release pain, without blood on the line

Life isn’t over when thoughts muffle dreams

Life only halts when silencing screams

When a heart stops its course, short of fulfilled

When minds current racings are finally stilled

When that trigger is pointing to the one in the frame

When the mirrored reflection ends its own game

What is the fuel for pulling life’s pin?

Don’t rely on the mind that scolds what’s within

A stranger, a friend, a soul in the light

Is the lacer of gloves for winning this fight

Hearts soften voices poisoning minds

Rekindling hopes that alone you can’t find

Echo’s in mirror should be spied by another

Sounded in tongue, not by daemons you suffer

Put down the knife that’s intended to pierce

Cut down that noose that will cut short your years

Turn from the ledge that tows now caress

Discard the drugs you intend to ingest

Is your hearse laying chosen? Is the grave trumping life?

Is your hand on the trigger while your rolling deaths dice?

Please reconsider the bed you have made

Rest tomb bound plans covertly laid

I’ll lend you my mind to offload your daemon

My heart can fill yours, life’s not in completion

Image, Hand By Gilead
Image, Hand By Gilead

Gentlemanlike Praise for Ladylike Ways

I find the term “ladylike” a bit condescending

To fine-tune our womanhood, “wedding impending?”

Arrogance voiced in this courting expression

Wolf whistled anticts, painting suppression

See…I’m astutely cute with the wit to match

Life’s feats or fail’s are not in your catch

A reveled pursuit should find verse and gaze

“Gentlemanlike” awe conveyed through phrase

Splendid not sexy, beauty not hot

Grace not ass, and she’ll like you a lot

Be a Woman by PtiteCocci
Be a Woman by PtiteCoc

Dreams Subdued

Molded by nurture and the streets of a town

Our futures prescribed by the point we are bound

Destined for dreams on a passage well known

Every fork in the road finds arrows back home

Can a farmer resign his inherent dues?

Can the spawn of White Collar chime rhythm and blues?

Wall street brand artists, doctors rear hippy?

The kid from the country make a mark in the city?

Do parental plans lay set to be tested?

Decline pre-programmed lives and dollars invested?

Is love not enough to guide us to dreams?

Creatives suppressed by family schemes?

Are childhood visions just fiction for youth?

The allotment in life their singular truth?

Childhood Dreams Image by Anne Marie Bone
Childhood Dreams
Image by Anne Marie Bone

What life did you believe you would lead? I was once a Pediatric Occupational Therapist, then a Special Needs Aupair, now I am a writer. For the first time in my life, I am living a self realized dream. Thank you for supporting it.

Ambivalence Turned Influence

Life on a whim. My rise and falls matching the occasions. Success and failure without accountability. I was just there.   A bystander to life. A witness to the despondency of my existence. I embodied ambivalence.

Then….

I found my heart could speak. I am a speaker

My sound harked for the weak. I am a teacher

Then..

The ground cracked under feet. I feel my power

Now my mind embarks on life’s feat. This is my hour


Hope is in each hour“Equip your lips with tactfulness to unshackle what resides

What keeps us up at night, producing pain when lips confide

Assemble with me, armed with words… to pierce a callused skin.

Corse coverings, now seeping… with solvents to your grin”

Mind to Unbind

I would love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to comment, like, share or further peruse my mind.

My Family Home

My lips covet courting, yet their locked by a mind

A misconceptions of affection is the poison lacing time

It’s a tick without tocks, a broken carrousel

Merry rounds are running as bare backs dance to bells

I falter with the alter and the visions that I see

Bride and groom not tended to, within this nuptial dream

See.. I flutter with a smile and suppress with a thought

Find comfort in the pavement, cement prevents the caught

It’s the mind within the matter, yet I mind the passing shell

That merry round is broken on this empty carrouselgay_fairy_tale_by_kikalicia-d3bv5qu

Do you grasp my plight or do I baffle with this song

See… this ramble is my gamble to make women not seem wrong

Do you understand the dream imparted to the young

Man weds wife the nursery rhyme, persuasions seen and sung

The fiction of a fairy tale, holds fact in its revere

My course is filled with fantasy, yet my couplings cast as queer

The tales weathered time and scripts evaded age

A diction of contradiction to the feelings that I cage

My dream that tends to scare the most holds a face across my table

No prince is in this pudding, girl meets girl my featured fable

A ring revolves my finger, isle sole split within the crowd

It’s the love beneath the cloth that brands the parents proud

What if we skewed a fairy tale, amending girl meats boy?

Slant the stories start for the heart to make the choicelesbian-wedding-tux-and-dress-300

Read genders yours to render and not be met with scold

High-heeled shoes the platform to transform without a toll

What if love is found, when girls dress dolls that kiss?

Little boys are clashing trucks, while grasping hands instead of fists

There is revolution in the stories that pillow rested we are told

A sentence without sentence, editions for spines folds

An adaptation to the cast, love composes to the ear

The picture perfect unions that don’t manifest in fear

Can my carrousel be merry, and each tick be met by tocks?

Can I a feel the roundabouts that circulate this clock?

I’ll heal when reading bed time tales to the kids I call my own

Love will be the lullaby that attunes my family home

photo by Devin Bruce
photo by Devin Bruce

Please share thoughts, stories, love and joy. Assemble with me armed with words…

Let’s Love Eccentric. Let’s Revel in Eclectic. Let’s Not Attach an Identity to Autistic

We try so hard to fall within the norms of expectation, yet we admire those who step outside the square box constructed by society. Why is it, that if we are born adjacent to what is deemed  “typical”, we cop the label of  “special needs,” while receiving a caricatured diagnosis. A diagnosis is important when considering trajectories and treatments, however it is not an identity and it is not a box that is sealed. The difficulties experienced in education by children born “atypical” are often a product of the way in which kids are taught. Why cant strengths based not society based be the foundation for all learning?

At what age does a child born as “atypical” become an eccentric visionary? These questions are what I ponder when I see a child skipping school. These  thoughts strike me as children scream, not from being misheard, but from being misunderstood.

This blog comes in light of blue. World Autism month is a platform for voices to be heard while mainstream society is listening. Sing with and for your children.

Parents, this post is for you. The unrelenting journey for the world to see your child just as you do. The perpetual fight for society to accept your child for who they are and what they can do. The tireless journey, not to cure a “disability” but for your child to have every chance to follow their dreams, while harnessing their unique visions and unmatched thinking.

This is a poem that represents a small facet of what I see on a daily basis. This is Tommy! He is passionate, generous, assertive, happy and enigmatic. He loves singing, he loves his brothers, and due to the tenacity and ferocity of his parents fight, he says the words “I am hugging you, because I love you.” Let’s describe our children by who they are, what they love, and how they dream.

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You see a boy named Tommy, staring off in space

Screaming out for ice cream, while fighting dad’s embrace

You judge because you deem him, just a spoilt boy

Yearning for a tasty treat, with screaming just a ploy

You cross his path again, toes tapping on a train

The blues tapped from shoes, yield fury unrestrained

You address a fumbling father, “Please stop that tapping beat”

“Please control your untrained child, constrain those tapping feet”

You see Tommy in the bathrooms, screaming without need

A hand dryer humming, not enough for his stampede

A flush accelerates the fury, and a head hits tiled floor

You judge the mother harshly, for not attempting to do more

Next you then hear Tommy, sits in class next to your son

You hear how he distracts, “how did he make grade one?”

You march up to the teacher as Tommy hurts your child

His “naughtiness” is spreading, “I bet ADD is on his file?”

You’re the mother of a boy, who in class has ease to learn

Who plays with friends and talks to you, affection your son yearns

You’re a mother of a child, who can look you in the eye

Who can understand that sadness is the product of a cry

You’re the mother of a child, that points and talks and feels

Who plays alongside peers, without his fingers spinning wheels

You’re the mother of a child, who can be taught by standard

A gift at birth is what you were naturally just handed

You judge the mother fighting to give her son a chance

To give the gift of love through a mothers fighting stance

You judge a fathers presence, his unrelenting fight

Short fused within the day, in wake of sleepless nights

Did you know their son was labeled, at the age of three?

A doctor points Autistic, “Your son is special needs!”

“Let’s see how he progresses, but this is not a passing trait

Just wait until his four, yet, these features won’t abate”

A Doctor’s words not worthy, to halt a parent’s sense

More opinions sought, for sake of sitting on the fence

Tommy’s now age eight, and your asking yourself why

Why that little “impaired” boy, can look you in the eye?

Why that boy who couldn’t share, now passes pencils to a friend?

His eccentricities a quirk, not a trait that will “offend”

The reason is his parents, who played across the field

An obsession for progression, for a son whose fates not sealed

A boy who did progress and at eight he met his peers

The parents void of guilt from those sleepless past eight years

An unyielding love unites, for deployment of their schemes

To give their little boy, a life to realize dreams

A ferociously unrelenting, journey for a son

Tattles on a Doctors words, trajectories undone

A swing within a bedroom, a cushion on every seat

Absurdities attempted, just to see him eat

Therapy each day, becomes routine within the home

Parents teaching siblings to impart a calming tone

Tears of joy when eye meets eye, when hands unclench those ears

Happiness when Tommy plays with more than just those gears

We are not aiming for a cure, or to cookie cut a mind

Autism is diversity and hints to progression of mankind

We need to start to love their loves, and engage within their sphere

Autisms eclectic not defective, so let’s not compare with peers

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