Sunday’s Child


My January gift, wrinkled,
ruffled, wrapped in blue,
sweet solemn little bundle, quiet.
Pale, like me, predictable as stars.

I didn’t know why you never cried
or why your eyes wouldn’t meet mine,

but, I sang to you anyway.


At three,

they used medical terms to label you,
told me all the things you would never do.
To them, you were a diagnosis
in a medical book. a statistic,
another autistic child in the system.

but, to me, you were my heart,
my beautiful raven haired boy.



is your thirty-fourth birthday.
You still brighten my day
with just a smile

and you don’t need words
to say I love you
when that look in your eyes
is a novel in the making,
a celebration of life,
from an innocent’s perspective.
This may not be poetic,
but, you are;

my angel boy,
my January gift.




I remember Grandpa
on Sunday mornings after church

flipping through a national geographic
in that old brown recliner;
ice cream and peaches in one hand,

me on his lap,
listening to stories about World War I,
school dances
and how he always wanted to play
the slide trombone,

but his Dad made him play the mandolin.

He told the same old jokes
at the dinner table
knowing I would giggle

every time.

With a serious look, he said,
“you need to learn to play the guitar,
You’ll be the life of the party.”

but, I was fifteen and fickle

and, now, here I am,
hiding behind a screen
playing with words;
these syllables, dancing in
and out of hearts,

still desperate
to make him proud.



Shaking the Stars

If we could shake the stars
and bring the moon to it’s knees
to see just one sun,
blow out the darkness
from hollow, seeping clouds,
we could just find a soft place
to fall.

That one flower growing petals
in tainted soil, through a crack
in cement expectations
where children hop scotch
tossing pebbles,
counting steps
until that one leap of faith.

She takes it with wings
feathered, flying
barefoot dreamy-eyed fate
painted from spring hue
calm cascading through silk strands
tickling ivory in symmetry
of dancing thoughts,

and here she thought syllables
were wasted
in journals
of glass slipper reunions;
endings, happy, but distant
like dandelions blown south,

and then here he came
windswept, white horse drawn
lover, loving her, this unchanged,
unchained flower child
kissed by the mere existence
of such fondness, this feeling
like lightning
without a chance of rain.



The Psychology of Smoke Rings

She took apart the storm
divided bursts of light

from the noise finality makes.

The waves came swiftly
swirling like smoke rings
from trembling autumn lips.

Too many springs passed
sashaying like orchids

more fragile each season

reaching for Saturn
stretching boundaries
with stems that refuse to grow.