Here are poems by Sharon link and other authors that relate to the topics discussed on this site.
Like the air that I breathe,
Like the wind that I see,
Like the moist, ocean breeze,
You are to me.
Like the tones so clear,
Like the whisper I hear,
Like a bell in the night,
On an ocean so bright,
The waves crash the shore,
It’s you I adore.
Like a wavering sound,
On a world so round,
Like a slow moving train,
Through Paris in the rain.
Like the smell of salt air,
On a day that is fair,
Like the scent of dry sand,
Let it fall from my hand,
Like you in my heart,
To you I impart.
Like the flowers in spring,
Like the song that they sing,
Like the joy that they bring,
You are my everything.
You are my everything
My everything,
The song that I sing,
My melody sublime,
My rhythm and rhyme,
And listen so clear,
And you will soon hear,
The sound of my heart
Beating,
The sound of my heart
Beating.
Like a walk in the park,
Like feeling safe in the dark;
Like a tear that has dried,
With no sadness to hide;
Your love abounds,
In my soul surrounds;
Like a message in a bottle,
Held tight in your hand;
Revealing the world,
With every trickle of sand.
Like painting portraits of light,
In a world always night;
Like taking a stand,
On a difficult plan.
Let your light shine;
And fill human kind,
And fill human kind,
Let your light shine,
Let it shine,
Let it shine,
Let it shine so bright,
In a world always night.
Like the wind,
Like the rain,
Like the sun,
Reveal and claim,
Reveal and claim,
Reveal and claim.
Autistic Son - by Sharon Link
When you learn for the first time
there is a diagnosis
you weep with grief.
You think of all that was
before you and
all that he will miss.
Your joy is expressed in chapters.
I was reading a novel adept at my conviction,
now I am reading a short story
with big words filling the page.
Words seem disjointed
and it is nearly impossible to
make sense of the theme.
The first day, I watched him sleep.
Coming home in the car after the clinic
cuddling with his rubber Iguana.
The next day, I firmly planted
my feet advocating for every right
he is entitled convincing myself that
early intervention is the key.
Perhaps not the well used key
laying on the floor bruised by the
heel of a shoe;
Instead the jagged key with rough
brand new teeth wrenching your stomach
and then your heart.
The week after you begin
the conversation; he reveals himself.
The joy of knowing him convinces you
this was not an accident.
Events are not random.
When you stop mourning
and gauge the wisdom of him
and the breadth of his comments
you begin the process to your own
self discovery and recovery
and all that you thought you had lost
you find again.
Autistischer Sohn - durch Sharon Link
Wenn Sie zum ersten Mal erlernen
es gibt eine Diagnose
Sie weinen mit Leid.
Sie denken an alles, das war
vor Ihnen und
alle, die er vermißt.
Ihre Freude wird in den Kapiteln ausgedrückt.
Ich las einen Roman, der an meiner Überzeugung geschickt ist,
jetzt lese ich eine kurze Geschichte
wenn die grossen Wörter die Seite füllen.
Wörter scheinen zerlegt
und es ist zu fast unmöglich
seien Sie sinnvoll vom Thema.
Der erste Tag, paßte ich ihn auf zu schlafen.
In das Auto nach der Klinik nach Hause kommen
Streicheln mit seinem Gummileguan.
Am nächsten Tag, errichtete ich fest
meine Füße, die für jedes Recht befürworten
er wird überzeugend das erlaubt
frühe Intervention ist der Schlüssel.
Möglicherweise nicht der gut verwendete Schlüssel
das Legen auf den Fußboden quetscht durch
Ferse eines Schuhes;
Stattdessen der gezackte Schlüssel mit rauhem
nagelneue Zähne, die Ihren Magen entreißen
und dann Ihr Herz.
Die Woche nach Ihnen fangen an
das Gespräch; er deckt sich auf.
Die Freude am Kennen er überzeugt Sie
dieses war nicht ein Unfall.
Fälle sind nicht gelegentlich.
Wenn Sie stoppen zu beklagen
und messen Sie die Klugheit von ihm ab
und die Breite von seiner kommentiert
Sie fangen den Prozeß zu Ihren Selbst an
Selbstentdeckung und -wiederaufnahme
und alle, denen Sie Sie dachten, hatten verloren
Sie finden wieder.
My son takes the world in tiny pieces,
Leaving fragments as he goes,
The baby steps he took as a three year old,
Enlightened and strengthened
And made him bold.
My son carries the world
On well worn shoulders,
Stooped with a soul as old as time;
Heeding at the heavens of nature
Setting forth and seeking sublime.
My son sees the world
In different colors,
It is not a world that we all see;
It is bathed in silk, angelic fabric
Struggling in the world to be.
My son experiences the world
At each halting interval,
Picking it up in tiny pieces – letting it fall;
Carrying it around in a stone, mason jar
Bringing a lesson to us all.
I AM THE CHILD
(Author Unknown)
I am the child who cannot talk.
You often pity me, I see it in your eyes. You wonder how much I am aware of -- I see that as well. I am aware of much, whether you are happy or sad or fearful, patient or impatient, full of love and desire, or if you are just doing your duty by me. I marvel at your frustration, knowing mine to be far greater, for I cannot express myself or my needs as you do. You cannot conceive my isolation, so complete it is at times. I do not gift you with clever conversation, cute remarks to be laughed over and repeated. I do not give you answers to your everyday questions, responses over my well-being, sharing my needs, or comments about the world about me.
I do not give you rewards as defined by the world's standards -- great strides in development that you can credit yourself; I do not give you understanding as you know it. What I give you is so much more valuable -- I give you instead opportunities. Opportunities to discover the depth of your character, not mine; the depth of your love, your commitment, your patience, your abilities; the opportunity to explore your spirit more deeply than you imagined possible. I drive you further than you would ever go on your own, working harder, seeking answers to your many questions with no answers. I am the child who cannot talk. I am the child who cannot walk. The world seems to pass me by. You see the longing in my eyes to get out of this chair, to run and play like other children. There is much you take for granted. I want the toys on the shelf, I need to go to the bathroom, oh I've dropped my fork again. I am dependent on you in these ways. My gift to you is to make you more aware of your great fortune, your healthy back and legs, your ability to do for yourself. Sometimes people appear not to notice me; I always notice them. I feel not so much envy as desire, desire to stand upright, to put one foot in front of the other, to be independent. I give you awareness. I am the child who cannot walk. I am the child who is mentally impaired. I don't learn easily, if you judge me by the world's measuring stick, what I do know is infinite joy in simple things. I am not burdened as you are with the strife's and conflicts of a more complicated life. My gift to you is to grant you the freedom to enjoy things as a child, to teach you how much your arms around me mean, to give you love. I give you the gift of simplicity. I am the child who is mentally impaired. I am the disabled child. I am your teacher. If you allow me, I will teach you what is really important in life. I will give you and teach you unconditional love. I gift you with my innocent trust, my dependency upon you. I teach you about how precious this life is and about not taking things for granted. I teach you about forgetting your own needs and desires and dreams. I teach you giving. Most of all I teach you hope and faith. I am the disabled child.