Poet, blogger and  Blog Talk Radio  s  how co-host  along with   Sandra Fuentes Lang  ,  Erik Estabrook writes for autism awareness and the christian community.     

Poet, blogger and Blog Talk Radio show co-host  along with Sandra Fuentes LangErik Estabrook writes for autism awareness and the christian community. 



 “Novels take you through stories and scenarios, but poetry picks you up in possibilty, and drops you off in understanding,” 


".. autism isn’t going away .  The only thing that should go away is ignorance towards autistic people"







Of Tortuous Grace,



Strategically Placed,



Staring into Molds,



Whose Wind Moves the Soul.

by Erik Estabrook



Music Junkie

Harvest song evaporates,

Pleasant tones build on innate tones,

Secrets revealed,

Lyrically spilling soul

Mind-addicted to words,

Trapped on the lows

Desperate longing,

Flapping hands,

Excitement garnered,

From resonating bands,


Caught in souls webbing

Universal appeal

Wrenching heart

The pull of realness

Exficiated by sounds

The relatable, rhythmical,

Volumated clouds,

That sprinkle seasonal bliss

in various mists

A music junkie with a classical twist


You read my mind in the nick of time

A pull that digs within.

copyright2013@Erik Estabrook



Reckless Revelation

How much of self is dissolved matter that flakes off with the skin?
How much of I is elevated idol worship inwardly related and then placed Upon one's brow?

The tortured rhymes from those suffering deep inside, one should never Refute or rebute genuine pain,
Joy is an ignorant, reckless revelation, because it has more obstacles almost Than the matter that exists,

One has to be spiritually confident, socially impotent, to be happy,
The Soul traverses the vast ocean for human belonging,
Along the way,one encounters

Lighthouses with their temptress smile, smiling pure gold,
Waiting to open their mouths and swallow you whole,

Islands with their savage sanctity, pressing coconut water on wounds and Dripping rainforest lush, while ants eat away the stomach,

Home, the only shore ne'er too foreign, one wears home upon their heart,
Marking a longing eternal,
The only place where water doesn't seem to seep and suck your blood like A lusty leach,
Where family is friend and friend is family, and foes are welcome just the Same,

Where the heart longs it longs deep, and when the ship creeks your Stomach churns with it, when the bow dips your heart sinks,

Home is the furthest shore from the port, the closest shore in the mind,
 A cold beer and whatever feels right,
The deep digs in and the heart follows,

Home for many is really on the bottom of the tumultuous sea,
That teems with life and toys with lives.

Erik Estabrook