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 Jan 2022 Hayleigh
My Dear Poet
I’m stuck between a letter and a word
pushing towards the end of a line
in many a meaning, I’ve shamefully erred  
to make sense of a sentence and a rhyme
all this effort consumes me
It bleeds my heart to think
my soul is weighing heavy
till poetry pours out of me like ink
many a thought often slay me
I rewrite to find release
I’m lost, till you find me
crying out, “read me…please”
Poets are fools for pain
 Aug 2017 Hayleigh
Catarina Pech
Her thoughts became a jumble, her memory tangled
Oh how easily our fragile mind can get mangled
She used to sing and strum a guitar, while I twirled
Now she moans and cries, frightened of this world
She told me, "My computer don't work good, no more"
I hadn't an idea a battle with dementia she was in for
Her laugh was so boisterous, and her mood often jolly
Now she lies in bed wailing, the last leg of this life folly
She told me stories of a poor farm girl in a land far away
I listened intently, but my thoughts have begun to betray
The memories in this life she shaped have since faded
Of the ones she shared, few remain, forgetfulness invaded
Sometimes a loved one remembers and shares a story
How wonderful to have a new moment of her in her glory
As time goes by and she slips further into murkiness
Our family must gather muster and sturdiness
My mother whom to me is so dear is an empty shell
Sadly, she is so far from herself, on this I often dwell
There is a day still to come, and she will be whole again
My mother at her loveliest with God up in heaven
Mom had a poor education and was prone to flightiness, that allowed dementia  to catch us unaware, it's been about 10 years now, five of them none verbal.
 Aug 2017 Hayleigh
Francie Lynch
I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.
Notes
 Aug 2017 Hayleigh
Steve Page
Please
 Aug 2017 Hayleigh
Steve Page
Things my mum asked for today:
To be taken home
Toast
The toilet
To be left to die
Pleadings from my mum lost in dementia
 Aug 2017 Hayleigh
Steve Page
Oh I don't like this
This isn't right
It's another country
Everything's one long fight

It's like a foreign language
Nothing's the same
It's all gone wrong
Tell me her name again

I just wish it was like it was
I just can't keep track
Oh don't get old Steve
It never comes back

You won't leave me will you...
Knowing for herself that she'd lost so much eats at her, bringing her to tears.
The creaking of that old chair is all which they could hear,
''take a seat'' he said and move it near,
he would tell a story of which he was very fond;
it included a bike, an old friend, and a huge duck pond;
He spoke these words time and time,
no remembrance of telling it but, once more would be fine,
He chuckled and chuckled at the top of his lungs
telling of his friend and how off his bike he was flung,
With a smile, he glanced at the family around
a sudden moment of silence;
'' Whats your name?'' he frowned
A nervous laughter from his daughter he heard :
But the man? he just stared.
Unsure of these people who once more came to visit,
''story telling is my job, so your problem what is it?!''
His voice he projected, confusion portrayed;
great sadness in his family, but by his side they stayed.
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