Tim Mahon Apr 27
Kids have nasty noses with
Dark green hosing out of them.
With no care and rapidly growing hair
They take their mom's hand and wipe their nose bare on her cardigan.

I've always wondered why we don't remember much of our early memories like where did they go?
Maybe these escaping visions used the snot trail as their undernose railroad.
But no mother in her right mind would try to siphon the mucus like fuel.
So the world may never know what lies inside that green drool.
As this child grows taller and learns to plug his nose with a soft lotioned tissue and not his new clothes,
He grows smarter and wiser and begins to compose, poems and prose that flow as the soul.
He writes about and to his grandpa,
Trying to unwrap the wisdom like a present of a thousand layers.
Using his thumb to uncover the thin papers.
Like talking to the curator of the museum of his mind, what was it like at war with the dictator of the time?
Spilling secrets and telling stories of his life when he was 9.

But the stories started to get blurry,
And his grandson started to worry,
He soon learned that his memory was not a guarantee.
His idol's nose had begun to run.
His mum wasn't there to refund the snot,
This is something that can't be undone or fought.

The rapid escape of dreams and thoughts,
as the last drop of snot falls off.
This was written shortly after my grandfather's death. I hope you all enjoy
Autumn Lewis Apr 20
Like the snowball first thrown in the bitter chilled winter days
Is the same as my grandma opening her eyes for the first time and in her mother's arms she lays.
Later as the years pass and love blossoms in her heart
My grandmother's life with her own family is about to start
Now she is like the first snowman built standing ready to guard her home
To stay there to protect and never to roam
But as time sweeps by so does her appearance she begins to melt
The meteorologist say it won't snow anytime soon and day by day she will alter  
They try to give her more pills to delay her death but they try to conceal it with their palter
Soon my snowman will just be another puddle licked up the earth
But I will always remember my snowman's worth
I love my grandma I just wish she didn't have to melt
Yellowed monochrome photographs
Like albums packed with epitaphs
Lie stacked one upon another
By the bedside of her grandmother

With weathered hands and weary eyes
She turns each page, and softly sighs
As fragile memories return
Her heart will ache, her eyes will burn.

For hours, she will reminisce
Though piecemeal, memories persist,
and she'll whisper a prayer, eyes wet,
"Jesus, please, don't let me forget."
Minstrel dumbstruck in the mizzle.
All romances yield their September.
Atavistically wistful,
the horizon ate my ancestors.

Seamonkey cities in astrobleme
lived the dream, but now magnolia
twilight of dementia picks us clean
w/ friselis of Auld Langoliers.

Killcrop in wellingtons of raven
shine puts the boot in piled margherita
playing card suits. This ruffian's
God; the leaves have human features.

Neither fall nor the Fall are antigrav.
Autumn flotsam 'n' jetsam flutter
like a showboating judge's gav-
el, yet condemning to a yardfire

all the braeburn-variegated Satans,
russet Lucifers w/ wings of nervures.
Deciduous devils, whose crackling perdition
foretells season of hell sowed for gardeners.

No modestly moulting future tense:
life is a winter of autumnal adolescence.
Abscissions are but the frondescence
of the laurels of autumn w/ a vengeance.
Jenay Jarvis Mar 30
You sleep now
Memories that make us remember-
Early mornings, the smell of school, your crisp clothes, the fall of your jewelry, the sound of your shoes.
It's immaculate.
I can see it.
(and) Seeing you weak makes me weak.
As if the loss of one is the loss of many
And it is.
A tribute to my grandmother who passed this morning.
Josh Mar 27
It started slowly,
You make excuses,
You don’t think its gone that far.
See everyone forgets the keys,
But no one forgets the car.
She sat me down, made it real,
Helped me to express how i feel.

I never forgot sitting there
Holding that perfect hand of hers.
Doctor tells the bad news,

When words go is the worst,
She helped me,
Communication is vital but she needed not verbal,
Just a look sometimes.
She understood me.
Made it bearable.

Forgetting things on the daily,
The embarrassment.
She taught me to be shameless,
The cruelty of my mind for she now be nameless.

I don't know her face anymore.
Still know if its her though,
Can just tell,
A connection, bonding us.

Now looking back.
My life, a blur.
But still whats so vivid,
My love, for her.
Any tips and improvements or things you think i could add? please let me know. its about a man developing Alzheimer an him still remembering how much his wife helped and how much he loved her.
I am Jimmy Mar 26
Why Does Nothing Last?

A joyful youth that flickered for a moment, then vanished to the past.
Why does nothing last?

A truest love that burned so bright but burned too fast.
Why does nothing last?

A crossroad too many, the choices are too plenty, each direction too vast.
Why does nothing last?

A glimpse into ones self, A once familiar land now darkened, An ancient spell was cast.
Why does nothing last?

Memories I delve deep for, pictures with a broken frame.

Forgive me present moment, as I ask this whilst still sane.

Do forgive me present moment, press pause and pause the pain.

I fear I have lost myself, all but to the past.
I fear I have lost love as well,

Why does nothing last?

By Jimmy
At the nursing home
I visited my friend
Whom I hadn’t seen
In a long time.

Her life had ebbed,
And her health was in steady decline
As she struggled with
The dreaded Alzheimer’s.

While she slept soundly,
The squirrels played cheerfully
On the jolly ‘ol tree
Just outside her bedroom window.
In memories of a dear friend who died of Alzheimer's.
BC Jaime Mar 7
I went to your house today.
You remembered I was coming.
And to take a bath. And eat.
You told me a story that happened
yesterday, not seventy-five years ago.
You didn’t ask the same question
thirteen times. There was no argument
about prescription drugs or bloodwork.
You didn’t slam the door.
But, of course, none of that happened.
How could it?
You are here and
you are

[Note: This poem was originally published in Cadence Collective's anthology Then & Now: Conversations With Old Friends, available for purchase here: https://sadiegirlpress.com/2015/11/04/then-now-conversations-with-old-friends/]
© BC Jaime 2014 || IG: @B.C.Jaime

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.
For your sake Mom, Dad
Truth comforts not Dementia
Your Loving Lier
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