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clixdhna Mar 29
i miss the way we used to garden.
when all of our worries were the weeds and fallen petals.
i miss the way you used to speak french.
so soft, and perfect. it excited me to learn all you knew.
i miss the way you watched antique shows every morning, and i'd watch them with you
even though they bored me.
i miss the way you read your penguin books as i lay next to you on days when i was sick.
i miss the way you used to talk.
i miss the way you used to know me.
written in 2017
Carlo C Gomez Feb 12
Keeper of time
Has lost his mind.
He no longer ticks.
He sighs.
He questions.
He swears a little.
Does he know who he is?
Not precisely.
I tell him he's a law, a sage, a determiner.
He's even the reason
I get up in the morning.
He says he'll get back to me.
When? I ask.
Ah, there's the rub...
Zack Ripley Mar 2019
So many things I've said.
So much i have left to say.
But I don't think I have enough time
to find the words that keep getting lost along the way.
Don't be afraid if I forget who I am today
because I still remember who we were yesterday.
I remember the nights by the fire with a bottle of wine.
I remember the the day you said you'd be mine.
I remember all the years we were young, wild, free.
I remember all the dreams we had
of how great our kids' future would be.
I remember the love. I remember the fights.
I remember the summers on the island
watching the fireworks light up the night.
Even if it doesn't show, there's one thing I need you to know.
I remember
i wrote this for my aunt who has struggled with my uncle's fight with alzheimers
Whenever I look into your eyes

Your lost, deep blue eyes

I hear our song again

London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…

It is a distant melody

Rising to the surface of my memory

It makes me sad to think

That we will never sing our song again

My fair lady.
This is for my grandmother and to all the people battling Alzheimer's disease.
I watch you **** on long, gnarled fingers
With short, clipped nails
No color.
You pull them out of your mouth
One at a time
with a subtle but emphatic pop
One
Two
Three and
Four
'Round and 'round
Thumbs perhaps, but pinkies never
Other times you juice
the corner or a small white washcloth
with your saliva

I watch you look at the window
Unwavering in your attention
Focused straight ahead,
Your chair is turned
so that e can all sit together
In the common room.

Dad wants to leave
As soon as we've arrived
He'd say something wildly odd
to what
had been
his wife of fifty years, like
'What's up?'
or
'Howryadoin'?'
Something impossibly dumb
As if he would've
ever said such a thing
To you
In Real Life.
Now pandering for some predestined response
Or a cozy yet bewildered
glance of surprise
or perhaps a
vague
familiar
girlish
smile
The one you wore when he first met you.
But we both know that those days are
long gone.

I watch you as you face
The bright Valley sunshine
The yellowing grass
The trimmed hedges
The cement blocks that maintain
these locked-down
Premises.
But what do you see?
Were there any little birds,
As I no longer can remember?

Do the multitudes
that comprise a random cosmos
approximated by optimistic formulae
Although imperceptible to Dad and I,
Dance just for you?
Does it share with you
sweet confidences and miracles?
Promises and Reassurances!
I'd like to think that,
but I have my doubts
Your face
Your eyes
Show no such delight.

There as a time when you were always
delighted
And too, there was a time when you wanted
to escape
with a sly
"So where are we all going next?"

Dad grows more uncomfortable
But its alright
I can sit here by your side
I tell him
45 more minutes
I wear a watch
for just this sort of thing
although he's ready to bolt
This Disease
His Love
A Mystery before him
Despite his Science,
Gone.

Me?
I'm fine
For I have lost nothing.
I look around the common room
The patients are set up
Round like a clock.

At 11pm lay the catatonic
Flat
Staring motionless
faces up
to the ceiling
In recliners. Peaceful.
Accepting.

At 1pm are those who can still sit at a table
with minimal supervision and eat
or read a four color full bleed spread in
a fashion magazine upside down
Just like in the old days.

At 4pm sit the difficult, flighty ones
with aides to feed and wipe their faces
of soggy gruel and fruit pulp
Obstinate
Rude
Incorrigible
And prone to choking.

At 6:30 the piano sits alone against a far wall
Abandoned yet prepared
Not slighted in the least.
Do you believe that angels can swarm?

We three sit together at the 9pm table
your other companions silent
Not playing cards or Sudoku
Nor reminiscing about a forgotten past
By way of some forgotten language
Inevitably, they will disappear
with no explanation
never returning
And the new ones will take their places
days later
Silent still
Always silent
In our little
Corner.

The clock, it moves like fateful musical chairs.
It has an intelligence
It is a system of management.
The designations, a terrible prognosis
encircling like a snake
towards your final hour
Which may be after 4 or perhaps 11?
This is a Map of Demise.

What turned you into a 9pm
because your weren't always?
We arrived at this table from some place else
Although from where I'm not at all sure anymore
It seems they moved you around a lot
And I have been watching you closely.
I fear that the hour hand
is not your ally.
The minutes hand, neither.
I look out the window with you.
And I wonder when the time will come
For you to rest in the white naugahyde recliners
Motionless and
Unbothered.
Accepting.
But I do not expect you
to make it past
this hour.
Would someone tell me please
what does it really mean to be
a 9pm on this clock?
Robert L Jan 28
The Gains of Loss by Robert C. Leung

As I begin to lose
my sweet memory
The flotsam and jetsam
and ephemery.

The regrets, the injustice,
the pain and despair
The resentments, the insults,
the hurts and the fear.

The timeless reminders
of not good enough
Pale yellow post it says:
“Hasn’t got the right stuff.”

That time that you said
what no one would say
“I don’t really love you
now please go away.”

Most of it gone now,
I can’t quite remember
It whispers to me
from a foggy December.

Am I better off for it?
Well perhaps in some way.
Have I gained from the loss?
It’s a bit hard to say.

I need no longer sit here
and artfully languish
In all the sad fury
of my piquant anguish.

Like my father before me
I’m one of those old timers
Reaping the benefits
of beneficent Alzheimer’s.

Robert C. Leung © Copyright 2015
Robert C. Leung © Copyright 2015
Cullen Donohue Dec 2019
My grandma’s favorite holiday was groundhog day.

I don’t know if she just loved the fanfare of it all;
If she thought it was so trivial and fun;
If Pansawtukee Phil was just too adorable;

Or maybe she was just a fan of Bill Murray?

(Which I mean—who isn’t?)

My grandma always had a knack for everything, not just the weird holidays:

It was continuing to remind me that penguins have knees,
And instilling at least one of her grandchildren with a love of the X-Files that never faded,
(Me again)
And people watching
from the car outside of Byerley’s —
Insisting it was going to be her novel
“Tales from the Parking Lot.”

She also used to tell us that my grandfather had been reincarnated as a cardinal.

And she would tell us,
In the springtime,
He, (or the cardinal,)
Would come visit.

And, my grandma adored talking.

She would tell anyone her life story
Whether they wanted to hear it,

Or not.

This included:  
nurses,
doctors,
a man named David at the Jewelry store,
some of my friends when we were just driving through on a road trip from college and stopped to say, “hello,”

Really, anyone who would listen.

She called it her gift of gab.

And, she was also really into scrapbooking
and creating slideshows of pictures
Simple ways of preserving the memories of loved ones

I don’t quite remember when her memory started slipping
When Alzheimer’s started digging it’s claws into
The facts, the stories...

Even the reality she knew and loved.

I’m sure, looking back, it was slow at first.
Like those first moments when Bill Murray wakes to the song “I Got You Babe,”

Again.

Not quite sure what is happening,
But confused.

The fear doesn’t begin until later,
As the events repeat again and again.

I remember my mother telling me of a moment
Where my grandmother was reliving her
Junior prom.

She lived with us then, and my mom had a baby monitor set up in her mother-in-law suite.

My mom woke to a crash through the baby monitor.
And when she rushed downstairs,
She found my grandma’s robes were laid out all around the room.

My grandma was on the ground,
The TV on top of her.

Her explanation of what happened is she was trying to steal the TV to buy a prettier dress.

In her lucid moments,
We told my grandma this story.

And she laughed
and laughed,
With the same confidence Bill Murray
has later in the film

Having accepted reality,
having accepted this fate.

Reliving days past
Knowing that a future
may never come.

It might be that the reason
She loved groundhog’s day was

The promise that spring is coming,
And with it, the cardinals,
And with it, new life.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
My memories took flight from Spring's rookery,
Nurtured by Summer's warm seas and
Trade winds soft under blue skies,
Reinforced by Autumn's harvest and happenstance

Pray my memories remain deep within me like a
Fortress securely established on a rock-mass,
High on golden hills, impregnable,
As Winter's cruel seas and merciless winds approach
10/27/2019 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Deidre Lockyer Sep 2019
Days like these, when she sits there bright eyed
And her constellations whirl in accordance with
Sacred geometry
And the rabbit and horse know their names
Days like these there are breezes in the mountains
Rains in the valleys
And softly, lavender scents the moon

The clarion call wakes dreamers and thieves
The night brings its own lexicon of perhaps
Useless speculation graces our table
Tears fall in disarray again
The cutlery of thought clanging and ringing in discord
Ghosts in the ivory tower
Ghosts in the ivory tower

Days like these, when the hour hands stutter
And she burrows into the sacristy of almost sleep
Angels sing lullabies
The open gates of her world welcome Summer
Days like these there are beaches in the living room
Sandcastle sofas
And tomorrows grow in the sunshine

The clarion call wakes dreamers and thieves
Stealing her away, stealing her away
Prayers and bargainings rise and fall
Sepia photographs frame us
Moments of pleasure and joy pause for remembrance
Then all fall down
Then all fall down

Days like these when fate has no excuse or alibi
Love is sole mercy...
Days like these
Fade too soon
For my mother...we are facing her Alzheimer’s together, everyday
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