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Norman Crane Oct 2020
The sun set over the Hamptons that night,
A golden egg cracked into the ocean,
We napped on the beach. Goose bumps. Wrapped tight,
Warm blanket. Waves. Shared ear buds. She sang
solely for us sitting so comfortably
on the precipice of forty. If only
we had known this would be the best day,
we could have begged the dripping sun to stay
afloat but then we would have always known
the sun will never rise as high or shine
as brightly as it did. Each day a slow
erosion of the New York coastline,
degradation of the mind. Please remember—
even when I don't—our summer in September.
clixdhna Mar 2020
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 2020
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
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
Three and
'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?'
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
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
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
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,

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
Staring motionless
faces up
to the ceiling
In recliners. Peaceful.

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
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

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
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 2020
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
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