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Rococo Nov 20
It’s often I’d look into the past,
a world of wonders that weren’t made to last,
of joys forgotten, the die long cast,
of memories drifting and fleeing fast.

It's often I'd think of us,
moments of still quiet, mixed with triumphant fuss,
where peace would find me, where I'd be allowed to trust,
It's only then, when the hammer falls, that I'm struck by loss,

It's often that I think of dying,
that sleep may find me, without us goodbyeing,
the surplus of a lifetime, relatives crying.
But above all, that not enough time was spent trying.
I wrote this thinking about m grandparent's relatioship and how hard it must be to grow old and lose so much.
SiouxF Jul 26
It doesn’t matter how many times people say you did your best,
They never truly know the truth of the situation.
Only you know just how much you weren’t there for mum
In her hours of need.

Dementia is a cruel fate,
And even crueler when living with a narcissist
Who deliberately causes a rift in the family.
Does the guilt ever go away
For those left behind?
Steve Page Apr 13
I focus on the apple, the glint
the fleck of gold on green
glazed and blurred with lashed tears
even as his gaze runs off to
the middle distance soon to
come round for its next lap
and our eyes will meet
for the first time
again.
i sense the walls of sanity cracking
unseen
trying to hide in the foundation
trying to escape
but there is nowhere to run
the clues begin to reveal themselves
we drive silent into the country
my Father and i rarely spoke
revealed our fears
our doubts
ourselves
but today i saw a frightened man
a man dealing with an enemy he couldn't control
'I worked hard my whole life. This is not fair'
he fought back tears
but i could not
my father passed away from the debilitating effects of alzheimer's
Priya Patel Mar 8
If not me, then with whom
whom to pretend with
to act tough with
to be angry with
when the answers you seek
are not answers at all
If not me, then with whom
to be your faithful eyes
when you just can't see
and to hear the things
you ignore determinedly
all the while, fervently
pushing me away
I don't know what to say
or how to be
but I'm here, waiting patiently
for you to finally see me
for me, for you
I'm here, fumbling, stumbling
through something so humbling
hating that your hurting
hating that we are crumbling
when all I want to do
is hold you, help you
be the rock you know me to be
just as you have been for me

~ Priya 🕉,  Feb 26, 22
Atop the ladder twenty-twenty,
I was enjoying the view.
Care Home visits a plenty,
Faces old and new.
Singing songs to raise a smile,
And vacant minds re-awoken,
Music to boost morale,
Mending souls once broken.
Frail voices murmured approval,
For favourite singers of their day.
“That was lovely! - Just wonderful!
Have a tea! - Please stay!”
Then, we talked all afternoon,
For little did we know,
What was around the corner,
The invisible foe.

And just like that, we were separated.
Back down the ladder I’d go.
Down there at the bottom,
The flowers would not grow.
The rays that kissed my cheek,
Were hidden from my gaze,
A tortured isolation,
As we entered a new phase.
Yet in your darkest hour,
I wished to shine a light,
So I worked to find new ways,
Tirelessly through the night.

Springtime and summer,
Brought with it a new hope:
Outdoor shows, joy and laughter,
(Needed to help us cope.)
My feet were on the ladder,
And life was on the up,
But slipping on the rain,
I fell back in the muck.

Atop the ladder twenty-twenty,
Now that seems long ago,
Through all the loss and tears,
I did the only thing I know.
Which was to carry on,
With a stiff upper lip.
I’d see you all again,
Once I regained my grip.

Twenty-twenty one flew by,
Just like the year before.
With notes of heartfelt lyrics,
Hidden in my drawer.
What awaits atop the ladder
For twenty-two, who knows?
But I’ll never forget,
When I helped them through their woes.
Winner of the 'Goodbye 2021, Hello 2022' poetry competition, 18+ category - Serendipity Gift Shop
https://serendipitygiftshop.co.uk/
©️ Joshua Reece Wylie 2022
GaryFairy Sep 2021
he's such a sweet
such a sweet old man
he's a treat even though his feet smell like dead meat
an old ham

such a sweet old man
still ain't taking no **** wooden nickels!
his hands and creases smell like really dill pickles...

or pickle juice, as he says, because pickles make their own juice
i swear he thinks cucumbers are made from pickles
i haven't the heart to tell him and ruin his heaven waiting

a place where you don't have to buy pickles to get good pickle juice

such a sweet old man
10 dead animals living with him, if you include his wife, and the 3 dead rats in the traps
the other dead animals didn't matter anyhow...
they were all HER pets, just as he once was her pet

he's also going to die soon
and not matter

it doesn't bother the sweet old man one bit though
what bothers him is losing his pickle juicer when his wife died
he was sure he put it the root cellar...
on the 17th floor
of the hospital he lives in now

i haven't the heart to tell him and ruin his heaven waiting
such a sweet old man deserves heaven
the magnitude of the real pickle juice alone, that was better than pickle juice from the old days

when pickles were pure and pickle juice didn't have vinegar!

made that sweet old man's eyes light up and his heart flutter
he giggled, then he died so gently

such a sweet old man
dying gently

such a sweet old man
never did take no **** wooden nickels!
old ham
life never hurt him and death gently tickles
Betty Aug 2021
Furrow face, deep ruts
savage cuts that only time and years can plough
fertile grain
once waving yellow in your fields
does not remain
chaff blown brittle on the winter wind
will settle now and then on barren land
sadly turned to sand
Dementia
Francie Lynch Aug 2021
The older man seemed confused.
I slowed, turned in my drive.
I was just returning from the airport.
He fell on the road too,
And got a nasty **** to his left knee.
Later, I learned he had onset of the dreaded D.
This morning, I flew a plane,
Then slipped right back into humanity
From the mirth of azure skies.
Tip of the cap to McGee's "High Flight." Wonderful poem.

I think my writing is becoming more like texting. :0
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