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Zywa 7h
Mum's dementia:

some visits are fine, they are –


never easy though.
“Pit with rats” (2020, Marcel van Roosmalen)

Collection "Moist glow"
Zywa 8h
Dementia: rats

gnaw your head empty, softly –


their fur is itchy.
“Pit with rats” (2020, Marcel van Roosmalen)

Collection "Moist glow"
Richard Duffy Oct 15
She lives in the past, a time she spoke little about,
a world that does not sit with the present,
confusion swarms her fragmented mind.

Memories, once treasured, faded slowly,
now they come and go beyond will,  stripped
of control, her worlds an opening and closing void.

She knows what is happening to her, but none of us
really know why. A decaying fate beyond our control,
no matter how much we want to reverse it.

© Richard Duffy. All rights reserved
Observations of my Mother's journey with Alzheimer's
Norman Crane Oct 6
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.
Dnlbllrd Aug 18
Memories are playing from my mind

Like dandelion that flutters with the wind

They enticingly caressing me

As they fades towards the never land

Zegen me o heer

Endless stream of time~

Slithering around inviting me

Like poignant music that never stops to rhyme

On its way to never land

Zegen me o heer

My burning soul, now turning cold

Slowly losing the flames, I once hold

Forgive me for I can no longer cope up

For even in the smallest thing, I blowup

Het spijt me

Strangers around me starts increasing

While gradually losing love ones

As I'm aging

Please stay for soon I'll be leaving

-dnlbllrd
Was inspired by The Caretaker- Everywhere at the end of time

Please be patient with them, understand as much as possible for they're only lost and they need your love and care :)
Zywa Aug 11
Wandering at home:

a play without direction –


without a prompter.
Becoming demented

Collection "Slow circles"
Ces Jul 11
Mundane concerns stifle
the soul that hungers for the infinite
Practicality subverts the mind
as it questions and wrestles with
this existential enigma...

Bound by the curse of productivity
and the insatiable drive for accumulation
Libidinal, perverse thoughts
drive the working man

to this, to that...

he is a puppet pulled by invisible strings:
the corporate, bureaucratic masters
calling the shots
laughing control freaks...
the world is theirs for the taking
and the worker-slave raises his hands
a sense of triumph
as the crumbs fall down

We live in a Kafkaesque era
merrily languishing
in this willful dementia.
Taste the essence of frailty.
Ride comprehensions slip
And slide, careening into dementia.
Arise into normality, and laugh as everyone dances
A merry tune. Hilarious fun.
Grasp at the heavy spoon and be hungry.
Have you forgotten how to eat dear? Here, allow me.
Content starvation. A crippling disability
Take the cup.
Drink now, no don’t gulp.
You didn’t finish your meal, are you not hungry today?
Please, I’m starving.
Take the fork with too many gaps and enjoy the soup and smile as the monkey takes the bulb.
Sit in darkness and wait for help, that never comes.
Paul Horne Apr 24
Maybe it’s the mess,
or slight sickly scents,
roasted chicken, two veg, mixed
a carefree swish of bleach,
disguising, almost, a rising whiff
of you know what, with
the cherry, antiseptic

And I have to wonder
the wisdom of sense
as resist, again,
an urge to heave, or leave
as opening the door,
the house of memories,
fast forgetting, replaced
by repetition

Along the corridors
cages with doors ajar, borrowed,
months, maybe two
then shipped off, silent
before, hopefully,
fruits of a life
burned on these wasted shells,
similar in body, no spirit
as remembered

You, you’re in your chair, tuned
to daytime joys, maybe one day
I’ll stare in the same direction
wear the same bland expression
or maybe I’ll get lucky,
get taken by a bus, train
something quicker than this.

Offering you Balvenie,
your favourite, so strange
how the stranger knew
I convey the news, ignored
but politely, you always had
such lovely manners

You tell me today’s secret, again
I feign interest, again
I had no idea your daughter
was such, and that
you must be so proud...
the vacuum returns, blank
until the adverts, then
a flicker, but not for long.
I think like most people, I find the mere thought of Dementia terrifying. Of losing your identity, losing exactly what makes us who we are: our minds, the respect of others and the fragile self-respect that we spend all our lives trying to protect. The fact that the mind and the soul are inextricably linked in our thinking just adds to the confusion, and I have the utmost admiration for people that work in the care industry and do the job with compassion and understanding, often for little reward. The first stanza deals with the smell that greets you every time you walk in through the door, a curious mix of smells, none of them particularly pleasant. ‘Fruits of a life…shells’ refers to the use of a patient’s assets to pay for the cost of care. It’s strange that most first world countries ship the old and infirm into care homes, whereas developing countries will tend to care for them in the family home, which feels so much more humane. Perhaps it’s because we have got used to living much more independent, busy lives, perhaps it’s because we live much longer than they do, or perhaps it’s because they have a stronger sense of family.
Virginia Apr 17
Every day we'd sit
to the soothing voice
of the afro man,
dabbing his brush
into happy little bushes.
Now those happy little accidents
are gone far away from you,
so far, his 'fro
seems nothing more than
a bush on the side of the road.

Describing his wispy voice,
the gentle stroke of his brush
brings a vague smile,
but only just,
a mimic of the joy that comes
to my lips as I
reminisce,
selfishly
before you.

A child then,
I barely knew my colors;
yet you helped me
bloom a rainbow garden.
And when I knew my colors well,
you embraced the forests
I drew in blue,
the models of spacecraft
from distant worlds,
imagined by foreign minds.
I wept only once
in front of you,
a rare tantrum for a childish thing.
You cleared my tears
and left me beaming in my new
ballcap.

Older now,
I describe the colors to you;
you recall the meaning of two
or three.
Life has turned you
back into a child:
screaming outwardly,
weeping inwardly.
The things you know you should know
escape you,
things now beyond
your comprehension.
Decades upon decades
you experienced the magic
your fingers could bring to the
canvas of our lives.
The watercolors now bleed into
vague puddles of tan,
oils run thick and drip,
matting the carpet.
You tantrum against the loss
of yourself
as I dab your tears
and offer you the hat
of my memories
to sustain you through the fog
laid heavy around your head.

So I tell you the story
of the afro man,
dabbing his brush
into happy little bushes,
and we navigate this
not-so-happy little accident
that is you
lost on the last leg of your
life journey,
hoping my smile
will stay contagious to you
until that last step
that breaks the haze
and brings you home.
A poem dedicated to my Nana.
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