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James Study Jul 12
old empty porch swing
neglected flowers dying
someone is missing
Rococo Nov 2022
It’s often I’d look unto 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.
I whisper
“I love you,”
as you fade away,
your last breaths
soon to come.
a few days pass
and there you go,
away to live with the moon.
I wish I could say “I love you” again,
please say i’ll see you soon.
birdy Apr 2022
Your mouth struggles, mind grasping at sounds to make words.

Blurting out nonsensical madness.

Your eyes scream out desperately.

I wish I knew what to say

To reach you.
Jean Feb 2022
Tonight you sat down
Scouring through love letters
written by your grandparents
Johnny was in the Philippines
And Ena was back home
I wish I were there with you
No mask
No distance
I wish I were there with you
Pouring over love letters and
Not needing to write them
I was brooming below the bed once,
and suddenly swayed

a flashback rushed my head

we used to play that game,
do you remember?
until dementia took you away
Eitten S Dec 2020
When we think of grandparents,
We think of smiling faces
Warm hugs
Sometimes slow or in a wheelchair
But they are always there to listen

But one day they won’t listen
They want to but
they can’t
Their ears aren’t working as well anymore
You have to shout when you’re five feet away

They won’t hear your words
But they’ll see your face, the sadness
The frustration
They’ll know that they are getting old
And when they know it, you know it and it hurts
Pt. 2
Unpolished Ink Dec 2020
I kept them for years
those fingerless stripy gloves
a last little link with my mother
who was a diva with the needles
the yellow strands of wool joining us together
in a beautifully knitted chain
although she is long gone from this world,
I found comfort in them once again today
although many years have passed
and I noticed her hands coming out of my sleeves
This is a personal one- how we turn into our parents. The gloves were her final pair before illness robbed her of everything.
Francie Lynch Nov 2020
When I get big, as big as Granda,
I can do whatever I wanta.
I won't have to go to bed,
Even though I'm nodding.
I'll stay up late, yawn and stretch,
Let my eyes dry, rub and scratch,
Staring at the late night screen,
And think of jobs in need doing,
Like raking, shoveling, weeding, mowing.
Thanksgiving isn't far away, then
Christmas comes and family stays.
Granda stays up late and thinks
Of doing something before he sinks.
He doesn't have to clean the harvest,
Stain a table for a daughter, or
Drive to London for a visit.
He doesn't have to go to school,
And follow everybody's rules.
For all he's worth, and we're not sure,
He's staying here for many more.
Granda: I had a Granda when I was a boy in Ireland, but I don't remember him at all, although I have a picture on my wall.  My father was a Papa to my kids, and there are no Grandas around, so I decided I'd be the Granda in Canada. And it works. All my grandkids call me, Granda.
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