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Keiya Tasire Dec 2018
Evergreen trees & cranberries
Pine cones soaked in cinnamon oil
Candle holders for the beautiful Christmas candles.
Time to decorate with all the fresh trimmings.
Now where are the push pins and tacks?

They say there are only two reasons to forget:
1) I am in love, or it is 2) Senility.
I pray it is Love!
Sally A Bayan Jul 2018
(a cluster of 10w)
><
daylight glares...melts shadows
revealing those stilled,
and those living
><
puffs of breath
could signify a desire
to still exist
><
some breathe erratically
amidst suffocating airs,
fighting,
unwilling to die
><
there're those breathing,
but, oblivious of everything,
themselves......deliberately,
forgotten
><
senile...scared...lonely
committed to indifferent homes
left languishing
abandoned
><
no longer exhaling gratitude
for, they're considered
dead...and...gone    
><
what're they thinking,
when they're with that
loneliest faraway look?
><
while wilting in confusion...do thoughts
about tomorrow visit them?

....aiming....meaning to defy death?
to again, catch precious breath?
><
><
><


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
  July 31,  2018
Years ago, my group and I visited a facility for the aged.
we brought food, drinks...and did tai chi with them...
There, I first opened my eyes....to grim realities about homes and family,
and senility.....and other issues regarding old age.
Cliff Green Oct 2017
In the oppressive Shanghai hospital heat
My eighty year 'young' mother
Looks without speculation,
From her one good eye

The strokes have left their mark
What is the character for senility?
"I have to go now Ma; home to Mei Guo"
"Yes; hurry, or the Japanese will arrest you"
Mei Guo is the Chinese word for the United States - literal translation is beautiful country
John Go-Soco Nov 2016
Beneath a fading purple sky,
Papa sits here gazing high,
warmly smiling as I say
my name again to him today
though not an hour has since passed by.

Sunlight sinking, vision fails;
and selfless warmth now leaves the vales.
His voice which once was strong and pure,
staccatos now and speaks words fewer;
A phantom with a loved one's face.

And yet the words he finds to speak,
though murmuring voice is rasp and weak,
hold truths from many decades past,
told vividly with spirit vast;
nostalgia from a dear antique.

He dreams within a castle air,
with memory as the mason there.
He sometimes looks out past the vape
at shadows gathering there to gape,
but can't assail his foggy lair.

Inside, his vigor unbereft,
his chronicles are lined and kept
on shelves of moments  come and gone;
and cherished loves long since passed on
within this dream have never left.

And there my papa wanders free -
his paradise of memory.
And though I dearly miss him so
when him to this silent fortress go,
the phantom there is I, not he.
PJ Poesy Feb 2016
Garbled voices through
walls thick, yammers and whoops
make themselves known. Intermittent
laughing adds to clues
of celebration next door. She
checks under doormat and
deep in mailbox, as she sees more
guests arriving with big trays
of film wrapped fruit
and crudités. Her invitation isn't
in sight. Venetian blinds keep
blinking peeks, all night, as others
come and go.

Cinder block fence separates.
She combs her gray greasy hair,
puts in rhinestone barrette,
wishes upon a star.
She sees over those cinder blocks.
Tommy Randell Apr 2015
This is the house that ego built

This is the mind all callused and worn
Its ethical basis tattered and torn
That sits in the house that ego built

This is the heart exposed for your scorn
That believes it is right and can do no wrong
That governs the mind
That lives in the house that ego built

This is the lifeblood of laughter and fun
That flows through the flesh that clings to the bones
That cages the heart that governs the mind
That dreams in the house that ego built

This is the stomach ulcerated with guilt
That feeds on the justice of a knife ****** to the hilt
Into the innards of turmoil and bile
That brings queasy reality into a mind
That rots in the house that ego built

This is the skeleton of upright intent
Its bones a geometry and rosary of ailments
That scaffolds a life of sheer ****** mindedness
That never quite does what the mind intends
In this ruin of a house that ego built

This is the skin that keeps it all in
That brings order and calm to the chaos within
Though it wrinkles with age, transparent and worn
A castle of walls, a house not a home, that ego built

And these are the eyes unfocused and white
Their cataract curtains dimming the light
On the ghosts and the memories wandering inside
What's left of the house that ego built

Man becomes man, life becomes life
A notorious continuance without rest or respite
Bricks become clay, clay becomes dust
Where now is the house that ego built?

Where is the mind, where has it gone
The purpose and promise of which it was born
The ego that dreamed of a house to be built?

These thoughts are the dust of all that was willed.
Map
Health reflects plateaus,
Thick tears running like rivers,
Arthritic mountains,
Wrinkles ripple at beaches,
Plains welcome the exhausted,

Suburbs look peaceful,
Rural childhood decomposed,
Urban amnesia,
Roads outline the senile brain,
Destination: nostalgia.

— The End —