#senility
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
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 9:33 PM UTC
Have you ever noticed those
Grandmas, who stand in the middle of
The road without purpose and as if lost;
Not in the middle of a conversation or
Waiting for a bus on a stop; just some part
Of a road you would least expect it to see
Someone standing there all alone
Especially a senile woman all alone; but
There she stands inconceivable and
Baffles you as you walk by noticing her
Though only on the periphery of your
Vision; and thus your paths diverge w/out
Both of you acknowledging it; but you still
Go on and she still stands there all by
Herself; and that is the truth
Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 1:10 PM UTC
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!
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
(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
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:24 AM UTC
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"
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
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.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
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.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
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.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC