rumors of war
as she busies herself
with morning things
And you will hear of wars and threats of wars, but don’t panic. Yes, these things must take place, but the end won’t follow immediately. Matthew 24:6, NLV
Dementia
By: Miracle Man
5/1/2023
The scent of recall of times long past,
Uncovers many years of hidden hurt.
However, hinder years, can’t be recast,
life can’t be washed like a dirty shirt.
Dreams of the past now seem as ashes,
two lives smolder under daily stress.
Can two continue with constant clashes?
When each spoken word seems to depress.
As people age seems many grow apart,
some say the dew has dried from the rose.
It isn’t that one had a change of heart,
but each just sought their own repose.
Dementia busies itself in the mind of one,
making it so difficult for the other to cope.
Each day becomes another yesterday rerun,
both seek the knot at the end of their rope.
But God has Blessed!
Naomi has seen this sight many times before
She knows Mrs. Bee will be gone in two days
If not before
She makes her as comfortable as she can
The doctor comes in; he takes the lady’s hand
Attempts to speak with her
Naomi busies herself cleaning up the room
What do you think? The doctor asks the nurse
Her name is Paula, she is not empathic.
No idea says Paula. It could be two months or two minutes.
Paula spends much of her day playing video games.
Not paying any attention to her patients.
As a certified nursing assistant, Naomi is invisible.
No one asks her thoughts
Or realizes she is there
I am sorry, honey, she says.
I think you will be gone before your relatives get here.
Should we call the relatives? Paula asks.
No idea about the time line, he replies.
Naomi, the certified nursing assistant is correct.
The woman is gone before morning.
Down Under when one can not sleep
One busies one's self counting sheep
Snooze you lose
Ewes your muse
Aussie poets are now knee-deep
splashing. sunshine.
etched glasses with paint in mind -
water goo.
rose reds and blueberry blues.
as if handling a ginormous flatscreen,
the canvas placed.
splash...splash...splash
like a conductor with an orchestral skill.
the maestro puts on his visor and busies himself,
squeezes the trigger, the water bottle
set to diffuse. his plants flourish in their bath.
he sees them grow before his playful eyes,
stamens wear black mascara.
they soak up the sunshine
like bathing beauties.
twenty hues in ketchup-sized bottles,
arranged like dutch tulips on the dais,
hold still as the gardener plucks
a plastic stem with his hand.
appearing as a mad horticulturist —
this artist’s in demand.
3/23/2020
A fly dances
On a blooming flower.
A bee buzzes along
Busies itself digging for nectar,
The fly dashes, dances on the petal.
When done the bee flies away.
Unhindered the fly digs for nectar?
It never goes away,
I go away, free myself from spectacle,
I know honey is sweet.
They wait, deep down in the red earth,
covered from the yellow, Wyoming sun,
like Tom Horn, a while ago,
but deeper than he, not the same,
they wouldn’t kill for fun,
and the bored army busies itself beneath;
their mind-numbing repetition unclear,
but the fear, the fear stays, keeping them
on their toes and best behavior
and the specters of the cattle barons, and
rustlers and Geronimo, wonder at these busy
ants underground, eating, sweating, filling in
a thousand forms;
I wonder, do they write poems?
“Here I sit in my rocket-chair, wondering
what’s happening way up there, on the prairie;
while down here, I tick the charts and ponder,
how it would feel to turn the key, turn the key,”
blah, blah, blah….or perhaps they have
chess clubs and baby showers and tense
debating thrills, and Buddy Rich, jazz hours
between the mind-numbing shifts and drills;
and there’s a Slim Pickens, ride- em- cowboy
move still, next to every lady-soldier’s heart,
while another day on the wide-open, God’s gift
prairie passes by;
and up above, in the dawn light, Tom and Geronimo
ride by the metal hatch singing;
“I got you under my skin,”
THE STORMY DAY
Awoken by
Rumbling in the
Deep distance
Shallow waters subside and
Gliding across white wakes
Makes for the sanctuary,
A distant glimmer in the
Heart of the storm bird.
Building and gathering,
The mind on the shore
Busies itself and
Attempt numerous things
Without success.
The dark brooding hood
Brings fear and loathing
As struggling winds gather
To take the solitary man
Out to water.
What is he doing?
The rumblings fade
As silent glistening eyes
Peer out across the clear horizon.
Tears fall from a cluttered sky,
Having raised up
From this great lively mass.
Endless minute movements
Slowly carry the man
Out to sea.
Never a chance so opportune is that of an early morning walk to see the life that busies our day, at its infancy.
Warm and awaking the blackbird perches upon canary grass cooing its prospective mate
The act is simple in its profoundness
I stop and admire his patience and strength
I walk
I think
I listen
I know I will now live this day through to its maturity with perspective previously unheeded