Soft light drifts away,
broken thoughts like curling smoke,
meaning fades to air
brushing past my fingertips,
silent whispers lost in mist.
2025.05.25
Dementia, how cruel you were,
You stole my mother long
Before her final breath.
You placed upon her
An incurable silence,
A sickness she herself
Could never truly understand.
Her body remained with us,
For loving hands to hold,
For family to cherish and cradle,
Yet little by little,
You carried pieces of her away, over decades.
You spared her physical pain,
But left her family
To bear the sorrow,
To witness the slow fading
Of someone deeply loved.
Still, she lives on
Through her children,
Grandchildren and
Great-grandchildren,
And through every soul
Who proudly called her family
Thank you and bye-bye.
Mummy.
We take our memories for granted
As we go to and from our work
Never giving it a second thought
Until it slips, leaving us in a lurk.
Memory saves us the trouble
Of thinking before we act
But when it's gone or absent
We sure want it back.
Without it, we need to relearn
Everything we thought we knew
How to walk and how to talk
How to live anew.
Memory slips are the butt of jokes
Must be a senior's moment
But struggling with memory loss
Is no laughing matter.
Oh memory, do not stray far
Stay with us awhile
So we won't be so afraid
Of acting like a child.
Without memory it gets harder
To know how to act and say
To live a normal life
During an ordinary day.
Memory, we cannot do without you
You are the rock on which we rely
To keep our ship from sinking
And keep our minds alive.
my mother keeps asking why Dad is taking so long
The speaker is my friend Belinda, who is about sixty-two
I see Mom every Sunday, she tells me.
She seems about the same each week.
Not better, not worse.
Her mother has dementia.
“What is he buying there?” Mom asks me.
“Why is he taking so long?”
I used to tell her that Dad died months ago.
But then she had to grieve each time.
Now I wonder along with her.
Sometimes I guess what he might be buying.
It seems more kind somehow.
Time, you demented coot! You roam at night
Down hallways, hoping neglected rooms might
Remind you what it is you’re looking for
Though now forgotten in empty drawers.
“I know a something’s here somewhere, but,
Damn, if I could just remember what.”
You mutter, “Perhaps something I should wear
Though I can’t remember for what affair?”
Next morning, anxious, you inquire,
“When must I dress and what else required?”
I check the calendar, and to Time I say,
“There is nothing scheduled for your day.”
My eyes scan the map of our lives –
lived experiences – etched across my grandma’s face.
And her eyes look right back.
But not the same;
The light that once danced to old jazz tunes,
and bold classic blues, that light that is extinguished by name tags at Christmas
donning the shirts of which she herself bestowed the identity.
‘I am sixteen’ I tell her,
again,
and she nods along, but that light does not quite gleam,
dimmed by the brain that cannot stay clean
and I find myself pointing at faces of which she is the blueprint.
Her fingers follow mine,
shaking,
as she tries to recreate, copy what cannot be faked
and I stifle a sob as I find my head bobs as she asks if I am okay.
Silence strangles my words
the way dementia does hers,
and I want to scratch at the very back of my throat the way she wants to remember the name of her firstborn:
An itch that will not be itched.
Not by her pretences or attempted defences, for she does not
remember
faces or names but her love remains, backed only by the assumption that
she should.
For she does not remember the family secrets that her brain will not
reveal –
not even for the sake of this family appeal.
BLUE LIGHT, blue light Oh I shake my head in horror
for the children of today and how they'll fare tomorra
BLUE LIGHT blue light emanating from all these toxic screens
dementia already forming in the brains of children visualise the future scenes
BLUE LIGHT blue light emanating from toxic on-line games
ageing is not just defined by chronological time frames
BLUE LIGHT blue light protection must be sought, yellow lens to prevent dementia
long time damage results in an incoherent state of brain absentia
The Threads of my being
Are becoming unraveled
As whom “I Was” is only seen in the shadows and patches
I am losing myself but finding myself at the same time.
The threads are unraveling the “sweater” of my being
It is being rolled up in a ball of wool, like so many threads of life, cocooned
Until a new garment is made from the old.
What is this garment
that my mind and my being are weaving?
It is a garment that reaches back in time,
even as it becomes invisible in the present.
This garment is my shield
As I become ever increasingly vulnerable
But never increasing deep
Deeper than I’ve ever been.
It is not about a “meaning of life” journey
It is not Nirvana or Valhalla
It is not an enlightened moment
It is melding in a new way of doing things
Finding new ways of learning and retaining memory.
Even poetry becomes therapeutic
As my garment takes shape
And covers my nakedness.
a small-town girl
expecting to always be recognized
I will call someone after thirty years
we almost always easily resume our conversation
this technique has only failed once
the lady was frightened
no longer the person she used to be
she is my next-door neighbor
sadly suffering from dementia
I think of her fondly
her daughter told me that she does not remember me
I think that she does
but I am filed in a drawer she can no longer access
I was the sun with flame and flare
‘til time did cloud my head,
a lively lord with hounds and mare
but now I lie in bed
I am the moon with pallid glow
a lone ghost light instead,
my mind a maze I do not know
I call for dogs long dead
(Published in "The Raven Review", 2025)
the look in her eyes
she was lost I could see it
she still held my hand
What are you doing in my grandfather's house?
Dear, I'm your husband.
Get out of this house!
Mom, grandpap's been dead thirty years.
I don't know who you are.
Forty-five years are lost,
Her parents are married,
She's never been,
Her son isn't dead,
Because he never lived.
It's been hard on me,
It's been hard on him,
Her loses never happened,
Yet in some moments, at some times,
It all comes back again.
Mom, it's me.
Well hello there.
How have you been?
I don't know...
And I'm unknown again.
Shimmered gold thin hair, heart
shaped face,
innocent look with love’s trace.
She was petite and tanned from
the summery sun-
ivory lace dress past her knees,
how beauteous youth can be.
Those July afternoons of chilled
iced tea,
she gave birth in the years to three.
The Long Island queen,
is it a dream-
that I see you fair again so carefree,
in the days of the pretty Annmarie.
When we’re in the tender age,
we don’t think that will change,
til the thief ancient and gray
took her memory away.
I’ve wept for what you lost,
it came at such a cost.
I know you’ve had some joy
in life,
my brother’s wife.
I recall the days of the pretty Annmarie,
sparkled eyes of depth and brave,
once the color of the Fire Island waves.
I remember the melodious Annmarie,
walking with her children by the sea. ~
I remember when you were young
You and I had so much fun
You were funny you were kind
I never thought you'd lose your mind
But now I've seen you fade away
The shell of a man you are today
It started whith your memory lost
We knew that you would pay the cost
You forgot your own wife's name
Though you knew you loved her just the same
The doctors gave you the sad news
Everything you were you'd lose
Although you're not the friend I knew
I will still stand by you
I'll try to give you some support
I know you tried I know you fought
This awful disease has robbed your wife
Of the husband she swore to have for life
It's robbed your children of their dad
And robbed me of the friend I had
And you're just one and that's a fact
There are many who will not come back
This terrible disease must be ended
Though the broken lives will not be mended
And I pray they'll find a way
To stop dementia one day
And then this scurge will lose its power
And we will celebrate the very hour
DEMENTIA CASTS LONG SHADOWS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sunlight fades from the window ledge
hands tremble, reaching through
mist where memories dwell
her memory – a moth-eaten shawl
whispers cling to dusty frames,
familiar faces blurred
like rain on windowpanes
keys forget what doors they knew
chairs hold ghosts’ warm weight
the clocks hands swim backward
through forgotten dates
footsteps echo in empty rooms
long shadows cast where memories pass
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