Dementia Poems

Stroke

Somewhere over the mountain, hidden away,
There’s a land that is calling; I must not delay.
Somewhere over the mountain, that’s where she’ll be,
In the alpenglow, Mary's waiting for me.

They said I'd never recover from my stroke
A nightmare from which I never woke
A big chunk of me gone, a lower plateau
But I left the home, and off

Dementia

Mind, like a deciduous forest
has lost all its foliage,
all leaves torn away
by the autumnal blasts.

The brain where great schemes were concocted
is now an abyss where spiders sway
It is bare – dismally barren
of all memories – sweet and sour.

Like a kite afloat in the boundless sky
moving nowhere, but as the wind directs,
cut out from the past,

ALREADY GONE

We did not notice at first—
the small rebellions of memory:
a forgotten kettle on the stove,
the absurd claim that Tuesday had vanished,
names reshuffled as if in a deck too often played.

The mind does not fall—it recedes,
a shoreline eroded not by storms
but by silent, persistent tides.
Each day an abrasive grain,
each night a hush over once-luminous thought.

She remained

i remember getting old

we know more now than we knew then
.
we were younger
smiles came easy
and memories were made
like spun cotton candy
and one pony carousels
.
there were fewer reasons to cry
more seasons to fly
and the red in red roses 
seemed never to fade away
.
it was easy to laugh and run into the forest
golden with morning
to lay for hours watching clouds
and

Summer Passing

Impossible beauty, summer in swell,
Fragrance aflowing and fluttering around;
Though now, I admit, I don’t see it well,
I know – my ears! – all the birds by their sound.
Heaven surrounds me, but only for now;
Howling the winds that shall crash on my head;
Ripping the flowers that live on the bough,
Never see summer return in its stead.
Perhaps

'Calendar-Dementia'

     How did it get to be July
     Same way I’m now seventy-five

        I never paid attention
        I’ve calendar-dementia

     Ought to repent while I’m alive

Aging Shadows

early evening walk
two shadows walking ahead
melting into one

What Her Eyes are Saying

She has this pretty smile, she can light up a room, but when you look into her eyes, the look is more of gloom.
 
There’s so much wisdom and happiness on her face, but to look into her eyes that smile is so displaced.

Is it anger, is it hurt, is it doubt, or is it

THE DEVIL NAMED DEMENTIA

I'm in a pickle
Soured sometimes I cry
Because there's not much time here 
For I will soon leave memories behind
There is no time for regrets
No time for bitterness
Nothing needs to be undone
I'm only space filled with skin and bones
A beautiful mind only remembers from long ago
I brushed my teeth today
I dressed myself
Combed my hair
I looked in

Grandma - Mar 13

Memories lost within a frozen mist
And dangling in the static atmosphere
Of muddled recollection of things dear 
Haunt the backwoods of the years she has missed. 

Through foggy glances, blurred thoughts that persist
In the dim haze, shapes of the past, appear;
These flittering figures, some far, some near,
Skitter through her mind, meek and shadow-kissed. 

But soon they

The Stress Of Dementia

The Stress Of Dementia
Miracle Man
2/22/2025

Sometimes from the shadows of safety she is found, 
relating some problem that’s appeared on her plate.
The magnitude of which always leaves some spellbound,
because seldom does she have all of her facts straight.
  
Sometimes, always with her voice, her thoughts she will air,
some thrice told story concerning another’s need.
Not learning

The Curse Of Dementia

The Curse Of Dementia 
Miracle Man
2/13/2025

I awake to chatter that makes little sense,
stress is overwhelming, dementia’s expense. 
Nary a time have I stood and yelled encore,
because days are reruns from the day before.

For the pain endured daily she has no feel?
If only I knew what her thoughts could reveal.
Dementia has caused us to become just

War and Dementia

An elderly lady was losing her mind.
If that wasn't bad enough
the Russians invaded her homeland.
Her family dragged her 
from 
bomb shelter 
to 
bomb shelter
depending upon where 
the limbs and screams were scattered.
She couldn't comprehend
the carved-out stares 
skinny ghosts in skinny doorways
or a broken stairway 
searching for a way out.
She became disoriented and extremely agitated
but so

Confessions to My Architect

My spirit is forlorn, frightened, 
 and impaired.
You’re not hiding here in this hideous hell;
no longer your eyes, are broken in a cataract cell,
instead, you graze in the free fields,
feeding on the flock’s frivolous phrases, 
now part of a buoyant herd,
while I wallow in the ocean's pitiful past,
gliding in my hurricane of pain.
You wander merrily

Dementia

Who am I 
I often ask. 
I have no future 
I see no past. 

A long forgotten book 
resides upon the shelf. 
An unfinished story 
crying out for help. 

Family become strangers 
as the world bids goodbye. 
Memories start to fade 
as the past breathes a sigh.

Dementias unforgiving 
a cruel slow lingering death. 
feeling lost

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