Long Memory loss Poems
Long Memory loss Poems. Below are the most popular long Memory loss by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Memory loss poems by poem length and keyword.
POWER OF MUSIC
People have the strength
People have the power
Power to control
Power to influence
Influence to evolve
Influence to change
Change to make a difference
Change for the better
Better well-being
Better perspectives
Perspectives in life
Perspectives in love
Love is a decision
Love is actions
Actions that are emotional
Actions that are physical
Physical in sharing activities
Physical touch
Touch is love
Touch of mind or feelings
Feelings expressed in dance
Feelings written in songs
Songs about love, longings
Songs that touch our souls
Souls of the broken hearted
Souls lost, searching for something
Something they can hang on
Something to give them hope
Hope to lift them up
Hope to give them strength
Strength to have faith
Strength to give them courage
Courage to turn around
Courage to tell their stories
Stories in form of poetry
Stories in form of melodies
Melodies can be instrumental or have lyrics
Melodies are part of music
Music makes us feel
Music are encoded in our memories
Memories with vivid details of events
Memories of our past
Past that is lost with Alzheimer’s disease
Past totally erased with memory loss
Loss retrieved for a moment through music
Loss revivified temporarily with music’s power
Power …
Music …
We promised to link our time eternal,
and yet, in a flash, he became drained
by some incurable strain of memory loss;
forgetting the warm love that knitted our arms…
I cringe; dear life ,sanctify us from harm I pray
his eyes reaching out, though living in another realm
and this varnished portrait I now hold with tears
cannot fade, cannot erase his smile bursting my veins.
Here, in a room with cinders as coffee tunes,
my flesh, thin flesh grows hungry, a bit angry
about his world unknown to him and me : a jungle tested
by stillness or steel… he remembers nothing
of moments brewed in simple joys and discoveries,
our bodies once locked on subways and parks,
tongues livid with laughter popping shrieks
darting on tall trees,giggling, giggling. i freeze...
My black coffee freezes at the damn thought
of other human arms embracing tight, not alone.
I cling to my beloved, wishing I could give
half of my mind to fill a space of his dementia.
I close the door gazing at him, chair-bound…
I am absent today.
PD's Best Love Poem #3
~ about Alzheimer's Disease
Doors: Psycho-history 101
by Odin Roark
Doors absorb history
Whether by knocks
Slams
Shuts
Or slides
Doors have felt it all
Boulder
Metal
Wood
Plexiglas
Steel bars
Making different walls
Fences
Entrances
Exits
We are the users
Without us
There’d be no need for doors
Animals would run free
Without us
Nature’s light would permeate
Without mediation
Without welcome mats needed
How oximoronic this structure
To keep out
To keep in
Because we can’t handle what…?
The innate hard-wired thing called right and wrong choice?
Perhaps
Some would argue we are victims of circumstances
Ever take notice of the happenstance
Making up the most inventive
Resourceful
And permanent life on earth
Those pesky ants
Roaches
Rats
And lest we forget
The tribal depths of the Amazon
Where doors don’t exist
Where the uncivilized
Understanding of psycho-history 101
Grins no memory loss
Maybe something to think about
Next time you confront a wall
Without doors
Ask how you’d survive
poems become
interchangeable
remove
the image
the poem
remains
when synapses
misfire
identity
disperses
before death
arrives
when the hands
forget
the song
the Martin
OM-45 Deluxe
inscribed in spruce
and mother-of-pearl
the third fret
worn smooth
by G
an archive
of vanished
movements
most poems
observe
others collect
surfaces
fallen leaves
frozen ponds
abandoned chapels
secondhand
transcendence
rehearsed
astonishment
mistaking
recognition
for revelation
few descend
into
distressed
consciousness
where nothing
remains
clean
is messier
no idle
observations
consciousness
a spiral
of repitition
residue—
not the subject
only the
substitution
the mosquito
bite
of fungibility
==========
A dark nightmare-
dementia is a living Hell
that grinds the mind away while one's aware-
it's crumbling very well.
Lewy Body Dementia- grim adversity;
unlike Alzheimer's- which dulls one's reality,
this victim feels mind's sparsity-
the pain of it fragmenting- utterly aware.
New call defines;
was labeled first as Parkinson's.
Though Lewy may show physical declines-
worse are brain afflictions;
hallucinations, memory loss, resonate-
while victims know inside- these changes dominate;
no cure- just death will terminate.
With Hell on earth- a shattered family resigns.
June 17, 2019
Form Used: 'Crumbling Rhyme'
invented by Constance La France
My memories scatter, like dust of the air,
which once were more numerous than fish in the sea.
Now withered, they re-tell tales of lost youth.
At times my memories congeel and fragment,
so much so,
that I label myself untrustworthy.
I feel an emptyness that my mouth can't quantify, nor words express.
Like my soul is fleeting, ready to leave the sack of bones it hopelessly occupies.
People say that growing old is a curse,
but it's not the outward complexion that grieves me so.
Rather the rattle as my marbles drop and my memories lie in tatters.
I'm scared when the people in white coats barge in.
who say they're 'here to help' , but proceed to strip me of my my dignity,
and use pills to make me helplessly compliant.
Maybe cruel karma has punished me fast.
For little did I empathise, until I truly knew,
what it's like to be a burden, societie's disregard.
And ever shall I wish that humble soul,
will see me not as useless, but marvel at my tales.
And one day, I pray, that someone will,
outstretch to me the hand of compassion.
08.19.2020
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.
She flickers in the glass—
a glitch of golden déjà vu,
The paint strokes—bright, wild yellow,
but no warmth leak through.
I sometimes reach
for her dimming leaves
that hum against my skin then disappear.
I pull back and smell
ash, when nothing’s charred.
There were twelve petals yesterday,
now, only eleven.
I wake up and count again.
Still eleven,
or maybe
none.
(I’m not sure if I’ve woken,
even though I know
I tasted salt from my tears.)
Mother says we never got a dog.
But I remember—
the texture of his leather collar,
the white fur tickling my nose.
The sky runs—
watercolor pulled too far.
I check the time:
9:42 AM.
Then I open my eyes.
4:08.
She’s still there,
scorched
into my nightstand—
brushing mirage into my vision.
_______________
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's sunflowers, which I cannot seem to stop thinking about.
I gazed at the tree’s bare stem
alone at the end of the street.
It had aged but appeared
as a twig to me.
Alone, I thought.
an apparition
but I’d seen it before.
In place it stood where it
bore the sun, the wind
rain and snow every year.
Never quite dead
but I could not call it alive.
Burdened with a bag
of rolled up newspapers
I labored, doing what I could do
after I losing a job.
I’d grown to love the neighborhood
blocks staked out for development
when I stayed with my parents
just after college. They passed.
My chest ached and feet hurt
and I wondered how many times
I died, and how many times
I lived. Spring a poetic leap
but now long days of summer
wore upon me. I took a turn as I must
and saw line upon line of houses
that sprouted from wild grasses
and remnants of a farm
lands known when I was young.
I keep blossoms under my tongue
like contraband prayer, wet, bruised
a broken smile slides past me
sinister, undone, almost familiar
like contraband prayer, wet, bruised
a fallen guide drowns in mind rain
sinister, undone, almost familiar
seeking the now, an endless present
a fallen guide drowns in mind rain
a door to the cage named life
seeking the now, an endless present
it was never locked, not once
a door to the cage named life
bent, twisted by our hands
it was never locked, not once
we applaud thunder, swallow light
bent, twisted by our hands
I watch until nothing can bleed
we applaud thunder, swallow light
petals stuck between my teeth
I watch until nothing can bleed
sweet rot, a vow in disguise
petals stuck between my teeth
I laugh at saints in glass
sweet rot, a vow in disguise
then choke on the pollen
I laugh at saints in glass
a broken smile slides past me
then choke on the pollen
I keep blossoms under my tongue
a broken smile slides past me
sinister, undone, almost familiar