Softly, starlight slippers through silver leaves,
salving slender branches where willows keep their weeping vigil.
A sighing wind weaves grief’s misty purple veils,
hesitantly floating before sweeping down;
valley tears, fern quivering, blend with those heavy clouds weep.
Moss in variegated green feathers, paves paths primitive,
moonlight lends gray gloved hand to guide faltering feet,
trembling on cliff-sharp edge of blackest night,
stumbling forward, tracking an unmapped grief labyrinth.
Heart of mine, spent by the merciless beat,
lean hard upon hoarded memories, bittersweet.
Life, after such sharp parting, shields her flame,
tended as a mother tends her sleeping dear,
softly repeating through the night one poignant name
that only she who bore the pain can hear
in accents of the heart so sweetly clear,
echoing faint chords from the heavenly sphere.
Perhaps time dulls the sadness, keen,
or drives it deeper to a place unseen.
Copyright, July 1, 2026
poems become
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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
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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
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bite
of fungibility
==========
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
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 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.
I hit the snooze alarm
and my body stirs
as I linger in bed.
My chest bears the weight
of memories and desires.
I’m living for today
but in every cell, I feel
something greater.
The mid-morning sun
peaks through the window.
I listen to a litany
of unfinished conversations
of the women I lost.
but hear the seduction of a place
far beyond four walls of my loft.
I reside on a dead-end
for now, but a soft voice
says all roads
lead to Madison,
a place I’ve seen
and I long to find it again
on a day of leisure.
My plans to move there
for graduate school ended
and I went to a place
where dreams died
and boring routines
carried me through life.
A fine coat of snow
in the back yard lingers
and I shiver in a draft
but o how in summer
the lakes in Madison glisten.
Form: Englyn Unodl Union
I touched a shadow and called it a flame,
It smiled — but was the same.
My scars whispered his name.
Love left, but I still came.
I
forget—
like how leaves forget their tree
once autumn called them free.
Moments slip and leave
an unsettling void
for dreams to flourish.
Uninvited, wearing
the mask of memory.
A fiction sung in earnest,
stitched in gray hours—
where dreams blend into truth.
A hushed whisper:
“Beauty is truth,”—but
I wouldn’t know
if the echoes I call "mine"
ever rang—
I am built
of broken facts,
soft edits,
and pills that patch up
what my mind kindly discards—
So I wonder, if beauty is truth—
am I still beautiful
when the scars I wear were never real.
cursive letters pale
fade into weathered parchment—
they were stories once.
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.
Fold and make origami
Pieces lost in the folds of time
Ripples in crystal waters of stillness
A riddle searching for responsiveness
Zipline through the playgrounds of my mind
Inverted skies stretch beyond grey
Clinging to air thick with silence
Shaped by a hope refusing to conform
Sleepily sauntering down an alley
Directionless shadows endless in their growth
Opaque walls murmuring their speechless weight
Flickering with thoughts not comprehended
Unraveling the knots of oblivion
Words hang precariously in suspense
A burst of color breaks through the frame
Slowly fading to the edge of a forgotten dream
In the rush of living my heart stops
between each beat
and for a moment
or maybe just half a moment
she is there.
Not once, but always;
Waiting for me
between those beats,
in every one of my remaining days.
“ I miss you.”
Written as if the sun’s passing mattered more.
As if being uttered with muttered words,
heard only in the hollow of a poets’ dream,
could bring the past to life
or resurrect a love.
I was sitting around the fire pit the other night telling some exaggerated tale about something or another when I completely lost my train of thought. For the life of me, I just couldn’t remember what I was talking about. So, I looked up at the sky and proclaimed that that was the brightest moon I’d seen in a while. For someone who proclaims to be a writer, I can’t tell you how frightening that was. My mind started racing with the fear that I was in the early stages of some worst-case scenario. So, I turned to my trusted companion who knows all and sees all…Google. Turns out, a slow decline in cognitive behavior is expected as we grow older. In some cases, adding a simple exercise routine can stimulate the release of chemicals to promote an increase in cognitive behavior. Though my wife will say I’m making this one up, it’s true, a healthy sex life will help. Hey, maybe they will write you a prescription for sex.
Lost in the darkness
my mind racing to find home
can’t see through the tears
I am almost asleep
comfortably drifting
when a troubling sense of loss
settles in behind my navel
it feels like a piece of me
something that I’ve done
a place that I’ve been
someone that I’ve met
has drifted off
disappeared
it taunts and teases
just out of reach
like that familiar yet forgotten name
at rest on the tip of your tongue
this sense of loss
of something gone
evokes a deep-seated melancholy
an unsettling need
to reach out and touch
what isn’t there
but should be.
an haiku each day
will keep dementia at bay
now then where was I.
Haiku in the Mirror Contest
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
July 26, 2023
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