Magazine Posts

Don't go soft on me,
with all our resolve,
to avoid talking to me
about a problem to solve.
You run from the truth.
You know what to do.
Place her in Memory Care.
Tell her, I Love You.

There are thoughts thrashing
around in my head,
scratching and clawing;
trying to get out
through the tips of my finger,
and movement of my hand.
Trying to reach the writer,
most literal, to understand,
what is happening to his mind,
at this time of his life,
with his life's company
a sick, Dementia laden, wife.

Go from here.
Go from here, now.
Leave as you must.
Don't ask me how,
for I will not be
a party to this insanity.
Yet here I am,
scratching out words, then
trying to explain,
the mental mess I'm in.
No point to argue,
especially with your self,
when facts are just lies,
pulled from the shelf.

Does the light I see in your eyes
radiate love or must I surmise?
Nothing in this World, is a surprise,
not even when I hear your sighs.
Long may you live, a life once again,
as I lay in anguish, my life in pain.

As a young lad,
I loved to play hard.
Here's some advice,
don't play in the back yard,
when you are running
and your running is fine.
Do not forget the neighbors,
have a low hanging clothes line.

Please join me
in my insane mind.
I'll write the words,
you read the lines.

What was it like
when we could be
in this life together,
living for ever
and always to see,
a gradual aging,
my journey with thee.
Now here we are,
locked in a battle,
fighting a deadly disease.
Why is this happening to you
and not to me?

I was up in the hills,
hunting for mushrooms.
It was in the Okanogan,
a brushy, sapling covered space,
when I came upon a small,
deserted place. It was surrounded
by trees, some buildings collapsed,
probably a miner, working his claim.
I thought of the stories, of his success
or a failure to find riches
of gold in his mine.
Perhaps the only gold
were the thoughts in his mind.

"There's someone out there,
they're talking to me."
I say, it's just the news
and you they cannot see.
You're sitting there
on the bed end, it could be,
there is confusion, here now,
distinguishing TV from reality.

"What have you written?"
words sometime I hear.
At times when I write,
words just appear,
at the end of my pen,
touching the notebook paper.
Random thoughts, are in the air,
soon I have new writings,
over here, there and everywhere.
My mind is not, as disciplined now,
as I write words, over again,
with no sense of when or how,
as I write for you, my unknown friend.

Every day is different,
yet they're the same,
when she cannot recall
our oldest neighbors name.

Where are you Susan Sanborn?
What has happened to you?
We worked at Sears Roebuck,
Mail order back in 1972.