Magazine Posts

Twas the night before,
you said to me,
"The night has a thousand eyes"
I was blind and could not see.

A resident in Memory Care has left us.
I remember her, not because of her personality,
but because she was always asking me to assist her.
I don't work there, but it didn't matter.
at least not to her.

She would gesture using her fingers and hands,
to call me over. I would politely decline and
ask an attendant to assist her.

Last Sunday, she was painting a picture using
watercolors. She was happy and
content. She passed away the next evening.
I will remember her face and her bright smile.
God bless you on your journey.

Flowers have grown leggy,
spilling over the side of the pots.
Can't cut them back as the
season moves into Fall.

I'm finding myself,
getting bored with many
of the activities for residents,
who need to be
guided into doing something
that is regulated.
Not for me. I'll write or go
for a walk, stop and talk with
others and water the garden.

I'm not here to do crossword
puzzles. I am here to listen to
music.

When words, read,
make you salivate,
perhaps they,
should be celibate.

Or a writing like this,
sometimes is unfortunate,
sorting through chaff,
as I pontificate.

An ideal dream,
at any rate.
Move forward now,
don't placate.

A gentle breeze,
softly moves the flowers.
It's peaceful, sitting here,
on the patio at the Independent
Living facility, looking at Nature's
work.

Predominately, Annuals, Peonies of
varied colors and stripes, overflowing
over the edge of the pots.

The only noise heard, is the
Swamp Cooler. An old style cooling
device, which trickles water over
fiber mats, while a fan blows the air.
A decent way to cool the Kitchen.

I'm surprised how few of the
residents come outside to
enjoy the beauty and serenity.

I'm reminded of Pavlov's bell,
when the dining room opens, at 7 AM.
A mass of people gathers outside the
doors, awaiting the opening, before 7.

"Act normal"
someone said to me.
What is act normal,
suppose to be?

Acting strange
or being different
works well with me
and my odd bent,

of facing life now,
not how it was meant to be,
but the harsh reality,
it's seems that way to me.

Attack the norm,
hold the rage.
Something else?
Turn the page.

Our lot in life
is beyond our control.
Please spare the dialogue,
he's just a troll.

I'm lost,
not alone,
somewhere in space,
between my ears,
behind my face.

Desert stories
of blowing sand,
telling of a love mystery,
of the desert and

saying who we were,
whence we came.
Why would these stories
be considered lame?

The love you have lost,
may never return.
You must keep trying,
There's still time to learn.

My words escape me,
trying to write,
what spills from the brain,
on this warm, summer night.

Words stop coming
or they are few.
What am I now
supposed to do.

When words leave my mouth,
they're no longer mine.
Words are lost,
all of the time.

Don't be foolish,
accept the grief,
for you, my friend
are a word thief.

You borrow from others,
as you often do.
I'm pleading guilty.
What about you?