Magazine Posts

Broken shards of glass?,
Angular pieces reflecting
Sunrays against a wall,
a kaleidoscope of
brilliant colors, creating
a pattern of flickering
light, as the wind
moves the glass.l

The quiet of morning,
awakes from a blast
of insanity.
What words are lies?
What words are truths?
The difference will
affect us all.
The virus still lives on,
in the lives of others,
infecting all.
Receive the vaccines',
this is a must
unless it's a choice
for living a life
completely without trust.

What happened to life,
where did it fail?
My wife is confined
in a memory jail.
No more the friends
to visit with she,
as the word Dementia
caused most to flee.
What must I share?
Holding her tight
in my arms, to help
her to be not lonely at night?
I see her as often
as I can possibly do
and protect her from the harm
she has fallen into.

Words flow
off her tongue, like honey.
Sweet words of love's
temptation and
promises made.

Am I embittered?
Yes I am.
Life was not to be
As ugly,
as today.
My loving friend
Has gone away.

Oh Vanity, thou have a name.
It has been said by others,
to those who appear vane.
" There is no conceit in your family,
as you have it all."

A frog, a fox
and a ring-tailed shrew,
were very bored,
having nothing to do
Until they encountered the
notorious fellow, Mr. Fitch.
He was a mean one, was he.
Often referred to as a son of,
ask him no questions,
he'll tell you no lies,
he is that type of a guy.

Here I am, in the
memory care facility,
as I observe a resident,
Audrey, the wanderer.
She is small in stature
and patrols the hallways
of the facility. She seldom
sits at a table during dining hours,
but will wander around, tables
up to the counter and ask for food.
She is very quiet and has a quaint
accent which may be Irish or
Scottish.

Watchful the wind,
sailing through the Firs,
shaking branches as
needles fall, covering
the ground. A sound
of Fir cones striking
the deck with a
rat a tat tat,
a staccato, rings in my ears
as I try to sleep
in the warmth of our
bed, alone.

I lay with my head
on the pillow.
You are asleep.
I'm amazed by the
clarity of your skin,
sans wrinkles, which
is remarkable at this
late time of life.

I want to not say
to you, on this cold, dregs of Winter,
loving the fact, you are alive.
Missing most of your reasoning,
still, I sit with you.
You call me, "Your husband", but I know
you no longer know my name,
but is the love, you profess to me.

We come from clay.
We come from dirt,
but not from rock,
so we can be hurt.
A loss of love,
a painful path,
a loss of faith,
may incur God's wrath.
Praying to you every night,
some say you are just.
From my experience,
I no longer have trust.