Magazine Posts

I am full of excitement, when I think of you,
and about all of the wonderful things which
happened to us during this life's fling.
You were the one person who I felt good
to be with. You gave me courage, when
I needed it most. Raising our children, you
did mostly alone, as I was travelling
during the week. I am so proud of the
children you raised, when I was only home
on the weekends.
Now it's my turn to take care of you.
I will visit you every day, to provide
the love and support you need.
I understand your desire, to always have
me near, knowing the Dementia, feeds
your fear.
I love you and will always say, I am
your servant and your husband.

When I write out these words
what do you see?
Do I explain to you
what is bothering me?
I don't wish to whine
but I will share the grief,
when I write words about
Dementia, the memory thief.

If you don't know me,
it may be better for you,
as I can be eccentric,
if I am talking to who
ever will listen to hear
my sad tale. I have a few.

I'm here in the morning,
before the sunrise.
A new day of living,
another day's surprise.
New friends to meet,
with a new guise,
I suppose it will happen,
and will see with my eyes.
There is still joy today,
if you search and are wise.

Sitting next to my wife
and she says to me,
"I think I'm getting better."
I respond with a positive
comment, but my heart
breaks as there aren't any
known cures for Dementia-Alzheimer's.
She then says," I am trying to get
better." She is adapting to the memory
care facility but does not like being
alone, saying she wants to be
with me. So, I sit here, an emotional mess.
Sorry. I started to write prose and poetry,
to help me through the emotional part
of living with someone who has Dementia.
It doesn't appear to be working at the moment.

The words, "I love you"
slips past her lips, pale,
as she stays in a
memories lost jail.

The inner workings
of a crazed mind,
confusing at best,
if you can find,
the memories of
those left behind.

Where do you go,
what do you say,
when the words,
"I love you," play
in your mind,
not going away,
all rooted now,
remaining to stay.

Writing of words,
in wee morning hours.
Scratching on paper,
until my hand starts to cramp,
is not a preferred way
but is required now.
Words, clear from my head,
a tearful display,
as I write and write.
Where come they from,
I ask of myself.
Unable to answer
I return to my bed,
to the same spot,
where she once lay.

I miss her now,
while I see her every day.
She will never come home,
to the place we loved.

The words "I love you"
slips from lips, pale,
as she sits all alone
in a mental jail.

As a writer of words,
a singular dread
is having song lyrics
stuck in my head.

I realize all the words
aren't correct or right,
but in my head, they
continue all night.

"Tell me something good
in this cold, cruel World.
Help me to understand,
love of a boy and girl.

Don't run away from me,
my love is here to stay.
Keep me close to you,
please don't push me away."

I know you are afraid
of losing our love
and I will pray, as I
ask for help from above.