Magazine Posts

When the words,
"I want to go home"
pour forth from she
or "I miss my mom
and my dad, they
are both gone."
My heart breaks for her
and her memories lost.
My wife remembers little
of our previous life,
knows not of family,
except she will talk
of our granddaughter,
when seeing her picture
on the hall wall.

The path which I take;
I take every day.
It's the path of a life,
all work, little play.
A path through a demented mind.
One to be gentle and kind.
The poorest of souls,
who long to be free
from a terrible disease,
which bye passed me.
Why did some, as lovely
as you were then,
be stricken with Dementia,
so close to the end.
I am rambling now, once more,
for I do it best
when I don't keep score.

A rusty old trike.
A small wagon too.
I look for you now,
in this our own place.
No longer the children
will play in our yard.
They are grown now
and live far away,
while we sit and wait
for our final day.
The last day to stay
in our home, as we
face downsizing.

Forlorn and lonely,
when I realized
the woman I loved,
sits there before my eyes.

I once owned a roadster,
convertible to thee,
which I loved to drive,
as fast as could be.
Top down; cruising along,
couldn't hear the radio,
as I sped along.
So I was stuck with
singing my own song.
The wind whipped my hair,
which was long, into my eye.
I loved this car;
a 1971 Fiat 124, Spyder,
French Blue the color,
with Mag. wheels and
custom exhaust.

Release the pain
from my eyes.
Hear the ache
in my cries,
as my Love's
life of memories,
slowly dies

My oldest friends
are close to me,
as I live my life,
in a sad reverie.

Should I run and hide
or should I simply flee?
The decision for this ride
is solely up to me.

Why does humanity
border on the edge
of a terrible insanity?

What is this life, ours,
but a collection of memories.
A series of events
of our combined histories.

When memories are gone
and have faded away,
there is no recollection
of our own yesterday.

Where has love gone?
It was here yesterday.
Our feelings for each other
change and go away.

The barn had been red
in its younger days.
Now the wood has faded
to beautiful greys.
The walls, once straight,
now bowed on this day.
The roof, when new; rife with shingles,
has holes, letting in the rain.
So, a leaky, faded red barn,
is now where the children play.