Magazine Posts

We held hands, long ago,
when we were young.
Life was worry free,
unlike this hectic,
pace of life.
Now, you no longer
will touch me.
What happened?
Where did it go?
I wish I knew.

No matter where I wander,
no matter where I roam,
when I see the light in the window,
I'll know I am Home.

When your view of the World
has become, all muddled and grey.
When you life's love, dwindles more
than any words said or written,
who do you turn to?

I will not write
and no longer speak
of a lost love,
for it is surreal.
How can I describe,
a missing piece
of a broken heart.

My hands are trembling.
Why am I still awake"
I need my sleep,
not my Soul, which you'll take.

It was so long ago,
I can't recall,
if it was Winter, Spring
Summer or Fall.
I do remember, now,
love was the game.
Your wide eyed, flashing look,
the color blue,
created a deep longing, when
looking at you.
Your smile was radiant
with your teeth so bright.
I would swear, you would
guide my path tonight.
The words, coming from the
ink and this pen,
keeps scribing down facts
of when love began.
The strength you give me,
will never end,
for you are a most
cherished friend.

Ever the morning,
always the night,
ever the moment,
always sun light,
ever the rain drops,
always the dew,
ever the exitement,
always the few,
ever the wonder,
always it's you.

I'll search the World over.
I'll search until I find
a corner of space
within my lonely mind.

My loved one.
My Dementia child,
is what you are
and why it is wild,
for nothing I say
is remembered by you.
If my love is a given,
this I must certainly do;
take the necessary action,
doing what is good for you.

Stepping slowly
from my car,
with a cane
in my hand,
I marvelled
at the sight
of this,
my own
piece of land.
I stood
with admiration
of the sight
and grandeur
of the plot
which was
my command.

What is your answer?
What do you say,
when your spouse says to thee,
"Is this our house?
Why are we here?"
Yes, we are home,
I said that to she.
The newest development,
in the Dementia Parade.
Another lost memory or more
for I can't keep up,
and no longer keep score.

I tire of this life;
of bickering hate.
I tire of a life where
everything we must debate.
When will the land become one,
before it's over and we're declared done.