Magazine Posts

The inner most workings
of this; our mind,
are difficult to describe,
no matter the time.
When a disease attacks,
this brain of ours,
we may lose memories
or the names of others.
The loss of direction,
in your own house,
while the names
of objects you don't know.
Oh what a loss
it will soon be,
for all thoughts,
have now left thee.

Accidents can happen,
is what they say.
Who is they?
I hope and will pray
to live a free life,
for the rest of my day,
though it will matter not
when my love goes away.

Do you tire of the "bramble"
and the long cacophony of words?
When my mind begins to ramble
and my thoughts become absurd,
when the words no longer come
as they did the year before,
while my creative process,
is missing. Nothing more.

Spring forth the flames
of our history's past,
when we were loved;
when we also laughed.
There were no strangers,
we all were friends,
who talked to others
and did not pretend,
to stay away,
from those they loved.

I miss you so,
though you're here with me.
Where's your mind now,
in this your life's fantasy?

What do you do,
when you are in bed
and discover something sleeping
near your head?
Two small Panda toys,
are bears my wife enjoys.
What am I to say or do,
for I know they bring joy to you?

Do we talk?
Do we care?
Do we balk,
At our despair?
What say you,
Oh foolish one,
My life's over
Yours just begun.

Please don't get upset with me,
when I tell you what I see.
I should have learned, so long ago,
a discussion is not the place to go.

There are no words, I can say,
about the outcome of your day,
for I know not, of your Dementia mind.
I am sorry, I do not mean to be unkind.

Alone I sit,
with pen in hand,
awaiting the words
with no command.
Words now missing,
as I search in vain
of where they're hidden
and now will remain.
Lost within this greying mind,
come out, from where you hide.
Return to me; save my pride.
I have a need. I surely do,
if I am to still write these words
for all of you.
The well is dry.
It's full of sand,
there is no writing,
when you cannot command.

When I was younger,
probably forty or forty-three,
I purchased a sports car.
A Fiat 124 Spyder, Convertible;
French Blue in color with
an Abarth dual Exhaust.
I loved the sound
the engine made, through
those pipes, when you tapped
the accelerator pedal.
Chills would run, up and down
my spine, for I knew this car
belonged to me.
Me and the Bank.

When I awake, at night,
will you still be there,
or must I, once more,
have thoughts of despair?