Magazine Posts

I am writing, now,
with zero restraint,
will write words,
praying they won't taint.

The subtle malice,
of this draft,
hopefully, it's sane,
more likely it's daft.

My mind is behaving,
like a pinball machine,
with thoughts, crazy,
or somewhere in between.

Not good to write,
in this careless way,
unless your heart's
in utter dismay.

It's becoming too much,
when my tears,
fall on the paper,
when I am writing.

A small stand of willows,
on the side of a hill.
A quiet haven,
all silent and still.

A small stand of willows,
where deer lay,
a safe shelter at night,
in daylight, they played.

A small stand of willows,
Nature's sheltered room,
Twas where young love,
took root and would bloom.

A small stand of willows,
where it all began,
but love will be over,
when it is, days end.

There was a time,
remembering it well.
You told me then,
"Go to Hell."

I believe, I've found it,
a place I know well.
It's where you're living,
next to where I dwell.

Yesterday, the first day,
was where it began
beginning the path,
of where it will end.

I seek not,
was said to me.
Why are you here,
knowing you cannot see?

Do you understand?
I'd like to know,
what you are seeing,
isn't a travelling show.

You're seeing life,
in reality time,
no rose covered glasses,
just life, so sublime.

Was it hard for you,
to even understand,
your journey through life,
as a lonely, old, man?

How can you be brave,
hour after hour,
when love is now gone
and you no longer have power.

The worst thing that happens,
when you do this today,
is giving up, leaving,
as you run away.

We sat on the couch.
It was yesterday.
We sat closely,
no pushing away.

You surprised me,
hadn't heard this before,
you told me then,
"I don't like you, no more."

Your eyes, glazed over,
your look was afar,
as you sit near me,
I know, not, where you are.

You have become,
physically mean.
Swearing and hitting,
has become your routine.

Having mixed feelings,
uncertain what to do.
Is this when I leave,
bidding you Adieu?

Why am I angry?
Why do I care?
Why don't I leave,
going, who knows where?

To see a loved one,
as mental acuity fades,
while my own
personality, jades.

I'm angry at myself,
for losing control.
Not a good Caregiver,
not fulfilling my role.

Madness, becomes you,
she said to me.
I write these words,
thinking only of thee.

My mind in a twirl,
longing to be,
with you again,
though you don't like me.

I was sitting, in the back,
corner of this old "watering hole."
Young and single, was I.
Alone, for the first time, in my young life.
Looking for adventure, knowing not
what to expect, when a young lady
approached me saying, "You know dancing
is free?
That began my evening of learning to dance,
While, in my heart I wanted romance.
Please understand when I tell you this tale,
it was a make-believe story, about what
I thought would be the way my life
would look to thee.

Tom Turcich set out on a seven-year journey to find the meaning of life. He walked around the world, visiting over 60 countries and covering almost 40,000 miles. Along the way, he talked to people about their beliefs, cultures, and values. He found that people's answers to the meaning of life varied greatly, from "finding joy in the everyday" to "serving others". He also learned the importance of connection and breaking down the barriers between people. Despite the hard times and loneliness, Tom found fulfillment and joy on his journey. He made lifelong connections, found appreciation for the world, More at the Guardian ➜

What must I do,
what can I say,
when my desire,
is to stay away.

The pain I feel,
the emotion in play,
keeps telling me,
to stay away.

Our oldest son visits,
in a week, just one day.
She saw him on Easter,
she looked away.

She does that to me,
every visiting day.
She knows not her son,
his hurt won't go away.

My love and emotion,
worn on my sleeve,
Alzheimer Disease,
stays, will never leave.