She listens to the world move [beat, two-three, beat] like old people listen to talk radio. And flutters in her own world, wild thing, she programs an image to her brain:
Much like a ballet, she falls when she fears the music is stopping. [pressing her cheek against her knee] Then valiantly she jumps and spins, [twirling two, three, spinning two, three]
But eventually, all music ends;
fallen on the stage
If you connected with this poem, the comments section is for you to share your thoughts and/or experiences.I am grateful to anyone that chooses to share – I make that space for you.Thank you for taking the time to read this poem today.
Sometimes we wonder Why we keep calling the same number When the telephone rings Until we return the phone to the receiver Maybe someday Our Father will answer And laugh as He says “I’ve been waiting for your call all week”
I recognize that “Until we return the phone to the receiver” calls out my age and the year this poem was written.
I cannot pretend to know or understand what your experiences have been. If you connected with this poem, the comments section is for you to share your thoughts and/or experiences.I am grateful to anyone that chooses to share – I make that space for you.Thank you for taking the time to read this poem today.
My new poem “Stolen” is live on Coffee House Writers.
This one addresses how dementia interacts with emotional processing.
I can’t think of a single person that cares about the past generations that hasn’t been impacted by dementia in some way.
I don’t like writing too much about the meaning or inspiration behind my poems. Honestly, I prefer to leave it open for those that need it to be whatever they need in that moment.
If you have struggled with losing a family member or loved one through the slow process of dementia, I’m sorry. Please feel free to comment your personal experiences openly and freely below – I reserve the comments section for that. While I can never truly know your experience, you’re not alone.
Others hold against you– Are hurt by and bring down wrath Upon your pain – Childhood never ending Swirling inside the mind drain; Decisions of survival During exploration of the self– These ghosts will haunt Until end of time– Their whispers paranoia sells. There is no such thing As kindness or compassion Not even from the ones we love We will always be alone But we will always rise above.
Thank you for taking the time toread my poem today. If you would like to see more poetry, please like, comment on, or share this poem. It helps me know which types of posts my readers like best.