Parkinson

Spilt coins on the carpet
Spices caressing the air
James’ shaking disease commands
We ought to dance like we don’t care

Oui, another pinot, merci
Bacchus masks an old shadow
What, we care not what you forgot
Another Substantia nigra shrinks to narrow

Senora sweetly dozes
As the tears slowly marshal
Daughter brushes back an errant hair
Yes, to a funeral mass she was partial

Two years on hospice
A prognosis most errant
Dementia promises times’ ever length
Tell you when? We shouldn’t…we can’t

Returned coins nestle in a purse
Plates back to the scullery
Love your loved one with Parkinson’s
Keep to today, tomorrow stays a mystery

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Another Poet’s Power Trip

7pm Friday evening:
The loner ponders a new blank page;
You’d think he’d have better
At his now advanced presenile age.
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

7:08pm Friday evening:
Some words managed to flow
Out of prompt sinus gyrae
And across the page, to and fro.
The rhyme lofted well,
The context sufficiently obtuse,
Pondering current lost lovers
[As usual TV fare was of no use].
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

9:30 Friday evening:
The night’s offering to WordPress Publish—
He’d not edited much,
Twas all a spot of heartache and sly rubbish.

10pm Friday night:
Off went the power strip.
Another headache for morning,
But for now: another poet’s power trip.
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

I’m Here

The Sun fell down the usual way:
Gold to pink to black.
The end of another tawny Spring day,
And no, they’re not coming back.

Too many deaths on Hall 5:
Cancer, Dementia, and Heart Attack;
Old and young lives fading away;
Don’t care our hospice census is on track.

The Moon creeped out its old way:
Half to gibbous on passing high;
Poor professionals lacking an out to pray—
Is it really okay for the licensed to cry?

Tomorrow returns the Sun in bust:
Azure to pink to hot white.
Not only families ache when loved ones return to dust.
Come, sit, and let’s talk a mite….

Ankle Breeze

The angry drubbing from the cold January Sun

Has beaten all the trees’ leaves to the ground;

The peal by a distant neighborhood campanile

Offers but pastel respite from this new winter day.

After hours and an ankle breeze brushes cold
Times bear hard and thoughts scare appalling—
Late on a school night and we risk a third glass bold;
Excuse me, dear, but why is it hospice keeps calling?

Home—a far place unreachable, unknowable, except as

Errant memories allow.

Three score save one with 22 gray days to go,
Yet cannot believe one keeps falling.
Walked this way thousands of times but now…don’t…know,
But why does hospice keep calling?

Tomorrow comes to call as if knowing

Something…