Getting away is not in the cards
My loss is mine
In verse or prose
Hunger for release
Hunger for the answer
The way out
Any way to get away
Not enough burgundy
Not enough merlot
Can’t find the reason
Can’t find the door
What’s to become
Of the knowing heart now so old
In a recumbent species no longer bold
The problem’s all sewed up by ten o’clock
And the problem tarries not for sand or rock
Where to go
When the tears end
where to hug when no one turns a face
Who am I and why am I here
Dying in the cold and the dark is just one thing I fear
The scars from the bars with their jars of disdain
Who gives a damn about the yarn rotting in the falling rain
So small the plans I plan to ply
Given half a chance ten times I’ll try
Make proud the child who still grows
Despite the warning No One Knows
The fallen leaves scattered across the tracks,
Southbound 53 would push these farther on.
A love that was empty as Ashland’s winter trees—
A hard weight was lifted now that she’d gone.
No tears, but also no joy, would be found here.
Yes, may the very best find its way over to her;
And should any good be left over hanging out
Perhaps might could entertain here along with Jack’s purr.
Santy Claus is due to arrive in a few days
And we’ve all tried to be and to do our best;
But sometimes it’s never close to good enough
And you cancel flights along with all the rest.
Maybe in the new year happiness real will come
And everyone can breathe and let it all just be;
Festivals and dances return for our lives renewed
And I can get back to that crescent bend in the Mississippi.
The southbound blew its horn passing thru Ashland town
And the online chatroom railfans counted up all the cars.
The empty trees shimmied in the rolling winter wind;
The resettled leaves looked up and counted up all the stars.
Made it back home
Between the here and gone
Left the hugs all alone
And then cogitated on them tears
So many beautiful spirits
Sitting right next to you
If you’d only let a clue
In through all those clutched tainted years
Finished the timesheet
Liz needs them in by noon
As Love walks in cartoon—
Hey, that Guinness makes some handsome beers
Allman Brothers swear its true
Twixt the done and the doggone
Tangled up in the lost and the only one
Have you really met your peers?
But the neurosis pales in the wash
And now sitting alone all by myself
It’s not so bad up here on the shelf
I’ve a smitten merlot, cheers!
–last day FullTime Social Worker at hospice. Moving on….
Fare-thee-well too lovely
May the winds carry you to kinder shores
Where all tasks are clear
And not overtaxing are the daily chores
We pray for thee comfort
Along with all-fulfilled yearning
While we in a far past
Are left in our wreckage long long burning
Walk on in the fair comely light
May brightness and the cool grace your path
Yours hast been written
Inscrutable even unto the wisest polymath
So, fare-the-well our too lovely
Bring happiness to the yonder years
Yes, you shall be much missed
But joyful will be our following tears
He put the car in drive,
Out the driveway towards Albert Lane,
It would be a new 12 days to pass
Before seeing his daughter again.
He left the window open a crack;
Perhaps she’d forget something and would call?
No, he didn’t like dropping her at Fablehaven;
No, not really, not actually much at all.
His role snap-changed to just an aging man
When moments before he was in a family.
So what if it was only a family in two—
It was all he had here so far west of St. Tammany.
The tears dried absent just as expected,
With old long practice at things not being as one wanted.
Some would exalt giddy at this free, single life,
But he didn’t think that this kind of alone was all that vaunted.
Turning back to home on Glencrest Drive
As another Sunday evening purpled into dark,
He allowed a thought that it was perhaps okay—
And put the car in park.
The pain of his past rested on the front of his eyes,
Memory tempted then mocked and let loose in droplets.
Where now can pale usefulness express its wont?
How will tomorrow find reason inside old couplets?
Full-time folly found rest upon the other slack shoulder,
And swirling, the promise and the lie presented opportunely;
Yet a path coursed beyond the copse, bidding one to follow;
New memory scorned to breach history, to grow jejunely.
An old minstrel parsed a chord, and improved;
The song of song that choirs failed yet chimed aloud;
While pan wrens sauntered and soared ever above,
Dodging the eagles, falling, sprinting to eclipse yon cloud.
Tears will dry with hope and future and chance rekindled;
Goats may prance upon thatched roofs, high and mighty,
But the parson-chaplain rises early to great the new day,
And pale usefulness finds expression, keen and rightly.
Some poems are wine lyric
Two goblets Clos du Bois
Others are simple syrup
Just so much blah, blah, blah
Now some too-humble wrought lines—
An old wrenched heart softly pines
Heart-tears gathering inside
Aching to let go and fall;
Words mocking a conscience
Of feelings so cold t’would appall
Terpsichore blanches, and then wilts,
Suffers in her marble a new deep fault:
Who can answer for these deaths?
Young stars ripped from the celestial vault
Haruka and Meechaiel pas de deux—
What are we all ever going to do?
The pain lingers…
The words won’t come…
Broken thoughts slip chalky fingers;
The glib finally struck dumb
How to unsee a sunset?
How to unhear the rain?
Where do we put these feelings?
Where do we plant the pain?
A far lightening pirouettes across your glance—
Dance for Haruka, dear friends…just dance
Heading to Sunset Ridge
Can’t remember your name
Can’t remember much about me
Everyone goes what a shame
Taking the turn around Memory Lane
Or is it Lost Pine or somewhere else
But can you still see my nice smile?
That far ringing? Are those my bells?
But I will sit on this here bench
Don’t know this path anyways
You’re my son or daughter?
They said it was one of his better days
Playing my part in the Long Long Goodbye
Just succeeded through these 7 years
No thank you for your sweetly offered hankie
But these are needed welcome relieving tears
Heading over Sunset Ridge
Everyone go “What a shame.”
My name is Mr. Still Loving Parent
At least, I think that was his name
–In humble salute to the loved ones of my wonderful patients, PEOPLE with alzheimer’s