Poetry Blogs (2019, dementia)

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Days of Dementia

Some days I look at the mantelpiece

Where the dust gets thicker and the cobwebs grow

I’m not sure what to do about it, you know.


Every day seems like the same day

And even though it’s sunny outside

Sometimes the clouds get in the way.


I watch the TV but I don’t always take it in

And the flickering colours and sounds

Are something I don’t want around.



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dementialifeold age


Came from the motherland of Jamaica
To a country that at the time celebrated the phrase "no blacks no dogs no Irish"
A once proud lion of Queens road's concrete jungle
Now reduced to a skeletal wreck of a man

Lavish clothes and trademark smile
Dented by the plight of dementia and illness 
Now changed for a walking stick
A scowl
And yesterday's clothes

30 years alone
Underneath your e...

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Poem from One of Our New Collections

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Less Than a Second

Less than a second

is the time it takes to fall in love.

             That summer night

             you walked out of the bright house

             on to the dark deck

             ready for the next day's wedding,

             already celebrating every damn thing

             anyone could think of,

             laughter floating out of your pores


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Lost at sea a battle against dementia and me

When i look into your eyes 

I know your still there somewhere inside 

And as each passing day 

Goes by I know another part of your memory dies 

But you won't remember the goodbyes and it's hard not to sit here and cry 

Because your trapped inside 

All The confusion the conclusion

That your drifting away 

Well  I know  that ships don’t stay long at bay 

And will soon be h...

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entry picture


Hello my friend, welcome aboard

The ship they call 'Alzheimer's'

There's forty thousand under sixty-five

'Young onset' to 'Old timers'


It doesn't matter what you call it

The umbrella term's 'Dementia'

On the ship they call 'Alzheimer's'

Every day's a new adventure


Forget your hip replacement

And your osteoarthritis

They we...

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Alzheimer'sDark humourdementiahealthrantingSelf-awareness

Leaving Platform One

My mind is dishevelled, disorderly.

As unreliable as the damp cardboard

That contained a childhood treasure.


I unearthed it in my web-strewn attic –

The box, not my mind.

An old railway set, long remembered, but lost.


Its strength gone, the contents scattered.

Track and train departed, uncoupled

And bound for darker destinations.


A journey into the unknown...

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AgingDementiaMental Illness

Vicar with dementia in a pool of his own piss


As a younger man he had taken the cloth

had sold his humanity to God

had blessed babies and crossed the dying

had given assurances of eternity

and peace to those for trying


He had been a good father

a passable husband

he had wandered to and from his flock

but mostly he had held fast

and built his house upon the rock


He sat in a pool of his own piss


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She is long gone

So long I have to strain to hear her voice

Down the years

The last thing she said to me though 

Clear as day

Like the sun through mists of dawn 

‘Oh Janey’

An unexpected heartfelt sigh

Two words could not contain more depth

For she was lost to me long before

She left this earth

Or so I thought

Until the parting of the clouds

So brief

To gi...

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The Last Night with Grandad.

entry picture

The sun bows, outside the window
Clouds don a shade of black.
In a dimly lit side room,
Bulbs flicker. Hope turns its back.
Clock hands stack the seconds.
Eyelids straining with the fear
That in the hollow of my dreams
You’ll disappear
With the wave of a gloved hand
Under a pristine white sheet.
I trace the wrinkles, map the dimples
Painted upon your fading face.
Until sleep seduces me

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Tin pan alley teeth

lost in a cave-like mouth

in a sleeve of slime,

your face like physical graffiti

is merely a mask.


Your lolloping tongue

rests on a step of blue lips,

that if crossed uninvited

whips inwards like magnetic gravity. 


Your eyes are blinds drawn down

painted black on the inside,

whatever enters your arc of sight

is dead before its ...

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Far Away

Maybe it’s those absent eyes,
gone searching for their better days,
that give away your hide and seek disguise
and tell me that you’re far away.

Are you back in New York,
chasing that old American dream
through the concrete foundations
on which you built our family's beam?

Or are you in Wigan’s Central park,
in Billy Boston’s Empire State,
watching Warriors paint the town red
then p...

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Taking a piss

I’m training myself

to piss in the sink

so when I can’t think

I shan’t bother to think


So when dementia

kicks in like an un-forecast storm

all will be normal

forgetting the norm


I’m getting strangers 

un-witting to free park my car

so I know what its like

to not know where 

we are


And people unknown

to claim I’m their dad

they think that ...

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Mother's Ramble

The wood shuddered and every eye
listened at the stair behind the wall

The door opened and slowly
a black felt hat followed by a long black coat

a black handbag and two black shoes
emerged turned and quietly closed the door

In her eighties she was still a mountain
crumbling now but not yet turned to dust

Lips quivered her moustache. She smiled
uncertainly at these strangers in her room


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White Field Green Sheep

White Field Green Sheep

he's gone wandering again yon down by the river
she think fear knows when the dog come back
with lead and red collar but no four fingered hand

the special is up calming her down nodding
whilst them as nosey agree to casually look 'afar
as they brave twice daily rain on the school run

he's gone yon again wandering lost int' a river
of landmarks and place names and pl...

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Dexteram Patris

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Dexteram Patris

seeing him that way,
and she,
ever supportive,
gently touching
his arm
for reassurance

but there is a failing,
something not the same,
although in looks
we are so similar.

The Prodigal returns
and sees his father,
straight of back
and stern of countenance,
falling to pieces.

The once proud frame -

and she,
as beautiful as always,

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declining healthdementiafatherfavourite chairprodigal sonrichpixright hand of the father

Re-Winding Memories

Re-Winding Memories


Beeching has been at work in her brain.

Branch lines are closing. No train

of thought as tracks disappear

in a tangled undergrowth where,

tearful, she  loses hold of time.


"I must get back down the main line

before the wrong sort of memories

cause wheels to lose their grip.

I'm sliding back to nowhere fast.

Wasn’t I your mother once?"


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Help me - help me please

The old lady shouted "Help me, please help me"

Sitting in her chair she was

wrapped in multicoloured shawl

refusing to elaborate


She couldn't see and couldn't hear

Refused to have her hearing help

Continued shouting "Help me help me"

"Won't somebody help me please"


Yet every time I tried to help her

Shouts vociferous and rude

Decrying all that...

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