Submissions Wanted for October

September /October 

Words are the start of Understanding and communications on which our World peace and well being pivots. though we may not be able to cure or make things better ,with words on here we can tell our stories raise awareness and help people identify with others in the same situation. 

September has had a fabulous response so far for Alzheimers Month and will continue until the end of September.
For October we will be highlighting Children and Childrens Charities with Poetry, Music and Words these can be about a particular charity or just about children.Children are the future they should be loved, protected and nurtured. Please Email me at  KEZ   or comment  below .

Momma

Linda Rhinehart Neas wrote this poem for her mother who sadly suffered from Alzheimers she gave this to her mother a year before she died. Linda is a writer and teacher .

Momma…

Mary Cassatt 1897

Before you disappear

into the rabbit hole of age,

Remember…

Green, cat-eyes twinkling,

as secrets of womanhood rise,

steamy,

in the wisdom of conversations

shared over tea

in the sacred realm of kitchen.

Before the Night of New Life

comes to rob us of the light of your smile,

Remember…

Toil worn hands guiding

small, eager fingers in the craft

of pen and paper,

slowly forming the spell of words

that would release the magic

lying in wait among the book shelves.

Before Time’s thief steals away

the last, familial connection you greedily grasp,

Remember…

New life, wrapped in heirloom splendor

cradled in your arms

as generations of yourself

surround with mews and coos,

the miracle that proves our existence

to all who fail to…

Remember.

© 2007 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

Read more about  Linda and her  writing at : Words From The Heart

My Mothers Room

This is a poem written By James Wesley Mcgee who Lives in North Carolina U.S.A he is married to Jenny and has two daughters. He wrote this especially for Alzheimers Month.

My Mothers Room

Vincent van Gogh 1888

A warm house, now cold

Where memories ran, like

Children,

Free and wild

Entrance to a tomb.

My mother’s room, a

sterile coffin,

Every moment, now

Washed away,

Where she lies breathing

but lives

No more.

Wes McGee, 2011

Memoirs From The Asylum

This Piece is an excerpt from a Novel By Ken Weene  

Memoirs From The Asylum 

Mitch is throwing stuff at the TV. There isn’t much to throw in this 

day room: a few books that have browned and greased with age, bits and pieces of board games that nobody ever played, decks of cards – mostly recreated from lots of other decks until the backs are as distinctive as the faces – and half-ripped magazines that the aides bring to read during their shifts and then leave scattered around. Mitch wanders around picking up this debris and heaving it at the television. Only a couple of the books hit their mark. The picture goes on rolling. Two aides and a nurse wrestle Mitch to the floor and pull down the back of his pants. The nurse inserts her Valium phallus into his butt. Soon he won’t remember why he was throwing anything. They wait until he’s nodding off and then half drag him to his bed where he’s safely lashed down. As they’re tying him in place, one of the aides will get his jollies with a quick punch to the gut. Nobody will object, not unless you count Mitch’s wordless grunt. Nobody counts grunts around here. Alzheimer’s has Mitch. Every now and then it gets him restless, and he blows like an old geyser that’s running out of steam. The rest of the time he wanders around talking to himself. They say that he was once a college professor. So, it isn’t really that different; he’s just talking to himself in a new place. Guess what? Nobody cares. Mitch never married. He has nobody to take care of him. One of his cousins, his closest living relative from among a collection of the uncaring, had him committed. Now he has the state – the state as parent – the great father – the great white father. 


Learn More about Ken Weene and his Novels 
Watch The Trailer for this Novel

Contemplation on Loss of Self

This Poem was written by Marian Veverka Inspired by a friend who has Alzheimers 

Contemplation On Loss Of Self

By Marian Vervaka

They say the sense of numbers is the first to leave.
Arithmetic and I were never on good terms.
All through grade school, I counted on my fingers.
Now, each entry in my check book is rounded off in zeros.
My children gave me a calculator, but I keep forgetting
About the batteries.

A little joke – it’s a relief to know my sense
Of humor is still here. But will I realize it
When the laughter slips away?

How many other powers disappear
When our backs are turned?
When we are busy living, dreaming, thinking
Of something else – how do we know
What has gone away, never to return?

Why do I startle awake from dreams
In which I am still a child?
What room is this? What house?
What strangers walk beside me?

They tell me my name is Lilian–
Touch me
Am I here? 

Alan D Harris writes his stories and poetry based primarily upon the historical fictions of family and loved ones.  Most recently he has published in the 2011 summer edition of Candidum, Australia’s 2011 Chimaera, UK’s August 2011 Welcometowherever and the September 2011 edition of Healthy Artists.  Harris has received the 2011 Stephen H Tudor Scholarship in Creative Writing from Wayne State University.

Memory Stick 

I carry a memory stick

on a string

around my neck

My stick archives

1000 images

1,000,000 words

My stick helps me

remember who I am

who you are

My stick helps me

remember the first time

my child walked, talked

the last time

my grandpa laughed, cried

If I misplace my stick

I may forget

your name, my own

So archive my picture

on your stick

Mention the last time

you saw me laugh, cry

Carry me with you

until you forget

my name, your own

before your life

is but a frozen archive

on someone else’s

memory stick

.

Owls Nest  A site that promotes and encourages older writers  

The Cottage Around The Corner

This poem has been generously contributed by Judith Kavanaugh 

Judith Is a 46 year bipolar lady who has spent some time in 

a unit for geriatric care in Orange County .She is now moving 

on to more age appropriate care.

This poem is a tribute toDr Dupont and the carers and caregivers.

The Cottage Around The Corner

In Orange County those ravaged by the disease of dementia are blessed
by a cottage around every corner full of loving healing.
When Mom and Dad's memory starts to wax and and wane like lifes mysterious moon
Loving Aids are waiting to guide them back from horrifying fear to
the heroic spirit you once knew them to have.
So from Irvine to Mission Viejo look for
the Cottage around the corner with loving caregivers and
brilliant minds who study the way to relight the flame of vitality.

Dad will be helped to remember fishing exploits or great heroics
like when he took the training wheels of your bike.
All are welome in this spiritual sanctuary where mind and soul are one.
Though parting may be near we focus on spirit and living
and enjoying the beauty of the soul.

Mom and Dad may be imprisoned by their bodies and Dementias force but love
will find them always and we will draw them out and find the wonder
of their spirit. Our loving Giants
awaken them to their long away selves.
When you visit your delight at childhood stories and long ago memories outweigh
the sadness of the dark night of their soul.

With us their last years do not seem like ending but beginnings as
they find the parts and pieces stolen by dementias destruction
they become animated and endowed with life.
Dad will suddenly become clear and remind you of the racehorse he once owned.

And when the debt which cancels all others comes you will know
you gave your loved one a gift by finding
the Cottage around the Corner where there are no strangers
only new loved ones trained to help Mom and Dad stay positive
even when the sun goes down and life gets horrifying,
And Whatever your belief I have seen them
walk into the light of Jesus and God
though the eye of the needle gently
Without the rage of the ravaging disease that led you to
the Cottage Around the Corner

Alzheimer Blues

Alzheimer Blues 

Picture By Jinksy 

I look into those baby blues to see 

I see you but you see me 

in some refracted history 

Times misplaced,displaced ,

Some times erased ,misplaced!

I look into your baby blues, 

I miss the twinkle,

Replaced by well earned wrinkles

That sprinkle your ivory skin,

Somewhere inside you are still within. 

I look into your baby blues to see,

I see you ,how do you see me ?

Your child ? your carer ?

Your memory sharer ?

I search those baby blues 

In my heart,I know deep,deep inside. 

My mother still resides, 

Inside, she cannot hide, 

I know those baby blues ! 

Submitted to In Tandem where the picture above was a prompt 

Dripping Away ( A Song )

Dripping Away

More About Phil Lewis

I am an independent singer/songwriter from Penarth, Cardiff. Since 2007, I have released two albums of self-written songs and I am about to release my third.

On 10/10/11 I will be releasing a digital single called Dripping Away. All proceeds from this single will be donated to the Cardiff Branch of the Alzheimer’s Society.My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 63. He died just seven years later, at the age of 70. Over the last 2 years of his life, he became virtually unrecognisable from the father who nurtured and raised me. It affected me very deeply, and my third album is coloured by my journey through the disease with my father. The song Dripping Away directly deals with my emotional response to the deterioration of my father.

Listen to this beautiful song here !



Readers of the blog can purchase the single from digital music stores such as iTunes and Amazon Digital, and UK based readers also have the option of texting ‘track drip' to 80818.
For Further Information about this song check out this Link   Dripping Away

Much Thanks Goes out to Phil for allowing us to put this on the blog

A Poetic View Of Alzheimers

Many thanks to Suzanne who contributed this poem and this is her perception on Alzheimers 

A Poetic View Of Alzheimers 

 By Suzanne

I look out the window and all I can see

Are the birds beckoning to me

With their tuneful melody.

~~~

I don’t know this place

I don’t know those who come

To visit me.

~~~

They are just faces and voices

But I see how upset they become

Because I do not know them.

~~~

I have a room with a balcony

French windows

A balustrade.

~~~

The door is locked

Just in case

 I try to leave this place.

~~~

But I do think

It  would be, better for me

To go home.

~~~

The air is hot

I pick the lock.

Finally, I am free.

~~~

I am up here looking down on me.

It is beautiful

Bright and glowing.

~~~

What is all the fuss I say?

About dying

Except for those you leave behind.

~~~

They will think I fell in a daze

It is kinder that way

Then they can let go.

~~~

My life flashes by

But I am smiling and glad

And not at all sad.

Henri Matisse

Read more about and from Suzanne

Broken

This poem was sent to me by Gill Shutt  whose  father-in-law suffered from Alzheimers

Broken

 By Gill Shutt

You look at me and my eyes are wet,

Your mind in a time before we met

And yet

I’ve known you for years. 

You ask my name and when I tell

I ask you if you’re feeling well.

In hell,

Your face shows your fears.

I stand to leave you say ‘hello’,

You’re back with me, your face aglow.

Don’t go.

My face streaked with tears.

And when I’m gone I’m soon forgot.

You feel that you’ve been left to rot.

Your lot

To wait as end nears.

Nurses bustle round your bed,

Talk as though you’re almost dead.

Your head

Winds down its gears.

Gill Shutt

The Birthday Party

This Story was written By Alan Jankowski which earned him 1st prize as winner of Stories Space first anniversary competition . 


The Birthday Party            
by Alan Jankowski





She did this every year, so the call came as no surprise. In fact, I had been expecting it for the last few days. The only surprise was that it took so long. I was sitting with my wife having our coffee after dinner when the phone rang. As I got up to answer, my wife gave me a knowing glance but did not say a word. It was as if we both knew instinctively.

“Hello.” I started into the phone, “Oh, hi Mom. Yeah, I’d been expecting your call.”

I talked to my mother over the phone for several minutes while my wife Sandra sat quietly at the table staring down and clutching her coffee cup.

“Yes Mom,” I said into the phone, “Sandra and I will both be there this weekend. Yes, I know it’s Dad’s eightieth birthday.”

I said my goodbyes to my mother and hung the phone back up on the wall. Quietly, I rejoined my wife back at the table. We both sat in silence for a few minutes as we sipped our coffee.

“She wants you to make one of your pistachio cakes, she says it’s Dad’s favorite.”

My wife let out an audible sigh.

“Just do it,” I added, “It’s only once a year.”

When the weekend arrived my wife and I got in the car and started the forty-five minute drive. Sandra looked good in her pretty blue dress as she sat silently in the passenger seat with the plastic cake container on her lap. We were both a bit apprehensive about these yearly birthday parties my mom threw for my dad. We should be used to them by now, yet you never knew quite what to expect.

When we got to the house, we parked the car and walked up to the door. I rang the doorbell as we both stood motionless outside.

“Coming.” I could hear my mother shout from inside. I could also hear her dog Sammy barking on the other side of the door. I knew my mom would take a while to reach the door, as she had been using a cane these last few years.

After what seemed like a long eternity, my mother answered. She was dressed in a floral print dress of pastel shades suitable for any party. Her dog Sammy was jumping at her feet barking.

“Oh you brought the cake,” my mother said with a big smile, “your dad will be so happy.”

She led us in to the simply decorated living room and I noticed the same ‘Happy Birthday’ candelabra on the mantle that had been brought out every year at this time and placed carefully next to the framed portrait of my parents. There were also fresh cut flowers in a clear glass vase on the coffee table in the center of the room. My mother instructed us to put the cake in the kitchen and as I walked through the house the distinct smell of my mother’s beef stew wafted through the air. I knew it was my father’s favorite.

We all sat in the living room making small talk for a while until my mom announced it was time to eat. Sandra and I followed her into the kitchen and helped her bring the various pots into the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. As I entered the room, I could not help but notice the four place settings with my mother’s best china placed carefully upon the white table cloth my mother reserved for special occasions. There was a polished silver candlestick holder squarely in the middle. Four chairs were arranged carefully around the old rectangular wooden table, and after Sandra and I finished bringing out the food I helped seat my mother proudly at the table’s head. Her dog Sammy made himself comfortable at her feet.

I helped my wife dish out the stew, and then my mother led us all in prayer as she blessed the food. As dinner got underway, my mom reminisced non-stop about the “good old days” and how she had met my father at one of the dance socials that were popular in her small town at the time. She must have repeated about ten times how meeting my father was “the best thing that happened” in her life.

When dinner was over I helped Sandra clear the table and we brought out the cake and served it. My mother again led us as we all sang “Happy Birthday.” When we were done with the cake, my mother got up and went into the bedroom. I knew this part of the evening was coming as she did it every year, and it always made me uncomfortable, though I knew it was harmless. Sandra and I waited in silence as she returned with an old photo album. She sat back down and started slowly turning the tattered pages. As she stopped at every page, she would reminisce, and her reminiscing was accompanied by stories told so vividly you would have thought they were happening at that very moment. Perhaps in her mind they were.

When she was done going through the photo album, my mother turned to me and asked if I would go into the living room and put on the radio. It seemed like an innocent enough request. When I returned, I was a bit taken aback by what she said next.

“Your father and I want to dance,” she said calmly.

“But Mom,” I started somewhat excitedly.

My wife reached over suddenly and put her hand on mine. I thought quickly for a moment.

“But Mom,” I continued, “I really want this dance with you. I’m sure Dad won’t mind.”

The music wafted in softly from the other room as I danced slowly with my mother in the small dining room. As we danced, I wondered what was going on in my mother’s mind these days. She was approaching eighty herself, and her mind was not what it used to be. She seemed to remember details from the distant past so vividly, and yet the present often seemed a blur. I wondered sometimes if she even realized my father had been dead almost nine years, and yet it seemed she never once forgot his birthday.

Afterwards, my wife and I cleaned up the table and put everything away including the uneaten piece of birthday cake from in front of my father’s empty seat. Sandra and I did the dishes, and then joined my mother back in the living room where we made small talk the best we could for another hour or so.

At the end of the night, we said our goodbyes. My mother thanked us repeatedly for coming to the party.

“It means so much that you kids could come by,” she started, “it gets so lonely here for us sometimes.”

As I kissed my mother goodnight and said goodbye, I felt tears forming in my eyes. I told her I’d call her soon, and that she should keep in touch. I realized there was nothing else I could really do for her.

All I could do for her was keep in touch, and show up at my father’s birthday party next year.