Just Below the Surface...

 

When someone screams

“You don’t know what it’s like,”

their pointed words, sharp and honed

their venom cutting to  the bone­–

what gives them freedom to assume?

What is it they hope to gain?

The players change, but pain’s the same…

and is your path so different than my own?

Don’t visit retribution on the stranger

don’t assume you know what they’ve been through

we cannot fix what’s broken by our anger,

or putting out our trials for review—

as tear escapes despite attempts to hide it

it’s because we’re broken, just like you

©Ginny Brannan 2021

Image: Google Images, Shutter Stock, Oil Painting

In her "Glory" days . . .

She’d wear her hair tied with a bow

a bit of lipstick applied, just so

some jewelry to accessorize

and she’d stop and chat when passing by.

Had no children of her own

but kept a dog when she was home;

she’d left it in a dear friend’s care

and both would come to visit there.

That was in her glory days

before time stole her memories.

I choose to remember the her of “then”

to see her smiling face again:

upon her lap, her dear pup lies–

there’s no more sadness in her eyes.

We each have our own cross to bear

a twisted path from here to there,

we do our best because we must

before we fall apart and rust.

I believe when this life’s done-

that a new one is begun—

a place we shall meet again...

until then, rest in peace, my friend.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

*Image: Google images. Representative for depiction only, not actual subject of poem.

Hello, Cutie!

I hear the squeak of the chair 

   as he enters my office—

“Hello,Cutie! Can I have a coffee?”

His smile is infectious!

Some days, he reminisces.

Most days, he is focused on his coffee,

...and sometimes, the person behind it.

Kindness truly is the “universal” language…

and those smiles—both given and received—

          the best reward!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

One of my tasks at work is to serve coffee to those who ask. We used to have it out for folks to help themselves, but for safety reasons it has to be served now. "Barista" is my new middle name! (Or "Cutie." I'll answer to that too!)

Carefully tiptoeing HIPAA guidelines here: No name, no age, or identifying markers.

Pointing into the Wind

The seasons are turning, winds are a-churning,

we do what we do, keep on doing—

holding tight to the reins just trying to maintain

as the turn of the tide keeps accruing.

It is so inane how we carry our pain

taught that nothing is gained in the sharing,

so we hold it inside till the protons collide,

paralyzed to the present impairing.

Darkness approaches, the shadows encroaching,

self-loathing and doubt notwithstanding;

it’s hard to succeed, interruptions impede,

this duress wasn’t part of our planning.

And no one can hear when you try to be clear

'bout demands superseding supplier.

Still sadder for us that the ill pay the cost

as small puddle becomes a quagmire.

Overwhelmed by commands and the snide reprimands,

just a cog in the wheel of  progression;

how many replays until changes are made

at the whim of some admin's discretion?

So we do what we do just trying to get through,

drawing hard from the lessons we're learning,

work ethics aside we confirm our reply,

soon the stem of this tide will be turning.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Image: Google Images from Pinterest

The Time Thief

There’s this man I’ve come to know

he stops each day to say hello

he stays for just a little while

with gentle voice and ready smile.

The Time Thief’s taken quite a lot

so many things now he’s forgot;

and though he still recalls the past

he isn’t sure what he did last.

His lovely wife arrived here first

and he, for better or for worse

came to join her, followed suit—

unhappy, yes,  but resolute.

 He struggles now to understand

this place he’d never thought he’d land.

His voice grows quiet, fades away…

forgetting what he wants to say.

a shadow furrows his thin brow,

then he returns to here and now.

He smiles, then he says “goodbye”

and turns to leave without reply.

The Time Thief watches from the wings,

knowing that he pulls the strings.

He lies in wait to take away

all that we would do or say.

He scrambles thoughts and spits them out

and he is, without a doubt,

the worst threat to the elderly

…unable to just let them be.

Yet for moment on this day,

we held the evil thief at bay.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Just Three Simple Words

How sweet the innocence that’s found

in children and the elderly;

the joy unbounded they exude

with love both simple and profound

that for the rest of us, eludes.

The young with their straightforwardness—

a child giggles, happily

untainted by the world beyond

with no reserve or attitude

their love shared, unabashedly

both color-blind and rainbow-hued.

In turn, receiver then responds

in kind, to share this special gift

that’s given, unsolicited;

and so we’re captured in this bond

that we embrace with gratitude.

The elderly live time reversed—

they’re locked inside their solitude

so often jaded and despondent.

Yet laughter often lifts this curse:

we watch their spark return once more

to leave us humbled and subdued.

I heard your words, my heart expands

within this bond that we have shared,

this momentary interlude

between two friends of circumstance.

Within a world of happenstance,

so often words get misconstrued

or took for granted once they’re said.

Without reward or recompense

they’re left ignored as they accrue.

And what is learned through this review?

    —We must embrace each "I love you."

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Unknowns

Who will I be when I grow old…

will I sit and babble nonsense rhyme

old poems and remnants left behind—

when those final years take hold.

Will past and present merge as one,

as mind relinquishes control;

or stay alert, my thoughts left whole

while body starts to come undone.

No gypsy fortune-tellers, we...

what lies before us, undefined;

should favor nod as we decline

perhaps we'll keep our sanity.

Yes, all things acquiesce to time…

we only hope the years are kind.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Actively Passing

I wonder does subconscious hear a calling,

like songbirds’ urge to sing before the dawn;

sensing that there will be no denying

and no forestalling when one's time has come.

In recent days we’ve watched you shift, withdrawing—

your focus turning inward to your soul;

a bird with broken wings no longer soaring,

slipping while the decades take their toll.

There is no turning back, becoming “whole” again,

no splint to cure what age and illness wrought.

Words whispered soft, appeasing and consoling…

as you slide ever deeper into thought…

time stands still, the caged bird finds release,

  our consolation—hoping you’ve found peace.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

For L, whose light and love we will carry in our hearts.

The Elephant Graveyard

Over well worn pathways,

these weathered pachyderms have come,

unseen forces beckoning.

All seem to find their way here…

ivory long faded yellow,

gray turns white,

dermis folded, sagging.

They walk the walk of the ancients;

all who came before,

those who will come after.

Another rite of passage

among so many they have borne

It’s said they never “forget,”

but memory is subjective:

lost somewhere beyond

hidden plaques and tangles

their lives unravel—

and so they travel this road,

hoping for peace at journey’s end.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

*Plaques and tangles are part of the Alzheimer's puzzle.

Forgotten

I exist in a limbo where memories slip 

from the tip of my tongue,

where sentences fade, incomplete  

  What was I just saying… I forgot…

Such profound loneliness in this place

where strangers surround me

Where is my family?

Where is my home?

Where are the people I once knew?

I cling to any kindness shown…

though I can’t find the words

      I still “feel”

In this ever-shrinking existence

images of my youth pass swiftly

and anticipation of death…
 no more loneliness nor pain

            ...now reign

© Ginny Brannan 2016

A Certain Resonance

I feel the weight, the ache

 of a hundred living souls

 resonating within me...

Their empty eyes stare, while crackled voices 

share tales of years gone by, yet still

can't recall the “whens “or “whys”
of how they got there.

  * * * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am no seer, but I know what the future holds…

     

If you are lucky, you’ll find contentment somewhere

in that space, that place between past and present.

Or

You'll remember your yesterdays with perfect clarity

while locked in a body that no longer does your bidding.

(We will not speak of “Door Number Three”

for it holds a tale a different kind;

of loneliness and chronic pain;
and diseases that destroy the mind.)

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There are days this weight feels amplified,

an electrical current crawling ‘cross my skin.

Struggling to keep the calm and status quo

I cry inside for all their ‘might have beens.’

© Ginny Brannan 2016

The Key

http://globe-views.com/dreams/piano.html

She floats her way through shadowed halls

as thought escapes from its confines,

an image of a younger self

so long ago she can’t recall—

absorbs once more into her mind.

Her later years have not been kind,

perception fades into a fugue—

old names and faces cast a blur

and all the memories left behind

have slipped away, eluding her.

But still she finds familiar route

to afternoon’s sweet interlude:

pale parchment hands touch ivory

and without pause or moment’s doubt

she reaches out to find the key.

A moment later song concludes—

in haste, the memory disembarks;

she fades again behind the veil…

   locked away in solitude

   an aging soul with body frail.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Amazing how the mind works: because music is stored in a different part of the brain, someone who has dementia may still find comfort in music; the hands remember what the mind cannot. Written about a dear nonagenarian who still manages to 'tickle the ivories.'

What Demons Haunt…

What darkened demons haunt her soul…

like one possessed she walks the halls—

on secret mission just she knows.

What is it that assumes control,

that she, herself, cannot express?

Her shadows race along the wall—

this tiny woman, now obsessesed

with need to move and not be still.

Time detracts, we can’t forestall           

when age gives to dementia’s will.

Just for brief moment, stops her quest

yet sensing mission incomplete,

once again the demon calls…

No cure for this unwelcomed guest,

and no reprieve once he befalls.

With no remission, no defeat,

the cruel affliction runs its course.

The victim is herself, unfeigned;

yet for observers, bittersweet—

with aching sadness, bear the pain.

… still more apparent with each day—

    what birth endows, age takes away.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

In Frontotemporal dementia, people will often show signs of obsessive-compulsive behavior such as hand washing or walking back and forth from one area to another. They have the need to carry out repeated actions that are inappropriate or not relevant to the situation at hand. Breaking this cycle is difficult and the caregiver must decide if this behavior is simply annoying or unsafe for the person and decide if they need to intervene.

~ from http://www.dementiaguide.com

The End of the Line

We observe the sick and frail

the aging refuse life forgot

 the ancients leaving one by one;

we watch the sands of time prevail

cognizant when course is done.

A chronic tale with twisted plot

one that no one can forestall—

alone and holding stranger’s hand

the soul escapes this juggernaut;

there’s no repeal and no remand.

Who cries for those with none at all,

and holds their memory when their gone?

Who whispers prayers on their behalf?

You’re called to take your final bow

— no family left to carry on.

And learning that you’ve taken leave

'tis I, the stranger, who will grieve.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Google Images/various sites

I work in a Skilled Nursing facility, and have grown rather fond of some of the residents. One of my favorites: a sweet Italian lady who reminded me of one of my aunts. She loved her bright red lipstick, and talking about life “back in the day.” Shortly after celebrating her 97^th birthday, she spent a lovely day having her hair done and enjoying the sunshine and fresh air out  on the patio.  I learned the next day that she’d passed during the night. She had no family; she was the last of her line. 
I will miss her.

What Goes Around…

Image: H. Kopp-Delaney

There is no going “gently” into the night

regardless what you think, maybe in spite;

first comes the loss of all you had and who you are—

favorite treasures, then the home, and then your car.

This role-reversal somehow doesn’t seem quite right—

grown children argue with frustration through the night.

Undecided what to do now that you’re ‘old,’

yet all agree you won’t be left out in the cold.

They understand the care you need is specialized:

your memory’s fading; so’s your hearing and your eyes.

On top of that you can’t get out of bed at night;

the list of meds you take is too long to recite.

In-fighting really is the saddest thing to see

to observe when adult-children disagree

through selfish needs they’re losing track of parent’s plight;

they forget their turn will come to "face the night."

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Inspired by two adult-children of a nonagenarian I know. Neither wants to step up and be in charge of parent's mail, so they left a basket in parent's room for whomever decides to go through first.

A little exercise to put aging into perspective:

Write down 10 things that really mean something to you: 

i.e. spouse, children, grandkids, pets, traveling, reading, writing, movies, etc. Whatever you feel is important to you.

Now take away two. Okay, not bad right, two you can live without, right?

Now take away three. Getting harder isn't it? What's left--spouse, children, grandkids family friends?

Now take away three more. Getting even tougher isn't it?

Left with two, pick one more to lose, leaving one. This is really tough when choosing between two that you really love. I had to "choose" between husband and son. How do you do that?!!

This really hit home with me on what happens as we age and lose everything we love, everything that we were. Thought I'd share and leave you with some food for thought too.

Percolating

At work I watch the old

grow older—fragile minds,

needles stuck on

skip and repetition;

yesterday’s names resurfacing

on today’s faces.

Two ‘sisters,’ borne of

location and circumstance,

chug down the hall.

“Toot, toot”  announces one,

echoing once, then once again.

Their two-chair ‘train’

arrives in the front parlor.

First stop: the front window,

to scan for the car she

hasn’t driven in 15 years.

“I forgot where I parked” she says.

After a moment or two, car is forgotten.

“Dottie” she says, “Lets go sit

on the patio for awhile.”

The other–not now nor ever ‘Dottie’–

follows her, ignoring the misnomer.

I ask how she’s doing as she passes.

“I’m percolating” she says, as train
leaves my station and wends by
on its merry way once again.

© Ginny Brannan  2014

Google Images: Imagining how these gals would've looked half-century ago!

Some may see these inside tales as sad, as in "Oh, how sad to be in a home, how sad to have impaired memory." Working there, I can tell you they themselves are anything but sad. One is in her mid-'90s, the other in her 80s. They are well-cared for, and despite the younger one struggling with memory impairment, they have developed a close friendship and camaraderie with each other and many of the staff. We smile hearing that "Toot, toot!" knowing that they are 'on the move' again!

Road to Perdition

On winding path of dirt and stone

where phantom memories abound,

we face our enemies alone.

While passing through this vast unknown,

odd echoes from the past resound

upon this path of dirt and stone.

We wear these shells of flesh and bone

and though our allies rally 'round,

we face our enemies alone.

And for each sin that we atone

we take a step toward higher ground,

along this path of dirt and stone.

We struggle, but we can’t postpone

abysmal pools where dreams have drowned

while facing enemies alone…

and so we gather what is sown

and hold tight to the truths we’ve found;

on winding path of dirt and stone,

we face our enemies alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #108

“Well, Isn’t That Just a Fine Bucket of Fish?!!”

"A fine bucket of fish!"

"Loose Connections"

Her thoughts go ‘round in circles now--
mid-sentence they change direction,

as signal loses its connection.

She still communicates somehow;

sometimes we hear her words quite clear

when lesser gods choose to allow.

Perfect in her imperfection;

her thoughts go ‘round circles now...

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Finding the joy in rare moments…

Communication--another piece of the Dementia puzzle:  At work I observe the elderly,  many who are challenged by dementia. Though bittersweet to watch their slow, progressive decline, many manage to do okay within their limited world. On occasion their frustration and thoughts run with perfect clarity, especially when we don’t grasp something quick enough.  Unable to come up with an answer for one of our residents recently, she started to ask again, then stopped mid-sentence, looked at me and said “Why am I asking you, you don’t know!! Well, isn’t that just a fine bucket of fish?!!” ZING!! Much to my chagrin, I’d say she communicated that quite well, along with sending a zinger back to me!! 

We do love our people, especially during the rare moments when  they make us laugh! 

**Lesser god: Originally coined in Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, and then taken as title of a movie about someone deaf, it is a reference suggesting that if God created man perfect in His image, then  “lesser gods” created all who would be disabled, disfigured or challenged.

I have written of the more serious side of this subject before, and was honored to have it published by Journey of the Heart, Women’s Spiritual Poetry, here.