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The last of the light squanders itself on skeleton trees,
cactus flowers languish in the desert wilds,
somewhere there is thunder in a snowstorm.
You once said love was wasted on people like me.
Almost as painful as the time you said,
“I don’t think you’re capable of being happy.”
Imagine….
When some lead-hearted god reached into your mind,
turned your memories into roiling tangles
and your tongue became a knot behind your teeth,
I waited beside you, what was left, until they told me,
“It’s time to go.”
Now I sit here and smoke, and smoke
until my lungs can’t remember the taste of air.
When I unpack your bag, inhale your scent,
my tongue recalls a taste mysterious as cactus flowers,
ethereal as thunder in a snowstorm.
Poetry on the run 
Ron, I had to read this several times to really get it-I hope. I’m seeing a person who has had a stroke. Clear description for me. But I’m processing through the lens of my Father’s stroke.
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Jan, thanks for reading so closely. I have in mind someone who has succumbed to alzheimer’s. I’ve seen it happen to a couple of people. I recently read some poetry by Adrian C. Louis, ‘Savage Sunsets’ about his experiences with his wife and alzheimer’s and decided to try to tackle the subject. I may try another one…the emotions and tragedy are so raw and complex…I can only imagine there are similar feelings when dealing with a stroke and its aftermath.
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It really helps to have a little explanation. Some of us…well one of us…don’t always get it even on the second reading. 😦
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Ah, makes perfect sense. I helped a daughter-in-law when she worked with Alzheimer’s day care. Watching clients go downhill was gruesome. There was a lady who had been a poet. She was one of the really sweet ones. She wrote a poem for me. It was an Easter hat with the word ‘gorgeous’ underneath. When all the words left her-she would sweep her hand across the sky and pet a tree on a walk. Even though she never remembered me, somehow the poet connection re-wired every time we met. I’m also a musician and would go to play for them and sing old songs with them. Those they tended to remember. Such a treat! One man who’d been slumped in his wheelchair suddenly sat up and started singing in this amazing baritone voice. For a moment only, he was ‘present.’ He hugged me, smiled, stayed with us for a bit and slumped back into his chair. It was a miracle of sorts for he died two weeks later. Kimiya had to stop for a while because of the emotional strain but before she left she made each family a memory book of moments their relatives had that were more alive and alert. Theresa, the poet, was chosen to be Elizabeth in the Christmas play because she, at that time, could still string simple words together. When Mary arrived to see her, she expansively proclaimed, “Blessed be the fruit of the loom, Jesus.” I have treasured that ever since as I’m sure her family does. She was a beautiful woman in spirit. Sorry, got carried away. But Alzheimer’s is the cruelest disease.
Note, my Dad got his speech back for which we were and are grateful. Again, thanks for your beautiful writing, Jan
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This is absolutely beautiful. Your language use is phenomenal. I got the chills.
Keep on writing. I look forward to reading more of your work.
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JL, Thank you so much for reading my poetry. I will keep on writing…it is therapy for what ails me and there is enough of that to keep me writing into the foreseeable future.
Ron
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