At four in the morning, the old cat begins her morning crabby high-pitched “wahhhhrrr.” The wind picks up and I go to pee. Open my laptop and with its very first light, a tiny beetle flies to the screen to wander back and forth, in search of what? Company or bugs even more miniscule? And where has it been in the interim? In what obscure corner of my world has it been waiting for light, like the old cat, barely able to restrain itself , seeking my company at my first sign of stirring?
Does the rest of the world wait for me like this, or is it death lurking in the shadows, waiting for its time? Has life slowed down to this one long communal waiting? My sick friend has left but leaves behind her some of her dejection. I cannot shake it. Return to it after each short departure into the world. I feel an eternity of the ills of the world around me. Optimist rebel in an enemy camp all my life, I now feel myself sinking into the ordinary world. My mood refuses to shift with the sunrise. Even the old cat, still unfed, leaves me alone to my dark mood.
I fear the power of sleep, not wanting to return to that half-remembered dream I woke from. Fear this new self I seem to be becoming. Suddenly, I fear eternity—feel it not my friend.
They’ve dispelled my excitement with a coiled line of rope— imprisoning my fantasies and murdering that hope that fairies really do exist with dragons and magicians. Using scientific words and proofs of the tacticians, they’ve put the rope around the neck of childhood and jerked and I admit the strategy of reason really worked! I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I don’t believe in fables. They’ve ruined Cinderella and lynched Anne of Green Gables. Pure reason is my only friend now that they’ve slain the rest. They’ve installed stark reality but murdered all the zest. I’ll welcome second childhood when silliness again replaces stark reality to cushion the world’s pain.
Prompt words for today are line, dispel and rope.
The dVerse Poets prompt is to write a quadrille (44 words only) making use of the word dragon.
My future is amorphous. It has no shape or plan. Up the creek without a paddle, I have no job or man. My freedom? It is ludicrous. I’m well out of the chase. All my time is leisure time. I live a slower pace. Who named this phase re-tirement? There’s nothing that is tiring. If they want to tire me out again, they’d best replace my wiring.
I’m tumbling backwards into silence. My words have lost their spark. When I seek enlightenment, I’m only met by dark.
When I try to pick a theme, my thoughts quickly retreat. Looking for a place to rest, they rarely find a seat.
Where do memories go to when they cannot find a door— when there’s no exit for them, and there’s no room for more?
Does our memory simply melt starting with today so the things that we remember are only yesterday?
Do we wander empty corridors or is our distant past our favorite thing to think about so they’re the thoughts that last?
I’ve been thinking a lot about dementia lately, but no, I don’t feel I’m describing myself in this poem. I am, however, trying to put myself in my sister Betty’s place to try to figure out what might be going through her mind…or what in her mind she might be going through. Certainly, we all have enough memories stored to entertain ourselves for life, and perhaps as we run out of room it is the last memories, more seldom thought of, that vanish first, leaving us with a rich inner world we are loath to leave. I hope this is true, or that we go back to a state of consciousness similar to where an infant exists before it is born, listening to the mystery of outside sounds and wondering where we are going to fit into them. Without words, are there thoughts? Unfortunately, not all mysteries are solved.
I admit I’m taking sanctuary, waiting for the rain. I really cannot help it that I’m foolish and I’m vain. It’s lack of all humidity causing my hibernation. This dryness is my scapegoat. I am needing rain’s hydration.
Once there’s water in the air, my cavities will out, and all these ugly wrinkles are destined to fill out. I’m praying to the rain gods, though I don’t like to beg, for the wrinkles on my torso are spreading to my leg.
My hand backs are so furrowed they’re impervious to lotions. My crepey neck defies even my most expensive potions. I’m succumbing to my wrinkles. I’ve barely a smooth patch. I think I’d be the winner in a “most wrinkled” match.
In the aging Olympics, I would surely win the gold. I’ve passed from young to middle-aged and ended up at “old.” I’ve given up on vagueness and modesty and pride. I’m bluntly revealing the condition of my hide.
Yes, I’ve succumbed to wrinkles. and my only hope’s the rain. Surely with humidity, I’ll plump right up again!!!!