Alzheimer's Poems Quotes

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

once Alzheimer’s does what it do you never really have conversations it’s more a man becomes a poem a lot of repetition & love with something indecipherable in between.

So about an hour later we are in the taxi shooting along empty country roads towards town. The April light is clear as an alarm. As we pass them it gives a sudden sense of every object existing in space on its own shadow. I wish I could carry this clarity with me into the hospital where distinctions tend to flatten and coalesce. I wish I had been nicer to him before he got crazy. These are my two wishes.

Butterfly Kisses Aged imperfections stitched upon my face years and years of wisdom earned by His holy grace. Quiet solitude in a humble home all the family scattered now like nomads do they roam. Then a gift sent from above a memory pure and tangible wrapped in innocence and unquestioning love. A butterfly kiss lands gently upon my cheek from an unseen child a kiss most sweet. Heaven grants grace and tears follow as youth revisits this empty hollow.

It rises again, the frenzied smoke as the phoenix rises from the ashes shadows of dreams on the hills a melange of memories She speaks in unheard words poignant with meanings deep another bird of silence caws as the breeze swirls and spins My grandmother told me stories about the mountains and the lakes I saw the rainbows of hope swaying to the music as the daffodils of joy to the rain The opalescent sky looks melancholy as the clouds of Alzheimer's hover her life perhaps she has not forgotten everything I hope the moon tells her about me I keep searching for my footsteps now smudged in the sands of time like the proverbial breeze that drifts but never gets to stay a while Gazing at old photographs, I keep the memories treasured and vaulted a boulevard of thatched moments a promenade of myriad stories!

He sits, silent, no longer mistaking the cable news for company— and when he talks, he talks of childhood, remembering some slight or conundrum as if it is a score to be retailed and settled after seventy-five years.

Five minutes ago escapes him as he chases 1934, unaware of the present beauty out the window, the banks of windswept snow— or his wife, humming in the kitchen, or the twilit battles in Korea, or me when he remembers that I am his son.