Above The Line

Another poem inspired by living with someone living with dementia.

ABOVE THE LINE

a poem by Kevin Bonfield

Highlight, in bright pink, the chosen pictures

And trace the words below. Smooth.

Only, what’s this? Something about dates

Dates, what about dates, hang on, dates

I remember them. I think.

It has somehow changed, I wanted the chairs

The ones that turn, yes I definitely yearn

For those turning chairs.

Yet on here, it’s something about dates

Dates? dates? choosing dates. Not DATES!

I didn’t want them. I know.

I’ve highlighted. In bright pink. the chairs.

But it doesn’t say so. Only chairs.

It’s no wonder people explode. More and

More confusion, wanting chairs that turn.

But getting dates. Young people laughing.

But I highlighted it. I think.

Above the line, bright pink, above the line

Above the? Hang on, let me see that.

You need to highlight below the line

And yet they keep telling me he’s fine.

I wanted THIS! the chairs that turn!

I know the time. Don’t I?

Learning how to tell a man his pink

Highlights are above the line, not below

That that is why he’s got dates, not chairs

Not belittling, not patronising, not hurrying

Not controlling, not demoralising, but guiding

Take the lead. Highlight his fears.

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A QUEUE FOR A RUCKSACK

A poem by Kevin Bonfield
A QUEUE FOR A RUCKSACK

Maybe a confusion here for
A tiny frail elderly man who
Needs pockets and to lock it
And to keep his life safe.

A Brazilian office worker rushing to work.
A salad, maybe sweet chilli sauce
And fruit and a rare treat
Wrong colour wrong timing.

A mid-life crisis in full flow
More a waistcoat but, hey
Rucksack sounds more rugged
Run a mile or plenty away

A hiker, a traveller, a primary school
Kid who might fit in theirs
Young Mum, baby milk and wipes
Or mine with a scribble and a pen

The Memory Cafe

Another poem, from my growing collection inspired by living with someone who is living with dementia.

 

THE MEMORY CAFE

by Kevin Bonfield

 

 

Knees up. Mother who?

 

The songs, and posters, the

 

Jokes and the jokers

 

For just one minute they

 

Bring back you

 

 

 

My old man. He said

 

Ahhh the mini van. I

 

Remember the plate

 

The eyes for that minute

 

Aren’t so dead

 

 

 

So when it’s my turn

 

Will Oasis and Blur

 

Or The Who and Kinks

 

Be my memory prompts

 

That I should learn

 

 

 

But Every nice girl

 

Sure loves you, sailor

 

As you stir from the back

 

From black empty holes to

 

An hour in this world

 

 

 

And yes, you still do

 

Like to be beside the

 

Seaside, beside yourself

 

Perhaps you don’t

 

But the sea air IS you

 

Nothing As Recent As Milk

Another of my little scribblings inspired by life with a dementia sufferer….

Like a mini van

Back when

The ice cream vans were rationed

When your siblings plans

Were hampered

When the Yorkshire puds

Were devoured

And your mind was free to imagine.

And roam and dream and challenge.

Then this began

Leaving number plates

And servicemen rates

And all your homes to date

And your family traits

Your aircraft mates

But nothing as recent

As milk

PENINSULA

A POEM INSPIRED BY RUNNING 50 MILES

 

Rain.

Oh, and wind. They lashed like a flicked school tie

But only for two hours. Or so. then warm.

Layers. Part of the battle is layers.

Get them right and at the right time

you can enjoy:

Rolling seas on rocks, wetting soft sand, greasing 

pebbles. Tumbling cliffs and shifting dunes

giving shelter then not. On legs

tired after one, ten, twenty, plenty miles.

Pained joints from furry friends holes

like the wind, make the eyes stream

Then friends, and strangers alike. And

the most loved ones bring relief.

And bring Maltesers, as twenty, thirty, forty,

naughty miles make seizing joints.

Yet somehow strong, somehow this is where 

I belong. Amongst the sea and rocks and sand.

Amongst the friends and fellow combatants.

Amongst the horses, the cakes, the finishing tape

awaits.

Amongst the mud, the darkness inside is lifted

by one mercifully cheerful and wonderfully gifted

with only my half years.

And the final dunes and the gate where it all began

Is yards from where I stop, tears of joy 

as into the arms of my world I fall.

Finally. I can.

 

 

I also wrote a blog about this incredible day HERE

 

 

Scraping The Tin

Another in a series of poems inspired by living with someone who is living with dementia…….

 

Maybe I’ve always been fastidious

I was born before the war

When there was no food to leave

And now there’s all those kids who

Don’t need greenery up there

Are they’re noisy, wow-wee, they

Give it some…….

So I’ll keep on scraping the tin

And letting the prying eyes in

Because all that, you know, all that…

(rubbish, Frank, all that rubbish)

It just rockets, and they won’t take boxes

So I’ll keep on scraping the tin

And organising the bin

Until I know there’s nothing

 

The Plug

A little poem inspired by living with someone living with dementia

 

I met another lady

In the…….

You know, the…….

The……

Oh this head head HEAD

(The park, Dad)

The Park

What was it I said?

Yes, she had this too

She could never remember

If the month is, is……

(December

Dad)

Yes and how do I make this

THIS THIS THIS…….

(Shredder Dad)

Yes, how do I make it work?

Dandelion

Another dementia inspired poem

Dandelion head

Put to bed in a big bin

Unless I got

To the gate and forgot.

Yogurt pot

Or gravy or tooth fairy

Or just what is the year.

Yet I know WHY 

The others are so close 

To tears.

I tell them

While I’m still that aware

That it just won’t be fair 

My demise.

You know the one

The usual the yellow

The yellow head in my head

I want them to prompt

Yet I don’t 

That’s it, I was nearly there

Dandelion head.

Closer To Home (free poetry)

So is it just smaller

Because it’s at Home

Is it just scarier

Because it’s closer to Home

The big things out there

Are they just bigger or

is it ok to say the

confusion at Home

is big too

Blessed to not know

the grief or loss or pain

But challenged by

how does the oven

work and why does

it not have a book

Home is where the

heart lies and yours

lies at Home

 

 

by KEVIN BONFIELD

Part of a series of Poems –  Inspired by living with, and supporting, a dementia sufferer