The Soul Survivors

Tears cascade, the cask rolls through the curtains. Good souls escape the fire though. They drift casually, silently, unseen, across the moors. The oldest oak calls, its whisper carries easily though the valleys and tors. “Forever, forever, forever,” the rustling of vibrant green leaves calls, “forever on the wind”. Autumn comes but the leaves don’t fall. Yet, only those whose lost loved ones bore good souls notice the ever green oak. The souls on the wind follow the call, “forever, forever” and a faint vapour wisps up the ancient trunk, through the knot of the soul survivors.

 

(PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook)

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A QUEUE FOR A RUCKSACK

Run a mile or plenty away

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

Knees up. Mother who?

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?