Message From The Care Home Front

Cherry

By Ewan

Tue, 24 Oct 2023
  • 1523 reads
7 comments
 

They break our bread,

we break our bones.

 

Every dropped plate is shattered glass.

One slammed door, an artillery shell

Well? Who is well? Smell the defeat –

Soldier, sailor, nary a tinker nor a tailor,

some butchers, some bawds,

some ladies, no lords:

we are all beggars here.

 

Those who visit, they are the ghosts,

barely visible – to us their hosts.

Carried in on waves of duty and disappointment,

they speak in fractured conversations,

the radio de-tuned by the interference

in our brains.

 

What they say is anyone’s guess.

If they did not come, would we love them less?

 

The smell, the smell,

we live in our own effluvious hell.

 

A bell for dinner, a bell for lunch;

a regiment of dotards, we shuffle in time

‘eft – ’ight’, ‘eft – ‘ight.

 

We are here, though you do not hear us,

through the fog of aging,

bereft are we,

of communication,

of contact,

of love.

 

We are British Legionnaires,

here in ranks, at blurred attention

for the final, sad parade.

Certificate PG
Poem
Not Quite Good Enough
Miscellaneous

Comments

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

So thoughtful, but so sad. One can understand how some find visiting difficult, and the job of serving, nursing, hard. But I think I have mentioned how positive the home near us is, with upbeat and caring staff (well-led) and 'activity' organiser.

My husband has been asked spend time with others as his mother (104) is frequently asleep (all day) and has short concentration spans, muddled but happy. He he has got to know a number quite well, gradually, and some, sometimes choose to share and discuss quite meaningfully. All enjoy seeing visitors around.

Rhiannon

 

Submitted by catherine poarch on

I lliked this, giving legionnaires a new battleground. It's sad but I don't find it depressing. And I like the poppy, despite our mixed perception of it.  

 

Submitted by Ewan on

 on the other side of dementia's curtain can be good company. My dad just shrank away to nothing at all, really. After my dad died, it hit my mum with full force - couldn't tell the time, didn't know what day it was, hiding things. None of which changed when we put her in the excellent home that had looked after my dad, when it became too much for her.

My mum became quite giddy and childish, but kept engaging until right at the end. It was still very hard to watch the whole person disappear like a jigsaw losing pieces one at a time. Twice.

Author Page at the 'Zon
 

Submitted by Turlough on

During my working days I knew dozens, probably even hundreds, of people who were victims of dementia. Some of them I had known before the illness struck. Some I only met once or twice. Because of the nature of my work I had to get quite close to them and talk to them or communicate with them in some way. To some people they were a mere number or a name on a door. To me they were always a proud human being who had lived a life and made a difference to someone else's life. In every case it was heartbreaking to see them. Years later I still think of some of them. I just hope for my sake and my family's sake that this never happens to me.

Your poem describes the latter days of these particular people extremely well.

Turlough

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

Such a moving piece, thank you Ewan. It's so sad when people disappear, especially in the in-between stage where it can terrify some

 

Submitted by marandina on

"Those who visit, they are the ghosts,"

 

Such a powerful poem. Those last three lines are perfect. Dementia seems to be a modern day plague taking more and more people with it. You have a special way of capturing the desolation with pieces like this, Ewan.

 

Submitted by celticman on

very true, the last bugle call sounds not in the trenches.