The Further I Fall ( a blues tune. Trey put it to music)

When I saw your face
my heart stood still.
The fire in your eyes
was a look that’d kill.

I turned and tried to run
got on my knees and crawled
The closer you get
the further I fall.

You took me away
I was trapped in your lair
I avoided your eyes
saw the ravens in your hair

Tried to find the door
I was stuck to the wall
the closer you got
the further I’d fall

The morning comes
but the sun won’t shine
you set me free
but you captured my mind

I’m so confused
I can’t move at all
you hold me in your grip
I slip and
the further I fall

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One Way Out

So very tragic. By now everyone has heard the news of Robin Williams death. Many people do not understand how this could happen. How could someone take their own life? Some may want to believe it’s drugs or alcohol and that if they had been sober this would not have happened.

These are obviously well balanced people that appear to have control over their lives. However, there are times in some of our lives that we have no control. That something so horrifically traumatizing has occurred to us that we could not have stopped it even if we knew it was coming.

These can be events that some people can deal with very easily but to others it seems to crumble the very foundation our very world is standing upon. A divorce, tragic untimely death of a loved one. Or in my case the disappearance of a child.

When something like that happens the mind is the worst enemy you could have. It becomes a theater that plays and replays that horrible event. While you are awake. When you pass out…because you never sleep. Constantly…over and over. The only way to make it stop at that time is to shut it off. Death becomes peace. You can not see tomorrow…You just want it to stop today.

Fortunately for me God sent someone to stop me and that person never knew that he saved my life. I was to ashamed to tell my father.

Posted in death and dying | Tagged , | 5 Comments

Something In Yellow

In a conversation the other day with a resident, she was telling me how much she enjoyed painting. She is, in my opinion, an accomplished artist. I told her how envious I was of people who could capture an image with their minds eye and transfer it to a canvas, leaving their depiction of something specific for all to enjoy long after they have left this Earth.

I told her I try to do the same thing except for the fact that I do not use a brush to transfer what I am feeling or seeing in my mind. Instead I use the written word. We attain our subjects in the same way. Either through something we have seen, experienced, or sometimes imagined.

From that point forward there are subtle, yet extreme, differences. My palette is a keyboard through which I try to project images and emotions on to a screen. Hopefully, if I do it well, it will elicit images and emotions from the reader.

Her palette is a complicated mixture of colors that each invoke their own emotion. Like an alchemist searching for the combination that will bring forth gold she can bring forth a physical response with the correct combination. When she has the desired hue to make one feel lonely…happy…sad or stormy she will transfer it to canvas.

While I was trying to explain to her how similar we are she simply said, ” O.K. Do me something in yellow.”

This may take a while.

Posted in end of life care giving, life | 6 Comments


Patience is stretched thin
With all their wants and needs.
It’s time to get them up again
Sit them down, begin the feed

Their rooms are always hot
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
Glancing at the clock a lot
It’s almost time to leave.

Getting home at midnight
To enjoy some needed rest
Fall asleep in the chair,
Head nodding on my chest.

I wake in the middle of the night
My back is stiff and bent.
I shuffle to the bathroom light
My energy is spent

My eyes are weak and blurred
I lean closer so I can see.
A scream that can’t be heard
An old man in the mirror…staring back at me

( We should never forget…Your road may lead you here )

Posted in Elder care, end of life care giving, poems | 6 Comments

Just A House

Today my brother will drive to Macon and sign the papers that will turn our childhood home over to people we do not know. This happens tens of thousands of times a day in this country. In most cases the seller would be happy and in some maybe not so much.

I don’t know if the new owners have children or if they are young or old. I wonder if the mortar and brick and the sheetrock and paint have absorbed the emotions, happy and sad, of the fifty years that our family lived and died within those walls. I wonder when they walk from room to room if they smile and don’t know why.

There is know way for them to know that the natural gas hook up in the corner of the den was the preplanning of the young couple that built that house. In 1973 when the freak blizzard in February dropped eighteen inches of snow over night in Macon, a young couple and their four small children were cuddled up and cozy in one room with a space heater while the rest of the area shivered for days with no electricity to power their furnaces.

I wonder if they have figured out what the hot and cold water supply is doing on the back porch in the middle of a brick wall. Will they ever guess that the young couple had a shower on the back porch so their two wild boys could strip down and wash the red Georgia clay off before they came inside the house.

They could never know that young ladies of dating age were sitting, ready and waiting, in their rooms upstairs while the father sat and stared without blinking or speaking at the sixteen year old boys who have come to take his daughters out on a date. Only after he was satisfied they had suffered enough would he take them to the bottom of the steps and call his daughters down (the younger brothers enjoyed watching this routine immensely).

Could the new owners ever know that at the porch window a young mother sat sewing clothes for her children wearing a tape measure and belt around her neck. The tape measure was for obvious reasons…the belt was to remind her boys there was no running in the house, which she could do without looking up or missing a stitch. I think she could take a fly out in midair and never look up.

And how could the new owners know that fifty years later one of those wild boys carried the lifeless bodies of that young couple out of that front door. They could never know any of these things…it’s just a house.

Posted in end of life care giving | 5 Comments


Originally posted on deepthinker52:

I wanted to post this in appreciation of my sisters who knew long before I did what path my life should follow. Thank you for your love and guidance. Thank you for believing in me when I could see nothing to believe in myself. This was originally posted November 2012.

>In and out …In and out. I lay here at night and listen the soft comforting sound of my fathers breathing. In and out. What a sweet sound to my ears. It is not unlike the sounds of the sea , the tide flowing .In and out There is no rattle in his breathing even though he is on hospice care.

Actually he is in pretty darn good physical condition except for his Parkinson’s that he has fought for the last twenty-six years.But just the word hospice brings a feeling of finality that one would rather not have to accept…

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