AHHH! Sweet Aroma

Posted on December 12, 2018 by admin

H. W. Bryce 

AHHH! SWEET AROMA

Ahhhhh! The sweet aroma of coffee and eggs,

That first sniff of a new minted day, newspaper

On door step, hair all askew, bleary and blinking eyes

Focussed on you; ah, that sweet sleepy smile of yours,

That early morning twinkle, snug memories of

Last night, the enticement of a delicious

Croisant day, rainbw faces with sleepy cat smiles

And haloes shining all around with good cheer

Bubbling like the coffee perking on hot stove.

I love you dear.

People ought to be taught This art of spreading the joy…

Love’s not a toy, neither for girl nor for boy,

Love is for sharing, for each other and for others.

Breathe in, smell the rose-petal scent of sweet caring,

Have a cookie pink-iced sunshiny day –

Enjoy your work, leave time for some play,

Have a fresh-scented bacon kind of a lunch,

Feel the healing power of a job well done

And do a ginger-bread good deed,

With a sugar-coated handshake on a solid bread deal,

And tie a bow ribbon on a bouquet of feel

Good flower-like hugs.

Spread peace like you scatter seeds in a garden

And everywhere you go, leave a genuine

Gold-plated smile. It will carry the receiver a couple of mile.

Then sleep that tinker bell blessed sleep

And wake up next morn, find your land legs

To a soft cinnamon bun day. Smile me your sleepy cat smile,

And savour that sweet, sweet aroma of coffee and eggs.

—Memories of Ann


Picture of Ann
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Posted on December 3, 2018 by admin

 

pic for Without a Script

WITHOUT A SCRIPT

H. W. Bryce

Without a script, you are nothing.
You are at the mercies of the meanies.
They can see you coming a mile away.

Without a script you are a tennis ball,

Or a tiny bouncing ball in an arcade.

And you’ve lost the game before it begins.

 

You gotta have a script,

You gotta stage your life,

You need to write your playbook

Or your score will be nil-98-nill!

No matter what you will.

 

You gotta write your own scenes

Lest everything is chaos, or so it seems,

You gotta synchronize your moves

Syncopate your tunes, get in step

With your beat, turn up your own heat,

Exude your personality! That’s neat.

 

Oh yes! Without a script you will garner

A bouquet of boos, out of step with

The characters in your cast and they will harbor

Ill will and even hate because you don’t belong

Because you’re in the wrong script.

 

You’re in the wings, never on the stage,

You’ll have a part but never get to play it.

Don’t be shy, don’t be that shadow on the wall,

Step into the light, have a ball, go ahead and wage

Your inner war, then show your stuff,

Play out your inner script,

You’ve got it in you to do. So do.

Write your own script and strut your stuff

Out on the stage; pull the curtain cord,

Strike up the band, hit the lights

Show ’em who you are.

You’re a star.

Cause you wrote the script.

 

You gotta synchronize your moves

Syncopate your tunes, get in step

With your beat, turn up your own heat,

Exude your personality! That’s neat.

’Cause without a script, you’re nothing.

Author of Chasing a Butterfly

#Alzheimer‘s #dementia

IMAGE: https://pixabay.com/en/dark-spotlight-stage-people-girl-2572874/

 

Posted in Advocacy, Alzheimer's, Care Giving, Dementia, Poem | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Posted on November 26, 2018 by admin

 

Picture for Lonely Bird

LONELY BIRD IS IN EKPHRASTIC REVIEW

Lonely Bird

Lonely Bird, by H.W. Bryce

11/25/2018

All the colours of chaos and smudge smear
The clear eyes of heaven and of earth
So that nothing is clear any more
And black and white is buried in the turmoil
Smeared onto the canvas of life
And man cannot recognize his mate…
But in the turmoil, the caloposy* of modern art
In the disharmony of colours arguing against blending…
A lonely bird sings.

Its voice rises above the cacophonic pandemonium
As the musical notes fall from their clefs
And scream in their horror of loss and abandonment…
Yet the lonely bird sings, a lonely herald of hope
In a vision of renewal and peace.
Listen. Listen.
Listen to the lonely bird sing.

Her song is the song of hope.
Her song is the prayer of the lost children,
Of the lonely and the beaten,
And a cry for the path less taken.

Sing with the lonely bird
Gird your lonely loin,
Join with the colours of Hope,
Slope not away from her song.

For the fish in the seas lose their senses
Of navigation and distance in the reverberations
Of the swirling, howling colours and one landmark
Butts into another and one fish can no longer
Recognize another in its new and splodged colours
In this crazy mixing bowl of splish splashing
Hues and dyes,
And one by one each fish, each one dies…

And in the swirl and the scramble of chaos
And rewritten history repeating itself
The minds of mankind like The Scream are screaming
Out like the lost souls being sucked into
Dante’s Inferno, and the crazy painter
Splashes more colours and more…

And the butterflies, and the humming birds
Are not painted in but are being painted right out…

And the drum beat keeps skipping its beat
And the music can find its rhythm no more
And the orchestral members keep trying to
Out-loud each other in great disharmony…

And yet, the lonely bird sings.

Her song is the song of hope.
Her song is the prayer of the lost children,
Of the lonely and the beaten,
And a cry for the path less taken.

Sing with the lonely bird,
Gird your lonely loin,
Join with the colours of Hope,
Slope not away from her song.

Sing with the lonely bird.

H. W. Bryce

*caloposy – a made up word to describe the chaos of colours (in modern art)

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Advocacy, Choices, Featured poet, Lonely, Poem, Reflections | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Posted on November 19, 2018 by admin

Peace Dove for I Am a Dreamer

I AM A DREAMER

H. W. Bryce

 

I am a dreamer. I dream my way through life.

Not only that, but I live my dreams.

And once lived, the dreams keep on coming in streams

And like a river, I carve out a path through life.

 

If I encounter a log jam, a roaring rapids,

Or a mighty mountain in my way,

I dream up a plan and I find a way

To go around, or through, or over every dam.

 

I am a dream maker, a giver, a taker,

A life-changing shaker, and I am serene.

 

All poets and writers are dreamers,

Actors are dreamers, and entrepreneurs

Have to dream to found a business.

But dreams are as personal and as

Varied as are the dreamers.

So no need to segregate the dreamer

From the crowd – as has been done to me –

For that is more a nightmare than a dream,

At least for the dreamer.

 

And a hex on the twisted dreamers who

Dream up schemes to cheat people,

Who dream up ways to hurt people,

Who dream up mechanisms to kill.

Again, that is more nightmare than dream.

 

A pox on all their houses.

 

The ultimate dream is the dream of peace,

On every level, including, especially,

The universal.

So we must all dream up dreams to

Make that happen, every day in every peaceful way.

Let the people save the planet…

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Posted on November 12, 2018 by admin

 

Poppy pic for Tomb poem

TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

H. W. Bryce

Unknown, the soldier lies inside his tomb,

Remembered specially, one day a year,

Encased in local granite there beneath

The monument to his fellow dead,

Warriors who fought defending freedom

For us at home, to keep the faith with them.

 

There he lies, alone, symbolizing faith

In human strength to stand for what is Right–

And the belief that Good will conquer Bad–

Alone with all his thoughts, his life unfulfilled,

Still dreaming dreams he had, still young, still young,

Dispatched forever, a sweet unfinished song.

 

Once a year the people come, they do remember him,

A carpet red of poppies spread upon his ever bed.

 

— —

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Posted on November 5, 2018 by admin

 

space for Light the Way

LIGHT THE WAY

Light the way for the one who is lost at sea,
Whether that be a sailor on the ocean,
A fisherman upon the sea, or a landlubber
Lost in the forest of his mind. Be kind.

Light the way because you have a lantern
of learning and because a fellow human
Needs your help. We can’t all be strong,
Sometimes we wander wrong, and a helping hand
Is all it takes to set us straight. Be a mate.

The helping hand wields that magic power
To both enlighten and unburden the sorrowful few.
We all are human, and we crave to be known,
And even you do not want to die all alone.

So do not let the sailor sink at sea,
Do not let the forester lonely be
To draw their final breath alone.
You can save their souls with a
Single helping hand, and it might just be
Your duty to be doing so. It costs you
Naught. It’s what life is all about.
So do your bit and be back upon your way.
You’ll leave a smile behind and your reward will be
Just knowing that you’ve done exactly what you should.
And it will leave you feeling good.

Light the way for those less fortunate ones,
Be a good shepherd, be a lighthouse sun.

— —

In keeping with my overall theme of Alzheimer’s – the thing that brought me into the World of Poetry – think of yourself as that shepherd with the lantern as you are drawn into the world of the care giver.

#Alzheimer’s     #dementia

Thank you.

–Herb

And

Look for help in Chasing a Butterfly

http://bit.do/ezXKR

 

Posted in Advocacy, Alzheimer's, Care Giving, Caring, Dementia, Poem | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Posted on November 1, 2018 by admin

 

Image for this is Me

THIS IS ME

This is me, still stuck at the keyboard,
Still spilling ideas onto the screen
With Hypertensitivity
Still going for that deadline
Still another shot at the prize
Intense and focused, can’t ever
Let it go. Obsessed, she said and left,
But cared I not a whit.
Inspiration was falling all around me
And I daren’t miss a clue. There’s a prize
To win and it’s waiting just for me.
And you can call me a silly twit,
But although that’s about the size
Of it, it’s my predilection just to write.
I cannot help it, I’m driven to it,
Just like a dog to the bone. I smell the smell
Of success just there in the wings,
And by god, I ain’t a gonna miss that chance.

And on this hallowed eve, by my cousin Steve,
I’m gonna stay right here by the punkin’ patch
And write, even if I starve to death.
’Cause there’s another idea here about to hatch.

And let the crows just eat me up for lunch
There’s a legacy that I must leave
And on this Hallowed eve
Here’s my poetry all in a bunch

And if I die right here, you can bury me
Underneath my computer keys and write
“Here lies my friend, obsessed right to the end,
With that cursed bug of writer’s fever,
Far more eager than a beaver
And he even forgot he had to eat.”

Alas my friend, farewell the prize,
But what you got was a dream behind the eyes
And your family bereaves you not.
You got the ending that you wrought.

So happy hallowe’en, you waited far too long
And the bats came out and ate you up.
They left the bones for the scraggy hounds
Those Baskerville ghosts that you read up
On…the ones that gave you groans.

Ha ha ha ha ha
They’re coming now to eat your bones
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha …

–H. W. Bryce

So, this cautionary tale warns you to watch that obsession of yours.
It could cost you dearly.
–from the mind of a once almost Alzheimer’s fevered mind.
Thanks for reading, and to you Alzheimer’s caregivers, your loved one might make about as much sense, but just get into the spirit and go along with it. Peace, my friend, peace.
—Herb W Bryce

#Alzheimer‘s #dementia

To check out the poetry of Alzheimer’s, go to Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Chasing-Butterfly-H-W-B…/…/1460299345

Posted in Advocacy, Alzheimer's, Care Giving, Cobwebs, Hallow'en, Poem | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment