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Resident pens poetry collection

By: Country Meadows |

Dorothy Jacobs, 93, a former English teacher, loves to write letters and poetry. A resident at Country Meadows of Leader Heights, Jacobs published a collection of poems “After the Rain,” which features her work, including poems she wrote while her late husband struggled with Alzheimer’s disease. Below are selections from her collection.

The Rain Falls
Alzheimer’s: Thief of the Mind
Like the ticking of a clock
that takes life by small degrees,
the rain falls in syncopated drops
through the vigil that I keep
as you sleep –
unaware that quietly, slowly, stealthily,
your mind is being purloined
of memory, reality, reason –
like the ticking of a clock,
the rain falls in syncopated drops
through the vigil that I keep –
and I weep.


Alzheimer’s – When You Cry
When you cry and I know not why,
the heartache’s more intense
than when I hear you speak
as you seek to share a thought unclear:
When you can’t make sense,
I can pretend a smile and nod,
or give a vague reply;
but I am helpless when you cry.


The Birds Still Sing               
The birds still sing
the songs we used to imitate:
“Come here, come here;”
“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.”
then a melodic trill
from high on the hill
that you tried to do.
“Come here, come here, come here.”
“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.”
I sip my tea
and listen for your trill –
I always will.


Remember the mocking bird
on the antenna –
all those tantalizing calls
that we’d repeat?
“Sweet, sweet, sweet”
“You, too! You, too!”
I have not heard the mocking bird
since you went away
until today.
Something seemed gone
from his repertoire;
Yet I made an effort to say,
“Sweet, sweet, sweet”
“You, too! You, too!”
our choir is not complete
without you.


Patches of Memory
They will not be dead
so long as that quilt
rests upon my bed –
A square is there of grandmother’s apron,
as purity, sprinkled with
pink Sweet Williams;
A patch from Mother’s dress,
striped like the penny
peppermint sticks she used
to buy for us; here
Nana Jacob’s favorite print
of tiny cherry trigs and sprigs of mint;
There bloom mother-in-law
Woomer’s burgundy petunias
left over from the garden bonnet
she wore –
A kaleidoscope
of little patches of precious lives
and meaningful things
from days gone by
on butterfly wings.

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