Since first being published some 15 years ago I have written lots of poems and at the moment I'm writing my second story book.
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Here is a collection of six I have selected for you all about thinking or awarness.
Bouquet
A little brown at the edges,
where once all crisp and white.
The strong stems still lie straight.
the bow not quite so tight.
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The leaves have begun to wilt,
but not given up the fight.
Flowers resigned to their fate,
grasp on with all their might.
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The years may have passed.
Memories now dreams at night.
The bouquet though like his bride,
to him, still a handsome sight
by Janet Bosson
Paradise
The gate latch opens, in they walk.
Humans, trampling along every fork.
With cans or crisp rappers that fall,
others, with dogs or maybe a ball.
All to have fun, to let off steam, shriek!
or maybe it's solitude and peace they seek.
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Whatever it is they all gather for,
they tend to make the place an eyesore.
But when the dusk comes,
and the gate latch locks.
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It's time for the birds,
the squirrels and fox.
The trees whistle and
chat up the mice,
As the park returns to paradise.
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by Janet Bosson
Memories
What is a memory?
A snapshot of time,
a photograph stored,
like a vintage wine.
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What is a memory?
It is where we pine,
it's heartache or laughter,
and solace of kind.
What is a memory?
It's the past all signed.
a lifetime in pictures,
our future to find.
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What is a memory?
Loved ones we've lost,
or maybe! never met,
all there still embossed.
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A sense we can see.
Smell, hear and feel.
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So that is a memory?
But what is it's point!
It's our life our self,
"Our Soul" and "Our mind"
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That because of dementia,
some just can't find.
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by Janet Bosson
Silence (This thing called Tinnitus.)
Embracing the melody of silence.
Seeking the solace within.
Diving into the depths.
Only to find,
This thing called Tinnitus.
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An endless symphony, of sound.
A ceaseless rhythm
that never fades,
beating the seconds away.
This thing called Tinnitus
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The mystery, of a phantom noise,
That wakes the bewitching hour.
Creeping into dreams.
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This thing called Tinnitus,
Twenty four relentless hours,
a circle without end.
The whisper that will not yield.
The echo that will not sleep.
This thing called Tinnitus.
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​by Janet Bosson
The Spark
It's Not the Storm that
brings me down,
but sudden noise or violent sound.
A cupboard slams,the coffee spills,
and i'm back amongst the hills.
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A car backfires, an angry tone,
and i'm no longer here alone.
The past comes rushing sharp and fast,
the present's gone, the moments passed.
A shadow moves, my heartbeat climbs,
i'm trapped inside those other times.
So small the spark, yet fierce the flame,
it calls me back and speaks my name.
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by Janet Bosson
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The Ringing That Devours The Night
In my room I try to rest,
but there's this ringing in my chest.
An endless chime that will not cease,
a shadow stealing my release.
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It hums and whines, it twists and bends,
a song that never truly ends.
It haunts my hours, smooth and sly,
and will not ever say goodbye.
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It seeps into my midnight dreams,
distorting light with wicked schemes.
It drowns the hush I long to keep,
and follows me from wake to sleep.
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And round the clock, the sound will stay,
through every night and weary day.
No rest, no pause, no sweat release,
it's only aim my inner peace.
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by Janet Bosson
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