LIVING IN MY LAST RESORT - GOLD IS GONE

Dear Friends,

     It is hard to believe that it has been three and one half years since I have placed any of my poems on my blogsite.  Since my last posting we moved to a rental apartment and then back to Windsong.  Ill health followed us whereever we went.
     The other day a new fellow writer came to our writers' group.  After listening to some of my writing, she asked for my blog address so she could read some of my poems.  Believe it or not it has been so long that I had to look it up!  Her request spurred me on to begin posting again.
     I have decided to occasionally post some poems from my latest chapbook "Living In My Last Resort."  After a doctor at Mayo read my chart he told me, "Mr. Cunningham, if it weren't for the fine care you receive and the advancement in medical science you would have been dead years ago."  Between a wonderful caring wife and my excellent doctors I believe that to be true.
     When I thought about it I decided to write a series of poems, which I incorporated into the above titled chap book.  Here is the one I have chosen to share.

GOLD IS GONE

 

When gold is gone in Golden Years,

And life-end plans destroyed.

We must move on with altered goals,

Lest all of life be void.

 

With broken hearts we look around,

‘Til a new dwelling find.

The move is tough as we downgrade,

And leave old friends behind.

 

Misguided by those whom we trust,

Tossed money down the drain.

   While tears may flow and friends be gone,

Our funds cannot regain.

 

This last resort – a large complex,

Made up of many parts.

Spread out in many areas,

Burden upon our hearts.

 

The compound is interesting,

With many services.

Apartments, hospitals and Transport,

The place is hard to miss.

 

I spend much time within my den,

I’m quite a bit worn out.

Sitting at my old computer,

Don’t have much time to pout.

 

My traveling is done by car,

And sometimes ambulance.

Trips to the doctors’ offices,

Helps me my health enhance.

 

Now when I hear the sirens wail,

And see the red lights flash.

I know they are coming for me,

 They’ll take me in a dash.

 

Emergency rooms and hospitals,

Are part of my routine.

They poke and jab and run their tests,

A diagnosis glean.
 

Up to the plush resort I’m sent,

With special treatment plan,

Care providers all pamper me,

Do everything they can.

 

My last resort sets many moods,

From sorrow to great joy.

With loving wife and caring staff,

Grateful thanks I employ.

 

I ponder now my last resort,

My voice I gladly raise.

I feel my Savior’s tender care,

Give accolades of praise.

 

Don E. Cunningham  ©11-9-2010      263

 

WINDSONG VILLAS OUR ABIDING LAST RESORT