Parkinson's Movement

My Life

I sound like an idiot

Why can’t the words

In my head,

Make any sense

When they come

Out of my mouth

I am not stoned,

Nor am I drunk,

Those jumbled


Have meaning

Needing to be


My rapier wit

Has given me



Over the years

opening many

Exciting and

Challenging doors

Only now

I find myself Lost

in the hallway

The doors are

all locked and

My pockets empty .

my mind

Clueless as to where

To find the keys.

There is,

At the end of

This long


A room,

Its door Standing

Wide Open,

a bright Light,

warm and


Stretches outward

Landing at my feet

The pull

Of that open door

The promise

Of no more pain

And a long night

Of sleep

Has me one step

closer to its


I hear

Voices erupt

Calling out my name

Pulling me back

The keys jingling

In my hand

Doors opening


And right

It’s time to

Make choices

My mind

So full,

Exploding with


My eyes alit

With excitement

I rush to

Get it all down,

Make some sense

Create, create,

My words strung


A musical cadence

To the lines

Said aloud,

My feelings exposed

This is my life

The life of a poet

Without this,

without the blood flow

Of words

I will die.


My Parkinson's is making it very hard for me to write poetry and I'm scared. I have been a Poet all my life, it is who I am, what I am. I know it is not all of me, but it is a significant chunk. I feel like a typewriter who's keys are all jammed up!

9 Replies

I understand, I truly do. Your poetry is wonderful to read, but pd changes-- both subtle and drastic --are continually happening to us. What no one else perceives, and perhaps you can't express, is that this insidious thief is taking over the part of you that only you truly know. I write too. And I understand.

It seems the only thing I can write clearly about is rage. I hate that. I hate pd for this. It's another example of this monster's egocentrism.

Keep writing out your anger, your disappointment, but remember giving up is a one way ticket given to you by your enemy thief.



I too have misplaced my muse. I've written poetry since I was 15 and I'm 62 now. I don't mind as a PWP walking slower, my voice getting ever softer, smaller handwriting, or even a slight tremor. I do mind the loss of creativity. My "true inner voice" still comes out from time to time.Yet, not enough. I miss it very much!! Absence of Poetry . . .Who am I now?


It is so odd, I know all the words, feelings, passions are still there, I can feel them, I just can't reach them and when they are close it is as if the words threw up from the backlog and all I'm getting is a bunch of wet, jumbled words! Yuck!


For me it's a bit like that fleeting post dream experience. I remember it, yet I don't remember and as the day lightens the dream fades.


I keep hoping I will wake from this dream...I feel I will awaken; instead Parkinson's takes something else from me. Parkinson's is taking my energy now and my ability to remember who I was. I had my memories to hold onto. Just one more day, just one more day to feel the way I was, I just don't remember who she was.


sums this damn thing up perfectly JJ,


These comments reflect my feelings exactly. Trying to remember a word is most frustrating. You know the word you want so well, but it is just not near enough for you to grasp. All my working life I was a Secretary/PA now I can only type using two fingers and am always making mistakes. I feel as though this monster is taking over my abilities even though I am fighting it. Today is one of those days.

I wish I could express myself in poetry like you Jupiter, but that has never been one of my strengths. I really look forward to your poems as I am sure many other people do, but I would never dream of trying to influence in any way. Just feel the love from all of us.




That is a beautiful poem JJ. Very moving!


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