The Bell That Tolls — A Poem of Human Failings

 

The Bell That Tolls

In the depths, in the dark,
in the smoke and in the fire‑glow,
the dragging shuffle of feet,
first the few, and then the many,
descend.

Deep and down,
the bell‑toll sounds,
marking the hour of the everlast.

Here it speaks to the doom of men:
that they forget—
that they neglect, and so cease to reflect,
that the darkness binds more tightly than the light.

No erudite voices rise.
Only the noise,
loud in the mind’s own suffocating quiet:
incoherent, the guttural mimicking echoes,
of a hive‑like mind, the mob made one,
together in their regressing memory.

Times of plenty lie to all;
within them kingdoms rise and fall.
Societies grow, then wither away into yesterday,
and the fall is always long… and ignoble.

Stygian pasts in the sunlit shadows wait,
ready to become again and again,
unless remembered,
unless guarded against carefully.

The children of man, ignorant,
only knowing what they have been told,
the truths hidden away in banished tomes,
the doom their elders called down upon themselves,
and on their progeny,
that inheritance — the consequence
of the light of knowledge… withheld.

For darkness always returns.
Always returns to man,
when they forget,
and when they withhold.

The persona does not dwell in the light.
It dwells in the inward dark,
and must be lit by knowledge,
by thought,
by remembering—
for without that light,
it forgets —
and in that deep where the psyche hides itself,
when forgetting has hollowed it thin and frail,
the bell tolls again —
a sound drawn from within,
the repudiation of a mind
that returned itself to its dark design
by neglect,
and by forgetting.

And so the bell tolls once again the doom of man,
through the darkened caverns of the intellect,
down into the sewers of the mind
where disremembering becomes decay,
its stench rising to dismay,
ignorance and darkness — the price that’s paid,
into the hour of everlast —
the hour of the toll that men forget.

Copyright May 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

The Caregiver, Uncounted — A Poem

 

---

The Caregiver, Uncounted

We live in the shade.
We live in the quiet.
We live in the mundane and rarely eventful —
or so it appears to those outside,
witnessed from a distance, not within.
Distance is the qualifier of our lives.

Isolated, forgotten, ignored.
Discreetly, with no ill‑intention.
Simply there, unconsidered.

What they do not see, we still must carry.
What they do not hear, we still must feel.

The noise no one else hears.
The sound no one else notices.
The sleepless hours no one counts.
The pain beneath our words no one heeds —
not even ourselves, at times.

We, who speak in absolutes,
are minimized by those who trivialize and amplify.
We do not exaggerate. We do not inflate.
But to the daily embellishers,
we look the same.
Those outside never hear the truths of inside.

We are haunted behind our eyes,
carrying the reality of our daily lives.

Only the indispensable sleep lightly.
Peace of mind is a luxury of the unburdened.

This is the price of that imagined quiet,
paid by those who cannot look away,
and cannot make a stranger of one who was once beloved,
and, oftentimes, still is — a stranger, though they may now be.

Copyright April 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

The Professional Malcontent — A Poem

 

The Professional Malcontent

The professional malcontent,
always sneering at creations they have not conceived,
at that which they have not themselves wrought,
purposefully ignorant of their own insufficiencies and “good enoughs.”
They find fault with everything and anything when others are the ones who are doing.
They are ill content with what they do not control.
If five people say yes, they will be the one to say no.

They will add a dash of salt to a pot of stew,
as if that would change the flavor or the chemistry,
hours in, after the real work is done,
and then claim part ownership of it all,
a success claimed with theatrical flourish.

Undaunted in their own private geometry,
they are oblivious to the shallowness of their own depths.
Even the abstract eludes them,
for they would not have done it that way.
Their self‑worth is defined by the perceived failures of others,
and the imagined successes of their own redesigns—
usually flavorless, colorless alterations.

It is the self‑interest of the uninteresting,
inventing flaws where none exist,
so they may stand inside the substantive,
a territory they cannot recognize.
They do not create; they criticize.

The perfection, or adequacy, they demand of others
they never require from themselves.

The distasteful aroma only they can smell
comes not from the stew, but from within themselves.
They call out flaws and imperfections only they perceive,
while others offer praise and share in camaraderie—
giving credit where it is due,
where it is owed,
and sometimes grudgingly to the “me too”
with an eye‑roll cast from behind.
It is nothing more than the half‑penny arcade of the mind.

The professional malcontent clutches that coin tight,
held in both hands against their heaving breast,
not knowing it has no real value—
nothing more than a token written on parchment.
They are content…
only when they are not.

Copyright March 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Agrypnia Risen - A Poem of Long Nights

---

Agrypnia Risen

The night flows, slow.
The chiming bell tolls,
counted one by one, by number.
Sleep deprives,
insomnious behind the eyes.

What remains of you is not enough—
not to sustain, nor to engage,
not to rise to the many chores left behind,
and no boredom enough to send you into sleep.

And even though the bed calls, insistently,
and even though the pillow whispers, enticingly,
the wakefulness, unrelenting,
holds dominion over all.

---

The weariness of the mind—
weighed, measured, heavy—
shoulders hunched,
neck bent,
head drooping,
feet dragging as if underground,
bare foot burning against the carpet,
woodgrain eating away at the sole,
as if you had offended gravity in some way,
and all the surfaces are resentful of your persistence.

Darkness, smothering.
Breathless, apnea.
Disturbed.
Even the palest of light, blinding.
Like neon flashing, erratically, unnervingly—
the world too bright and too dimly lit at once,
the eye unsure of what it perceives,
even when obstructed, on purpose.

It is the mind’s revolt
against the body’s decry—
the inseparable, separated,
both willingly, it seems.

The betrayal of self.

---

Another long day, arrived,
another long night, unrequited,
leaving little left of the sleepless
except for the shell.

The shell remains,
sustaining itself upon nothing but the brumes,
until night comes again, and you try again,
and succeed, finally—
unconsciousness descends,
perhaps unknowingly.

---

And when you awake,
you’ll often find
it was not enough —
not nearly enough —
not sufficient for the day,
nor remitment for last night.
Sleep’s payment does not always compensate.

Still, you promise that tonight
will offer another chance,
and you will claim the early hours,
seeking addition to the recompense.

Unless, of course, the night flows slow,
and the chiming bell still tolls
in that same counted way… again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

---

Copyright February 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Unspoken Thanks — A Poem of Father and Son

Unspoken Thanks


I grew up thinking life was ordinary—
country‑club weekends,
Cowboys games on Sundays,
backstage passes handed over like spare change.
Not wealth, not excess,
just the air we breathed
without knowing it was rare.

My father never said the word privilege.
He said be ready.
He said learn.
He said the world won’t always be kind,
and he made sure my mind
would be stronger than whatever came for us.

College prep at thirteen,
books stacked like stepping stones,
a quiet architecture of hope
he never named out loud.
Summer camps and private schools—
not for show,
but for building.
He didn’t talk about dreams.
He built foundations under my feet.
He said it was up to me,
to become what I will be.

And I didn’t always follow his lead.
Sometimes I rose.
Sometimes I fell.
Sometimes I walked straight into the fire
because I thought I knew better.
And more than once,
he pulled me out—
rescued me from myself
with a steadiness I assumed
every father carried.

I know better now.
Not all fathers do that.
Not all fathers stay.

I really should thank him for all of it.

Oh—
I already am.
In the quiet,
in the daily,
in the unspoken way
he taught me long before I understood.

All these years later,
roles reversed,
time having its say—
I find myself thanking him
in the only real way that matters.

Not speeches.
Not sentiment.
Not confessions.
Just presence.
Just care, and the giving.
Just the steady hands
that lift him the way he once lifted me—
as a child, physically,
as a man, in more ways than I can say. 

Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped: The Snow Days

 

The snow came. Not as deep as predicted, but enough to complicate everything in our area. Road clearing has been slow, though improving. My apartment complex is one of the good ones — they cleared our internal roads early, even if it meant piling snow behind our cars. That’s one of the reasons I live where I live and pay what I pay. They do the basics reliably.

The aide I have scheduled for today, tomorrow, and Thursday lives far from town, and her complex hasn’t cleared their internal roads at all. She’s stuck, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Now, I *do* have another aide who lives right here in my complex. Very convenient. No travel issues. No snow problems. But even with that convenience, I asked the agency to take her off our schedule. Because proximity doesn’t make someone the right fit for caregiving — whether it’s dementia care, elder care, or special‑needs care.

This is the same aide who wore a distressed, fuzzy, open‑face balaclava for her entire shift — the kind of thing that made her look halfway between a person and a plush bear. My dad kept looking at her with confusion, trying to figure out what he was seeing. And imagine someone helping you with intimate care while dressed like that.

She’s also the one who left broken hair bands all over my couch, stepped over things on the floor instead of picking them up, added dishes to a full sink, and did the bare minimum before sitting on the couch for the next two hours. That’s not caregiving. That’s just occupying space.

And then there’s my weekend aide. She’s young, probably from another country originally, and not 100% familiar with American ways — I still need to teach her how to cook eggs, what toast is, and that hot dogs are not breakfast sausages. But she never stops working. She sweeps, mops, does laundry, keeps the sink clear, and is gentle and patient with my dad. She’s almost perfect.

And then there’s my snowed‑in aide — the one I rely on because she’s so good with my dad, and just a genuinely nice young person. I might not see her this week. She called off today, and I declined a replacement. I certainly declined the one who lives across the parking lot. Later I learned just how snowed‑in she really is. Her complex hasn’t cleared anything, and they’re not required by law to do so. She hopes they’ll get to it, but I’m not holding my breath.

So if she calls out again tomorrow, I’ll accept a new aide. And then another the day after. And the day after that will be someone new to replace the one I removed. Last week, Sunday, today — a lot of callouts and no‑aide days.

But I’ve been doing this for 16+ years alone. I can cope. I can push through. We’ll be okay. It wears on me harder now, but that’s life. I even dug my car out of the snowbank behind it. Old‑school type, me. That’s just how we do it.

And at the end of the day, this is what family caregivers do. We adapt. We absorb the callouts, the weather, the mismatches, the last‑minute changes, the days with no help at all. We keep the household steady because someone has to. We learn to shovel out cars, rearrange schedules, teach new aides how to make toast, and say no to the ones who aren’t right. It isn’t easy, and it wears on us, but we keep going. Not because we’re heroes — but because this is our person, and this is the life we’ve built around their care. Family caregivers bend so the whole system doesn’t break.

Thus Is the Doom of Men — A Poem

---

Thus Is the Doom of Men

It is the doom of men that they forget.
It is the doom of men that they regret.
It is the doom of men that they beget.
It is, for them, their nature’s grim epithet.

Inevitable upon the human scale,
Weighted against weights that always prevail.
Such is their ancient inheritance:
To live, to breathe,
To breathe and breed,
And then to die,
As they fail.

They must forget — for memory would paralyze.
They must regret — for striving is a self-made lie.
Ignorance becomes a sheltering fold,
A veil drawn over truths already told.

It is the doom of men that they forget.
A prophecy foretold, a prophecy fulfilled.
Such is the nature of men, distinctly distilled.

Written on the skin of every newborn,
The wrinkles mark beginning and the end.

Yet in the doom of men, a spark remains.
A quiet flame that flickers through their pains.
For though they fall, they rise and try again,
Defying all the fates that govern men.

It is the hope of men that they forget —
Not only wounds, but victories unmet.
It is the hope of men that they regret —
For regret becomes the seed of better yet.

And though the weights of life forever press,
They carve out moments of defiant tenderness.
A laugh, a vow, a hand held in the night —
Small rebellions against the dying light.

Such is the paradox they carry in their chest:
Doom written in their bones,
Hope written in their breath.

This is the doom of men that they beget.

Copyright January 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

David Byrne Lives Rent‑Free Inside of My Head - A Poem

 

David Byrne Lives Rent‑Free Inside of My Head

Some rhythms never leave the body.
Some videos never leave the mind.
Where the gesture ends, the resonance begins.
My poetic resonance.

---

That video, it calls to me,
It calls out to me, inevitably —
the way old currents call to dry riverbeds.
Same as it ever was, same as it always did.

Once in a Lifetime.
Always talking in my head.

That video, it calls out to me,
a motion half‑remembered from a life I never lived.
I reached out for it once again, same as I always did,
Same as I always would,
Same as I always will,
More than once in a lifetime.
Inside of my own talking head.

More than once in my lifetime.

That video, it calls to me,
and something in me answers, inevitably.
Same as it ever did,
Same as it always does,
the rhythm flows to me where I am.
Same as it ever did.
Same as it always does.
More than once in my lifetime.
Living in me, rent‑free.

Water flowing underground.

The rhythm rises inside of me,
The poetry floods me from within, deep.
There is water flowing underground,
Same as it always will be,
the kind that shapes a person, quietly.

There is water flowing underground.

The rhythm rises inside of me,
The poetry floods me from within, deep.
There is water flowing underground,
Same as it always will be,
the kind that shapes within me quietly.
There is water flowing underground,
I can hear the sound and the prose once again,
feel it tugging at the edges of my thoughts,
Inside of my talking head.
Same as it ever was,
Same as it always does,
Same as it always will be,
Always once again.

More than once in my lifetime.

Yes, I found it for myself, yet again.

---

Copyright 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

The Woman and the Horizon - A Poem of Self Discovery

 

The Woman and the Horizon

Behind her, the shore dissolved into foam and then nothingness —
a place she’d lived, but never quite belonged to.
Names, duties, expectations… all thinning
like miasma carried away on a cruel wind.
Abandoned, with purpose.

She learned this new sea by increments —
the tilt of a deck, the hush before a swell,
the way silence can chafe more deeply than sound.
Each hour unstitched another thread of who she’d been,
and she let it fall, ungrieved, into the dark water,
to float away and be unseen, especially by herself.
Abandoned, with purpose.

The days lengthened into a kind of quiet reckoning —
the sea offering no comfort, only clarity,
its vastness pressing her into the shape she’d avoided becoming.
What remained of her old self clung like salt to her skin,
and she washed it away without ceremony,
letting the tide claim what she no longer needed,
replaced by new seasoning, and somewhat painfully, new skin,
abrased and changed, with purpose.

The horizon met her without welcome or warning —
a thin, indifferent line that suggested nothing
yet revealed everything she had tried not to admit.
It stretched before her like a truth too simple to deny,
a place where the self she’d resisted stood waiting,
unpatiently patient, eager as the breaking dawn,
and she stepped toward it, raw but unafraid,
drawn forward with purpose.
She was not new, she was revised, and refined.
yet was still at her core, herself.
She drew closer to herself, with purpose.

The sea calmed beneath her as if recognizing
a steadiness inside from what she’d scoured clean and raw.
No revelation waited at the docking, no grand unveiling —
only the tranquility of a self no longer ripped asunder by doubt.
She stood at the rail, the wind threading through her,
and felt her world align without fan, or fare, or ceremony,
as if the horizon had simply stepped aside
to let her pass into the life she’d been circling for years.
Not claimed, not conquered — simply met.
She moved forward, wholly, fully with purpose,
And she met herself — for the first time, once again.

---

Copyright January 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Her Hungry Love - A Poem

Her beauty, her allure,
Natural it was in its visionary,
Stunning it was,
for it immobilized my rationality.
Blinded by love, at first sight,
Ever and anon, endless repetitions, endless infatuations,
Drawing the breath from my lungs,
Every single time, and anon.

Her emotioned eyes she showed me,
And her bright white teeth she displayed,
Sharper now in my memory.
She hid her true self away from me,
She hid her real self away from me,
She was never who she was represented to be,
She dwelt in a bright darkness that surrounded me.

It consumed me, or it tried.
I fought it, and I died—
Over and over, a reliving death.
It was a gourmet, and gluttonous.
The gingerbread house in disguise,
Walls sugared with lies,
Sweetness masking cruelty,
A feast built for the consumption of innocence.

Love consumes, if that love is not the loving kind,
But the needing kind, the feeding kind, the devouring kind.
It eats away at the fabric of the mind,
Soulless in its eagerness,
Delighting in its deviant appetites,
Cruelty seasoning the recipe,
Finding delicious its depravities’.

She wrote her recipes,
Not to me, but to herself.
I did not realize it until it was upon me—
Taste-testing as she went along.
Small indignities blindly ignored.

She ate her fill of me.
I died a little more each day,
Until the day I could die no further,
Not without dying bodily.

My soul, my heart, my mind—
Forever scarred by her feedings.
My body scarred by my own hands,
Clawing at eyes, tearing at ears,
Trying to silence the sound,
Trying to blind the sight.
But her feedings were loud inside my soul,
And there were no corners left to go.

I hid myself away from myself,
Casting blame upon myself,
Confessing to sins I never did.

She lied to my eyes.
She lied to my ears.
She lied to my heart and soul.
She lied—and I loved her.

I loved her until I died,
Over and over and over again,
Until nothing of me was left
But husk and skin.

She moved on to fresher feeding grounds,
So effortlessly, she moved on with her smile,
Immediate in her new interest, her new menu,
For who remembers a banqueted buffet?
Cheap, easy, unmemorable.

The eating of me was easy,
For I had been in love.
Even today I do not hate her,
But I fear her smile more than all else.

I pray never to see her again,
But the hollow inside,
Sometimes it dreams it to be.

Her eyes would be filled with love—
Love for me, the banquet.
And I, replenished, might love her again,
Blind and deaf and dumb,
And once again dying,
Over and over,
Until I am gone,
Once again.

Love can be blind.
Love can also be… hungry,
And only nourishment for one.

Copyright December 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

The Winter of My Life - A Poem

 

The winter of my life,
how it blew in so subtly,
quietly, and deviously.

It took away, it drained away, it drove away, it sapped away—
the heat, the warmth, the burning desires
of many things, of most things.

Leaving empty, cold, the person I wanted to be,
or dreamed to be. Desired to be. Chose to be.

Cold dreams. Cold desires. Cold purposes.
Still there, still lingering. Whispering.
Calling to me, but my drive is gone.

Once I was a driven person,
now I am chauffeured,
a passenger in my own life.

I do not steer the wheel, it steers me.
I do not choose where I am going,
for I know where that road will end.
It was chosen for me.

I fight against it at times.
Sometimes I recover some of my heat,
my passions, limited, arise once more.

Warm they feel. Warm they seem.
Hypothermia can feel warm, they say.
I believe it to be true,
for my new beginnings always end… cold.

My soul remembers. It builds fires within.
My mind remembers. It stirs the embers.
My lips remember, say the words. Mean them.
My eyes remember, though they don’t see clearly anymore.
My hands are told they remember, but they fail in quality.
They are not strong anymore.

The winter of my life is everlasting, for now.
I keep moving so I do not freeze in place.
That only extends the winter evermore.

I do not envy the young, the springtime child,
for I know they are rushing towards winter,
and the chill that comes to all.

I envy not their passions,
or their energies,
or their drives,
or their capabilities.
Not even their potentials.

What I envy is their ignorance.
For their winter seems to them so very far away,
as once mine did,
seemingly only yesterday.

Only yesterday was a far season away.
Winter reminded me of it all—
the spring, the summer, and the fall.

Winter reminds me, gives me the memories,
shows me the way… leading to itself.

My winter was always there.
Waiting for me.

Copyright December 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

For Those Who Dream in Color - A Poem of Understanding

For Those Who Dream in Color

I sat in a dream,
Seeing it go by in front of me for so very long,
Until I realized I was not alone in the dream.
Others were there, painting the sky blue,
And adding sparkle to the raindrops.

I woke up and knew:
The dream was not mine alone,
For it was encompassing many others —
Friends, family, and the unknown.

Even in dreams,
I am never alone.

I dream to be unshared.
But I'd be by myself, alone,
Solitary in my thoughts.
For some reason, that unsettles me.

Alone, it would be a colorless void,
Without all the others,
Those who bring their own dreams
Into mine, which is co-owned.

Perhaps the dream is a mirror,
Reflecting fragments of us all,
A mosaic of borrowed visions
That no one can claim alone.

The painted dream has many colors,
Provided to the heart and mind,
Even for those of us who seek to stand aside,
Those of us who are emotionally colorblind.
Solitude suits us well, or so we believe.
But we do not dream in isolation.
We dream of scenes, colorful and plentiful,
Noisy with the voices of others in colored tones.

Eye-catching, vibrant,
in the painted dream.
Living and alive, colorfully.

Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

_________________________________________________________________

Afterword

Philip K. Dick once asked whether machines could dream — and if so, what those dreams might reveal about their humanity. This poem turns that question back toward us. For Those Who Dream in Color is not about artificial dreaming, but about the communal nature of human dreams. Even when solitude tempts us, our visions are never truly ours alone. They are painted, mirrored, and mosaicked by the presence of others — friends, family, strangers — who lend their hues to the canvas.

Where Dick’s story probes isolation and artificiality, this poem affirms connection and shared imagination. Dreams, like colors, cannot be contained by one mind. They spill outward, co-owned, noisy, and plentiful.

Life as a Family Caregiver Day 5909: Still Here

Day 5909: Still Here

I guess I’m one of those long-term family caregivers that some seem to think fall outside the norm once the years are added up. But those years began at the start of the Alzheimer’s diagnosis — well, near enough. I was there from the “he’s going to eventually need someone there… and then will need care” stage.

Twenty years ago, I knew nothing about dementia or Alzheimer’s, and certainly had no inkling of what caregiving would entail. Doctors and specialists were throwing out timeframes and life expectancies — five years, ten at the most, and so on.

In terms of shifting from being “involved and watchful” to becoming the primary caregiver for my father, today is Day 5909. The progression was slow. Slower than anyone expected. Definitely outside most of the medical professionals’ pie charts and pizza slices.

My dad was active. He walked every day — in parks and malls. He read a book a day, usually sitting at a booth in McDonald’s. Not the same McDonald’s. He varied them. He spent time at the library too. Always had seven books in the trunk of his car. Always. His Alzheimer’s progression was remarkably slow. It amazed the professionals. It didn’t amaze me or my family. Everyone used to say my dad would probably live “forever.” He was in better shape than most of us, we said, smiling.

Then COVID hit. That changed everything. The lockdowns changed everything.

I’ve learned over the years that it’s not progression — it’s progressions. There are rebounds. Some stick. Some don’t. Some you can force, others you can’t. Diagnoses can change. Depends on the doctor. Alzheimer’s one year, and five years later, another doctor says “more like vascular.” There are no definitives in my experience. Of course, my dad exceeded all expectations. Some have credited me with that. I agree — humbly. I’m not a miracle worker. It was always a cooperative effort from the early days. Not so cooperative now. But I’m more stubborn than my dad is… now. And I’m more dedicated than any of the medical professionals.

None of that would have worked if my dad wasn’t my dad. Still my dad, deep down. I know this better than anyone. Of course, some give him all the credit and barely give me any. They don’t know — they haven’t been here. They’re running on memories.

When my mother was battling cancer, my dad gathered all the family photos, had most of them duplicated, and created three sets of albums: one for Mom, one for my sisters, and one for us. My parents had long been divorced, but Dad did that for her. For the family. To prepare for what was coming. It wasn’t inexpensive. My mom loved those albums. My eldest sister and she even wrote notes on the backs of some of the photos. More than I probably realize.

My mother passed in July 1999. What happened to those albums, I can’t say with confidence. Dismembered is the word that comes to mind. In the modern world of digital photos, such things are no longer treasured or cherished. That I will say.

After some health issues of my own, I began digitizing photos and putting them online so they wouldn’t be lost. To share and remind others of the good times — and of people no longer with us. I was meticulous in scanning, organizing, uploading, and tagging people on Facebook. It wasn’t just a few photos. It was many. A flood. And not just of family.

That’s when I learned a valuable lesson: don’t tag people in photos. Ever. Turns out the significant other of a person doesn’t appreciate it when those tagged photos include an ex-girlfriend. Seems some genders really don’t like that. Ruins the other gender’s weekend.

Five to ten years, they said.
We’re still here.

I didn’t follow their plan. Didn’t go with the flow. Didn’t just “let it happen” because it was expected. See, I know my dad. I know how he is — and how he was. I know him better than anyone. He’s not a statistic. He’s not, and never was, an average. Neither am I.

Taking care of my father hasn’t been hard. Not really. Not for me. Some people have it much harder. Some have wanderers and screamers. Some care for multiple people. Some, like me, deal with catheters. Others don’t. Some have kids and family on top of caregiving. Some do it solo. Some have help. But all of us get woken up at 3 a.m. for something we really didn’t want to deal with.

It’s not levels. It’s degrees.

To another person, caring for my dad would be a true burden. For me, it isn’t — even if I have bad hours and bad days. I still want a good night’s sleep. Haven’t seen one in almost two decades.

Some people decline and progress, and no matter what you do, you can’t forestall it. You can do everything right. Sometimes it’s just the way these diseases unfold. Other times, it’s that — and that deep down, they’re done here. No joy of life. Nothing keeping them here.

As a caregiver, you must be a realist. Hard to do when you love someone. Even harder when you’ve grown to hate who they’ve become. Me? I love my dad. Not because he was the best father. He wasn’t. But he was always there for me — even if not emotionally. He was there when I was down and out in Beverly Hills, I like to say.

I love my father because he is my father — not because I love the idea of him or the memory of him. He wasn’t the best dad. Never threw a ball with me. Never showed up for a school play. Never taught me to tie a tie. Scared me as a kid sometimes. But he was there when it mattered. Even after the divorce, he was there.

When my fiancée died and I broke completely — spent time in a hospital — he brought me home when that was done. He gave me time to rebuild. Not with hugs, but with space and time. That outweighs all the missed school plays and ballgames. It does to me, at least.

We each do what we feel we must as family caregivers. We all have our own paths to walk. I didn’t take the five-year path. My dad didn’t either. That made the difference. The ten-year path was still there, but we took the bypass.

We’re still here.
I’m still here.
Day 5909.

I didn’t expect this. Not at all.
But I don’t begrudge it.
I only begrudge some smells — and when the nappy is extra juicy.
That, I think, is fair to complain about.
But yes. It is true. I do count the days. Obviously.

Thoughts From the Deep End of the Pool: After the Caregiving Ends

 

I don’t look to the end. I don’t wait for the end of my caregiving.
I’ve prepared myself to survive it — because it’s not an addiction, but it can feel like one.
If you haven’t prepared yourself, it can hit hard. The withdrawals.

There’s a very thin line between “I can’t wait for this to be over” and “What do I do with myself now?”
When the structured days and routines come to an end, the life you had feels empty.
The emotions you thought you’d immunized yourself to — or buried — come out in full force.
You feel those years, compressed and heavy. Suddenly there. Suddenly evident.

We couldn’t wait to get our life back — but the life we want back is gone.
We’re no longer the same person.
We can’t go back.
We have to carve out a new life. A new existence.
Become a new version of ourselves.

---

What will I do, alone with myself?
My daily life will be free to be just me.
You’d think I’d be happy about that.
I am. And I’m not.

My sense of purpose, of pride — it won’t be there anymore.
I can’t go back to who I once was.
The times were different then. The world was different.
My world was different.
Similar, perhaps. But changed.

It’s like being forced to retire from a job you loved. Or liked. Or didn’t like — but needed.
You get the gold watch. The congratulations. The sympathies.
But you’re still out of a job.

You can now take time for yourself. Sit. Relax. Feed the pigeons.
But feeding the pigeons is caregiving too.

---

You become alone with yourself again.
That can be harder than we realize.

You wake up and have nothing to do.
No one coming over to get you moving.
No nurses. No aides.
The bed doesn’t need to be made.
The sink doesn’t need to be emptied.
The bathroom doesn’t need to be that clean.

You have time.
There’s no rush.
No responsibilities.
Not to anyone but yourself.

---

When you’re a caregiver, there’s structure.
Adventure too.
Excitement — even the kind you didn’t want.
The daily unexpecteds.
It’s the job. The life.

And when it’s over — with relief or disappointment — it all comes down to:
What now?

“I want my life back,” some say.
“I want a life,” others say.

But we do have a life.
It’s caregiving.
A job we might not have wanted. Might not have liked.
But we’ll mourn it when it’s gone.

Because once it’s gone, we have to make a new life.
We can’t go back.
We’ll never be the same.
Nothing will be the same.

We are now… experienced.

---

When my father passes, I will lose the last of my parents.
The closest relative to me.
I will lose a love. A responsibility.
The last of my original family.

The rooms will feel too quiet.
There will be no one there for me to walk in and see.
No look to give. No look returned.

Sometimes, that’s enough for me.
No words. Just knowing someone else is there.
Alive.
And I’m not alone with myself.

Strange how that is.
But for me, it’s true.

Not alone — because someone else is here, in another room.
They need me.
And I need them.

Strangely human.
Or maybe just natural for all living things who think and feel.

---

My life will change when my father is gone.
Everything will change.
How I live. Where I live.
Who I live with — or not.

Finances will change.
Life will be harder.
Not unlivable.
Just a struggle.

I’m older now.
So it will be even more so.

---

Making meals for one when the serving size is for two.
Even that will remind me.
I don’t need to buy family-sized anymore.
That will weigh on me too.

Strange how that is.

---

I plan ahead for little things.
I can’t plan for everything.
No way to do that.

I do things for me — just to make them habit.
Something that will sustain me when I’m no longer in charge.
No longer… employed.

I make routines outside of caregiving.
Chores that aren’t about my loved one.
Not directly.

I clean the bathroom.
Not for the visitors.
Not for the nurses.
They won’t be coming anymore.

I do it for me.
Because I will still be a caregiver.
I will still have that responsibility.

I will be the caregiver for myself.

And if I let things slide —
I will have become a bad caregiver.

And that is something no one can ever accuse me of.
Not even myself.

---

I will never say, “I used to be a caregiver.”
Once you are one, you always are one.
Even if it’s just for yourself.
Alone.

Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Sleepless in My Own Skin – A Poem of Depression

Sleepless in My Own Skin
Written for those who know.

My day ends.
My night begins.
My sweat rolls out, slowly.
Anxiety holds dominion.
Depression, dark, has taken control.
Shadows, behind the eyes,
Movement, fast yet slow,
Forlorn thoughts, moving around.
Always unexpectedly.
Sleeplessness, lingering, painfully.
Tears, leaking from eyes that are too dry,
Too dry from the imprisoning emotional suppressions.
Loneliness. No one sees or hears what's deeply inside.
Not their fault. I never let them in that far.
I stare up at the ceiling, trying to find someone’s gaze — God’s, or maybe an angel’s.
Some divinity that sees me — or one I can blame,
Yet I am embarrassed for thinking this way.
I look away, a little ashamed. 

Lonely for so many reasons,
unnecessarily it always appears to me.

---

Such life is eremitic. Unchosen choices.
Staring at the television screen, seeing but not,
Nothing capturing interest or attention.
Open the kitchen cabinets,
Not hungry, but yearning.
Open the refrigerator door,
The same. Wanting nothing there,
But hungry for everything,
And yet, nothing is there.

---

The air feels heavy. Oppressive.
Not hot or cold, or comfortable.
Not comfortable in my own skin,
Never desiring endless solitude,
But seeking it out anyway.
This feels to be true to me, sometimes.
Tonight, is that sometimes.

---

The burdens feel heavy.
Impossible to rank their weight.
They converge, compressing.
Sweat leaks out, slowly.
Even when naked, alone,
On a cold bedroom floor,
Sockless—because the socks felt too heavy.
Tonight, for some reason, they do.

---

The yearnings come and go.
The sadnesses, they stay.
So, not alone.
Not alone,
but alone,
with those.
Those miseries.

Other people do know.
They will see themselves in this,
And in me, perspectively.
Even, if we are all still alone,
As a third party.

---

Close the eyes.
The clock ticks.
Sleep evades,
Get up yet again,
To check the pantry,
To turn on the TV,
And stare at nothing interesting.
Pitiful, you call yourself.
Alone with the miseries,
Hungry, but full.
Fulfilled, in an unsatisfying way.

---

You smile, sadly to your self,
And shake your head, to yourself,
And go back to bed to lie awake,
And wait for the next rising of the day,
When you put on your public face and pretend,
Pretend you are fine,
And normal, well rested, in your own skin.

---

Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

The Summer of My Mind - A Poem of Age and Memory

The Summer of My Mind

I limped my way down to the lakeside,
Age-weary,
Slow.
The path familiar,
But not the same.
The water waited,
As if it knew me from the times before.

I looked out onto the water,
The lake smooth, yet calmly rippling,
And in my eyes, the vision came—
Memories of summers long past and gone.
Young voices filling the air,
Happy sounds, unrestrained.
The running jumps and slipping, too.
The soft crying that lasted not long at all,
Folded into laughter, stitched with sun,
The sunburns, long forgotten.
Bare feet on dock wood,
Wet hair clinging to cheeks,
The hush before a cannonball—
Then the splash, the echo, the ripple.

I stood still,
Not wishing to disturb the memory,
But to let it return—
Like breath held in reverence.

The lake did not speak,
But it remembered.
And I,
Held in its silence,
Let the moment stay.

How bittersweet is such memory—
The ache for a time that can never again be.
For too many years have passed,
Between now and that once upon a time.

The shoreline has shifted,
The dock replaced,
The voices grown into other lives.

Yet the water still holds it—
The echo, the splash,
The soft cry swallowed by summer.
I do not chase it.
I let it return.
I let it ache.

And in that ache,
I find the shape of who I was—
Not lost,
But still present in the ripple.

And yes, I mourn it,
From time to time.
I try not to, but that power is not mine.
That water—it still calls to me,
So very distantly.
For the water now is not the same,
Not the same as back then.
Nothing is the same,
Not even my memory.
There were other realities I have chosen to forget.

The memory I hold—the one most dear,
The one that can bring to these old eyes the tears—
Is of a moment,
Not of a day,
Or even a year.
A moment that filled a lifetime of memories,
And the tears that come to my eyes
Is the water from that lake back then.
And it lives within me.
I took it with me,
And it wants to be again,
In the lake, with me,
And laughing happily,
With the ripples of my memory.

It would laugh,
Not as it did,
But as I remember.

And I—
Again who I once was,
Not who I later became,
In that moment.

The lake does not mourn.
It reflects.
It receives.
It holds what I cannot—
The tears I cannot.

And so I turn,
Almost grudgingly,
Begin the slow walk away, again.
Not reclaimed,
But remembered.
That flawless summer,
Of my mind.

Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Embroidery of Self - A Poem of Identity

 

Embroidery of Self

I dreamed a dream,
And then I woke,
And lived the day
Before I spoke.

No other heard what I had to say,
For I said it to myself alone.
That dream had surfaced a truth—
A seed, a vow, a quiet tone.

I held it fast, I did not share,
For some dreams are not meant to be known.
They’re worn like coats in colder air,
To shield the self, the self alone.

Sewn by myself with careful hand,
Each thread a truth I dared to see.
A vow not made to meet demand,
But stitched into identity.

Words embroidered in the soul,
Or core, or self-imagined frame—
A spell that makes the fractured whole,
A prayer that doesn’t seek acclaim.

Hidden from the eyes of others,
Seen by me, and me alone.
A whispered rite, unlike the others,
A quiet hymn, a private tone.

I say the words as if to atone
For what I’d once believed before—
Before I felt that thread was sewn,
And wore that coat forevermore.

And if I choose to speak of it,
Not the dream, but the words that came,
When I feel fully adorned, the coat fully worn,
I’ll share the words the dream had writ—
The ones that left me newly formed:
“Be who you are—true to yourself, in everything.”


Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Resonance in the Silent Air – A Human Poem of Reflection

---

This is not a poem of answers.
It is a reflection of solitude, companionship, and the quiet motivations that shape us.
There is no single rule for living.
But there is resonance — in the silent air.

Resonance in the Silent Air

Alone.

Dark nights evolved into overcast days,
And then back again, and again.
The repetition of the endless twenty-four,
Where each day is the same as the one before,
And the one after.

Alone.

Bereft of affection, heart forlorn.
Unending nights and days that must be borne,
Endured and survived, miserably at times,
Across this existence we call life.
We exist, we endeavor, we accomplish.
But are not noticeably living,
Solitary and unredeemed in our various... motivations.

Alone in a crowded room,
There is no connection there.
We feel that distance, that disconnection,
Keen and sharp as a scalpel—
The scalpel that cut us from our origin.

Alone we feel the future-past.
Alone we drift apart.
Alone we shall ever be—
For each beating of our heart
Or so, it seems will be,
Felt so very deeply.
Imagined, frequently.

Must we yield to this singular fate—
Or reach out for another to complete us?

Together

Together we see, succinctly.
Together we feel, emotively.
Together we live and are alive.
Together we are not alone.
For what is a day without a night,
And a life that is not conjoined?
Together, intermingled.

Yet—
What of a life absent of the congress of the flesh?
This, we learn from others,
And also from ourselves,
In whispers both soft and loud, even in denial:
You must forever practice it and be defined by it.

Passion and lust are but moments.
Never forever. Swiftly indulged.
They exist only in those instances—
And then, perhaps, only in memory,
Later to be remembered and counted,
And costed and never refunded.
You cannot pay in advanced.
The value of it... expires.

Not every body seeks such sensuality.
Some require it always.
For some, it is never.
For others, it is ever.
And for many, it fades—
Losing both its appeal
And its genetic imperative.

Companionship is as deep as any true love,
And more essential than any hedonistic desire.
For some, the interludes are essential—
But for most, from beginning or near the end,
It holds no eternal appeal,
If ever it was indeed a true requiem,
Or simply a provision of... obligation.

Not every human is drawn to the romance of the flesh.
But affection—we all require.
It is solace.
Solace for a lonely heart.
All hearts are lonely,
Even if that claim is disavowed.

Alone and Together

We seek the companions,
At the very least a solitary one.
To connect ourselves,
To concern ourselves,
To devote ourselves,
In very simple ways.

Simple, yes, but complex in depth.
Deeper than the deepest well.
Deeper than we will admit or will ever tell.
Deeper than even we can see clearly.
Resonance is often not valued mutually.

Those of beloved fur can fill the emptiness.

We seek the affection of the fur,
Or the warmth of another hand,
Or the close presence—in word or proximity.
We require connection, even if we reject the notion of it.
We can dance the dance with ourselves,
But we do not dance to silent air.
The resonance isn't there.

We need a contributory,
One to make the sounds we dance to,
Or for us to make the sounds for them.
Resonance... in our silent air.

When we seek the one,
we might actually be seeking the many,
the many resonances to fill our... vacancies.
There is no singular accepted rule for living.
If there was, it is in itself alone,
and only one.

Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Impossible Dream - A Poem of Simplicity

 

Impossible Dream

A Poem of Simplicity 

I dreamed a dream
One that could never become true.

And once I saw it — in the light of day —
I knew something was missing,
not just in my life,
But somewhere deep inside of me.

I reached for it anyway,
A desperate hope,
knowing it would slip through,
for the dream is already out of reach.

Still I reached.
Still I tried.

Knowing it was beyond me,
But the hope was there,
Silly as that might seem to some.

I would be forever reaching —
This much I knew.

Yet the trying, the striving,
Might bring something new.

Not the dream itself,
But something close.

Not the same, but the same,
In ways I can’t explain.

You’d have to be me to understand.

For the dream is mine alone.
Unreachable, yes.
But mine just the same.

Always reaching.
Always dreaming.
Always hoping.
Never gaining.

And maybe that’s okay too.

If you were me,
You’d probably try too —
For my impossible dream.

Copyright September 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

____________________________________

Author’s Note

Impossible Dream – A Poem of Simplicity

I don’t usually explain my poetry. But this time, I’ll offer a few thoughts — not to define the meaning, but to suggest the shape.

This poem is written in first-person, not to tell my story, but to invite yours. Each reader brings their own reach, their own dream, and their own distance. The voice is deliberately ageless — no sage wisdom, no youthful longing. What remains are the innate things: hope, belief, and determination.

All dreams are impossible dreams. That’s what makes them dreams. When we reach for them, when we make them real, they change. They are no longer dreams, and no longer impossible. They are the same, but not the same. And only we know how far we reached.

This poem isn’t about triumph. It’s about the motion of trying — how even unreachable dreams leave a trace. Whether you're young and just beginning to reach, or older and still reaching, the dream remains yours. And maybe that’s enough.

— M. W. Van Dyke

____________________________________