8/18/2023 0 Comments Autumn leaves poem![]() What I want is simply to raise awareness. I’m hoping to show the reality of trying to cope on a day to day basis with the ever-changing environment that dementia throws at those diagnosed with the condition. However, I’m also hoping I can convey that, although we've been diagnosed, people like me still have a substantial contribution to make we still have a sense of humour we sill have feelings. Take a rake and rake them up, Rake them up, pile them high, Pile them high up to the sky. Autumn leaves are falling down, Red and yellow, orange and brown Turning, turning round and round, Down, down, down. It will hopefully convey the helplessness of those diagnosed with dementia, as there is no cure – the end is inevitable. Take a rake and rake them up, Rake them up, pile them high, Pile them high up to the sky. 'Autumn Leaves' is an original poem and is ideal for shared reading as the visuals and patterns capture students interest. ![]() Poem of the Week is a wonderful, beneficial routine to have in your classroom. If anyone chooses to follow my ramblings it will serve as a way of raising awareness on the lack of research into Alzheimer's. Poem of the Week (Fall) - Autumn Leaves Poem. ![]() I've started this blog to allow me, in the first instance, to write all my thoughts before they’re lost. However, I’m now in the process of taking early retirement to give me a chance of enjoying life while I’m still me. I’m 58 years young, live happily alone in Yorkshire, have 2 daughters and I’m currently still in full time employment in the NHS. I may not have much of a short term memory anymore but that date is one I’ll never forget. Unharvested Poet: Robert Frost A scent of ripeness from over a wall. Bryant proceeds to lament the loss of the summer flowers, including the goldenrod, and to denounce the frost as falling like a plague on men. On the 31st July 2014 I was diagnosed with Young Onset Dementia. Autumn Poems Autumn Poet: Zivan Vujcic, ©2005 Yellow leaves are falling covering the ground in gold, through the forest Im. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread.
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