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Author Topic: Old folks  (Read 407 times)
iddee
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Location: Randleman, NC


« on: July 12, 2011, 08:46:45 PM »

When an old man died  in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North  Platte , Nebraska , it was believed that he had  nothing left of any value.

Later, when  the nurses were going through his meager  possessions, they found this poem. Its quality  and content so impressed the staff that copies  were made and distributed to every nurse in the  hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri  .

The old man's sole  bequest to posterity has since appeared in the  Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the   St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide  presentation has also been made based on his  simple, but eloquent, poem.

And this  little old man, with nothing left to give to the  world, is now the author of this 'anonymous'  poem winging across the  Internet.


Crabby Old  Man

What  do you see nurses? . . . . . What do you  see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when  you're looking at me?
A crabby old man . . .  . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . .  . with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his  food . . . . . and makes no reply.
When you  say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd  try!'
Who seems not to notice . . . . . the  things that you do.
And forever is losing . .  . . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or  not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With  bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to  fill?
Is that what you're thinking? . . . . .  Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes,  nurse . . . . . you're not looking at  me.

I'll tell you who I am. . . . . . As  I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding,  . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small  child of Ten . . . . . with a father and  mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . . who  love one another.

A young boy of Sixteen  . . . . with wings on his feet.
Dreaming that  soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet.
A  groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a  leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I  promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . .  . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to  guide . . . . . And a secure happy home.
A  man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown  fast,
Bound to each other . . . . . With ties  that should last.

At Forty, my young sons  . . . . . have grown and are gone,
But my  woman's beside me . . . . . to see I don't  mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play  'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . .  . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are  upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look  at the future . . . . . shudder with  dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . .  young of their own.
And I think of the years  . . . . . and the love that I've  known.

I'm now an old man . . . . . and  nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age . .  . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles  . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is  now a stone . . . . where I once had a  heart.

But inside this old carcass . . .  . . a young guy still dwells,
And now and  again . . . . . my battered heart swells.
I  remember the joys . . . . . I remember the  pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . .  life over again.

I think of the years,  all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
And  accept the stark fact . . . . that nothing can  last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . .  open and see.
Not a crabby old man . . . Look  closer . . . see ME!!
 

Remember  this poem when you next meet

an older person who  you might brush aside

without looking at  the young soul within.

We will all, one day,  be there, too!

PLEASE SHARE THIS  POEM
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"Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me . . . Anything can happen, child. Anything can be"

*Shel Silverstein*
BlueBee
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« Reply #1 on: July 12, 2011, 10:20:02 PM »

Nice post iddee. 

It’s always good to keep in perspective we aren’t going to live forever.
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