Crabby Old Man

[redpaint]

I went to visit my mother at the nursing home today. Like most days she well tell me the same thing a dozen time or more. I still remember the woman that she was when I was young. There are time when I go to visit her it is hard to now see her sitting in a wheel chair staring off into space. But when I got home this afternoon, I found this in my Email.

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 far away 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 around 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 .............I 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............***** 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

The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched.
They must be felt by the heart.

 

[DeeZire]

Thank you for posting.

 

[LadyFawn]

Wow , Thanks for sharing this ....I am a nurse and it sure touches my heart.

 

[starrkers]

A couple of years before he died, my father-in-law was out in the yard trying to do something and failing. He turned to my husband, exasperated, annoyed, but mostly bemused.
"What happened? When did I get old?"

 

[voluptuary_manque]

Let me tell you, I'm not looking forward to it. I can still lift more than my son so I think I'm still okay.

 

[Lady_Guenivere]

That is very touching.

 

[TE999]

I've also seen that poem with an elderly woman as the subject. Either way it touches the heart deeply.

"Do not go gentle into that good night..."

 

[redpaint]

I've also seen that poem with an elderly woman as the subject. Either way it touches the heart deeply.

"Do not go gentle into that good night..."

I plan on going kicking and screaming.

 

[TE999]

I plan on going kicking and screaming.

Word up!

 

[Misty_Morning]

Very beautiful.

Thank you for posting.

 

[oggbashan]

Thanks for the reminder TE999 -

Dylan Thomas:
Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.#

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

That was one of the poems I helped produce on stage as part of a course on how to present poetry to a wider audience. We projected each verse against the four walls of the theatre as it was read by an actor spotlighted on stage.

I don't think our concept worked.

Og

 

[The_Fool]

Thanks for the reminder TE999 -

Dylan Thomas:
Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.#

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

That was one of the poems I helped produce on stage as part of a course on how to present poetry to a wider audience. We projected each verse against the four walls of the theatre as it was read by an actor spotlighted on stage.

I don't think our concept worked.

Og

Villanelles are fun. Unlike Sonnets and Sestinas....

 

[jomar]

Thank you, RP. Very touching.

 

[Bizkit_Writer]

That was a great poem, I think besides elderly people that poem also refers to the disabled, people just brush them aside like they're nothing. If people would just look at them, get to know them then they'll realize they are just like everyone else but still different.

 

[redpaint]

That was a great poem, I think besides elderly people that poem also refers to the disabled, people just brush them aside like they're nothing. If people would just look at them, get to know them then they'll realize they are just like everyone else but still different.

I personly know what you mean about the disable being brushed aside. I was one that used to do it, I never ment any harm, may have been the way I was raised. But then I became one of them........ The Disabled!!!