I’m in the writing cave, but my friend Becky sent this to me and well, I had to share it. Plus it gives me something to say on my blog. :smile1_tb: I don’t know how true the story is that goes with this poem, but it’s sweet none the less.
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
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 . . . .. . . . . . 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 . . . . . . . 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!
This particular dog.