When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Tampa, Florida, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre 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.
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 a 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 . . . . 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 vigour, 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!!
~Crabby Old Man
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person that you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . . . . we will all, one
day, be there, too.
Contributed by Bill Eagle
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre 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.
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 a 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 . . . . 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 vigour, 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!!
~Crabby Old Man
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person that you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . . . . we will all, one
day, be there, too.
Contributed by Bill Eagle
Soundtrack: When You And I Were Young, Maggie
. . . you've already captured my soul,
and slowly you're invading my mind
And I would gladly give a hundred of my tomorrows
if I could see you just one more time
If I could see you one more time
If I could see you one more time . . .
~Marshall Tucker Band
and slowly you're invading my mind
And I would gladly give a hundred of my tomorrows
if I could see you just one more time
If I could see you one more time
If I could see you one more time . . .
~Marshall Tucker Band
| Abbey file photo |
| We get too soon old; and too late smart. ~Swedish Proverb |
A MorningStar Cameo
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MorningStar for people
To submit comments, requests or materials,
contact me at outreach@dawncoveabbey.org
contact me at outreach@dawncoveabbey.org
For empowerment workshops, seminars and lectures, see: http://www.dawncoveabbey.org/healing-circle
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MorningStar Inspiration from Dawn Cove Abbey
Article, haiku, humour and poem contributions are welcomed, and gratefully received
Layout & Design by DawnStar
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MorningStar Inspiration from Dawn Cove Abbey
Article, haiku, humour and poem contributions are welcomed, and gratefully received
Layout & Design by DawnStar
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