Cranky Old Man

A poetic take on the golden rule of life and doing unto others.

Lots of Old men come here to fish

Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses?....
        What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . .
         when you're looking at me?
A cranky 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 is 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.
It's 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 man 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 cranky old man . . . . . .
                   Look closer . . . . . .see . . . . . .ME!!

This poem has been traveling around the internet and is reported to have come from an unknown geriatric patient in so many towns now as reported below.   I think the world is in a poor state if there are that many sad old men in that many towns.  It is a poem to teach humility!  Humble yourself today. Take notice of people when they are alive and well and able to talk and communicate. 

Don't wait until they are dead.  When a person is dead there is no more communication on this level.  So many I have known have taken their own lives.  I cry for the ones who do this, it is a silent and final plea to be really heard.
All of the beautiful spiritual people around and still they were not a solution to the madness that overcomes those who are damaged and sad.  Posh ladies colleges, boarding schools in the country,  Private expensive elite education.  So  growing the hair into dreads isn't going to eliminate from where you emanate.  Its the black heart of society that you will never become fair no matter how many feathers in your hair or the length of  faerie dresses you wear.

[When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, 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 Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health.

A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.]

Illustration of a nurse from the Australian Bush Nursing Scheme working in a remote area.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia

Image by Mezza -Dawn time of the morning half way out on the footbridge at Urunga 2012