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Got this in my email today.
ifihadahif Posted: Fri Nov 20 20:39:30 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  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!


 
Ahriman Posted: Fri Nov 20 20:55:47 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Drink to that :)


 
ehwazingwaz Posted: Fri Nov 20 22:48:27 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  this is great. stupid time. :-/


 
Kira Posted: Fri Nov 20 23:20:18 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  It names the location of the nursing home where the poet died. If the author knew that much, couldn't they acquire the old man's name as well? He deserves to be remembered for this work.


 
ifihadahif Posted: Sat Nov 21 03:03:14 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Apparently it's not true, but the poem is still wonderful.

http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/c/crabby-old-man.htm


 
Mesh Posted: Sat Nov 21 03:50:35 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Yes, true story or not, the poem is real, and the sentiment it conveys is all too true.


 
Mesh Posted: Sat Nov 21 03:51:02 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Hif, my lord man, you're up late!


 
ifihadahif Posted: Sat Nov 21 07:50:02 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Wisenheimer said:
>Hif, my lord man, you're up late!
>
Or early, depending on one's perspective.



 
mat_j Posted: Wed Dec 2 07:48:42 2009 Post | Quote in Reply  
 
Sadly many old people are horrible old shits and i would happily give any of them a sound beating to teach them a lesson.


 



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