Cranky Old Man

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 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.

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 vigour, 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!!

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!

great poem theo and oh how true...happy new year

Same at You buffalo bob!

A nice thoughtful reminder,Thanks for posting. Mike

There was my father, and then my Uncle.

My Uncle worked hard in construction, never was home, but made lots of money. He had no problems showing his pay checks to my father who struggled; first by doing 2 tours of duty in Vietnam, then struggling to build a home without a mortgage while raising 3 biological children. As my Uncle cheated on his wife routinely, and soon got divorced, my Dad raised Foster Children, winning "Foster Parents of the Year" twice here in Maine. He also happened upon 2 car wrecks and because of his medic training in Vietnam, was able to do tracheotomies with a penknife on the side of the road saving two people's lives. He also adopted 6 additional children besides the three he already had...raising 9 children is not easy, nor cheap! He was on every town board known and was selectmen for years of this town. Money? He had none!

My Uncle; he lost his job as he was getting older and construction is a young man's game. Instead he started his own carpentry business and did well financially. He scoffed at my father who struggled to get everything he got, believed in God and went to church every Sunday, and during the week as well. Now my Uncle is old and has learned that his money means nothing. His health is failing and he is a miserable old grump. He lives in a tiny house and complains about everything, including the disability check he fraudulently gets. My father; he watched his daughter get killed in a car accident at 19 years old; two years later his house burned to the ground and while going through the ashes, his daughter-in-law told him she was leaving his son as she found a lover on the internet in Arizona. He still stayed the course, and when this community decided to repay my parents for all they had done for the community, these poor Waldo County Farmers gathered $18,000 in a pot luck supper alone. It might be small potatoes in MA, but in this tiny community an $18,000 pot luck supper is a big turn out!

Today my dad has a 5280 square foot home , hundreds of acres of land and everyone knows and loves my Dad, all because he stayed the course and did what was right, and not what was cheap and easy. My Uncle...no one knows who he is, what he did, and if he did do any work for them, knows he was a womanizer and that every house he ever built had a leaky roof. (No Joke...poor, poor skills as a carpenter).

Who do you think I admire more? My dad might be old, but he is a hell of a man!

While I am on the subject, you might like this which I wrote about him on Veterans' Day, as I left out, my Dad is Combat Disabled...

....

Dear Butch,

I know you remember that day well, 44 summers ago standing in the rice patty with my father as you heard the thud of a bullet hitting a body. Nanoseconds later you heard the rifle report and for a split second you and my father knew one of you had been hit, but was not sure which one. Unfortunately it was you.

You never returned to the United States again, even though you made it through boot camp, became best friends with my Dad and did two tours of duty in Vietnam. To die three days before your return home hardly seems fair.

The Survivor Guilt is deep within my dad, even now, but he picked himself up by his boot laces and did well these past 44 years. He has used his medic training to save two lives, doing tracheotomy’s on the side of the road to save car accident victims. He also opened his home to hundreds of foster children, had three children of his own and adopted six more. He’s done some good despite the memories of Vietnam.

The sad thing is, I will never know your real name. Dad never talks about Vietnam and it is too painful to ask what your real name is. Butch is all I will ever know.

I have touched your name once though, on the wall in Washington, DC. I was too small to remember the name, but small enough so that I could be put on my Uncles shoulders and rub your name with chalk onto a piece of paper as Dad cried…really cried. I had never seen my Dad cry before, but of all the names…one name…your name…touched him the most.

Despite 44 years of silence, one thing needs to be said. Not from my Dad, but from me Butch. Thanks for taking that bullet for my Dad.

Written by NoSmoke, son of a combat disabled Vietnam Veteran

Your Dad must be one good man NoSmoke,wish and hope him the very best,,, Thank You for sharing his story. Happy New Year to all your family and You !

That's all goof stuff there...little happy, little sad but all good stuff...