OLDER FOLKS

Creative Forums Creative Writing
1

I saw some older folks today.
They struggled now to get about.
I wondered how they got that way;
But then I didn’t want to shout.

The stride that might have marched to war
Is now a shuffle one foot long.
I see them hoping for one more,
Asking to whom their legs belong.

Some walkers used, others had canes,
It didn’t use to be like this.
They don’t remember all these pains.
What happened to that life of bliss?

Barn dances they remember well,
Their friends and cars, events long past.
What day it is they cannot tell,
Their present recalls do not last.

Their sight’s not what it used to be.
They can’t go long without a break.
For meals they have just toast and tea.
A greater effort they can’t make.

If only someone else would care;
They seem to be so all alone.
Their children had no time to spare;
It’s modern ‘life’ that sets that tone.

There was one daughter with her mom;
To her she said, “Don’t make a fuss”.
I wished to say, “Respect her some”;
In a few years she will be us.

2

That “mom” in the last paragraph is crying out to be changed into “mum” :smiley:

3

I’m a Canadian eh! If I get any more complaints from Brits I might change it. :slight_smile: Thanks for the observation though.

4

“Mums” the word? :slight_smile: A nice piece DEB. It would be interesting to somehow contrast them with the contents of a baby carraige. Might be too much though.

5

Reads like a good begining to a slightly larger work. It just begints to hit its stride then it is over. It hints at saying something larger, but then abrubtly ends.

6

Thanks Xanderman. Of all the images I saw when I was at the clinic with my mother, the most troubling was the one of the old woman trying to express herself for what could have been the last time and her impatient daughter cutting her off each time she spoke. I could have made the poem longer. I just decided to try hitting my readers on their thumbs with a hammer rather than trying to hit them with a truck. It is easier to get out of the way of a truck.

Thanks to you too tent. Had I been in a clinic that included the other end of life’s continuum I might have thought of comparing and contrasting.

7

Just back from a week in Canada myself, fishing with my Dad. He’s the quintisential brokendown oldster of your poem. It was a little shocking to see how much he’s declined physically since I last saw him. There was an ineffable change to him that vaguely troubles me. Still, we never know the day or the hour right? I could get hit by a bus on the way to work this week…

I will say it was a satisfying trip, spiritually. Hopefully he has many years left but if this was “it” then I think I could honestly say we’ve finally reached that place of silent understanding where more words would just be superfluous.

BTW, loved the poem. Another fine bit of prose, DEB.

8

I like old people. I honestly think that some old people become more beautiful as they age (not always the case)

every wrinkle tells of a long life, and droopy eyes tell of endurance and kindness.

Aging is kind of like a painting, it aquires more beauty as it goes a long.

I know this isn’t always the case though.

I think my favorite artist mississippi john hurt was so beautiful at age 72, when he recorded some of what many consider to be his best work.

I don’t know, just some thoughts.

great prose on the words of the poem

9

Thanks again Phaedrus. I hope you enjoy a few more fishing trips. I like old people too Mike.

I live with my Mom every day.
I wouldn’t want another way.

10

DEB, please allow me to address your well-written poem with one of my own. Seems we think alike.
The Old People
Their lawnchairs in the sun
Outside the standard door–
They are considered non-productive.
They passed their buying power
For the next to the last measured lot.
The old man putters around the yard,
Turning earth for flowers she wants there.
Beside a fence of hedge and vine
He dances with his dog,
She feeds the birds and stops to watch
A squirrel, gliding like a leaf
Among the thoughts of friends
Whose deaths predict their own.
And there they sit and wait.
She brings him tea and stories,
Retelling all that made them glad,
And of loving all the children
Who had fled in fear
Of palsied hands to faster places where
An hour can wear no dust.

11

Ierrellus, right from your first reply to me in my ‘philo’ thread I felt we thought alike.