The Old Man Poems

The Old Man Visits an Old Woman

In time for the bus, I show my pass,
To be dropped off near the Home
Where she sits through every empty day,
A fragile gnome.

I ask: 'How are you?' and she looks
Blank, challenged, frightened.
The question is too large, too strange.
Her fingers have tightened.

'They never give me food, you know,'
She quavers desperately.
Then a care attendant bends to ask:
'Would you like some cake? Some tea?'

Those words are loud, augmented
With an eating/drinking mime.
One day they’ll talk like that to me.
In time. In time.

The Old Man thinks about Old Ron

Old Ron is keen on the exercise bikes
Down at the local gym,
And I say that’s O.K. for him,
If that’s what old Ron likes.

Join him? No, I can't
be arsed.
Life offers, should such be desired,
Less tiresome ways of getting tired,
And going nowhere fast.

The Old Man Writes his Reflections

Said the old man in the mirror to the young man in his heart
'Look at your watch. Time's ticking on. Soon we'll depart.'

Said the young man inside him to the old guy in the glass,
'Enjoy this shindig while we can! Time? Let it pass.'

Said the anxious greyhair mildly to his lively inner spark,
'Pretend that nothing's happening? Ignore the creeping dark?'

Replied the youthful spirit to that glum reflected shade,
'Oh make the best of what we can. Things cannot be unmade.'

The Old Man and his Dog

I carry the dog in to the vet
And 'I think we both know it's time,' he says,
And yes, it's the kindest thing, to let
Go, to let him go, to let
The kind injection flow, and let
Him slump to unknowing, and that's
He was a gentle beast, except to cats.

The Old Man, at Housman's Grave

This poet's dead, and I am out of touch,
And life evolved by chance, or so we're told,
And stars will die, so life can't matter much -
But old men cling to life, and I am old.

George Simmers

If you have any comments on this poem, George Simmers would like to hear from you.

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