Best Old Man Poems
I long to—
Walk one more time
To where the land ends, and the ocean begins
To listen expectantly for the sounds of infant waves
Grasping layers of golden sand
I long to—
Hear the fat gulls with white bellies
And ebony eyes
Floating on invisible wires
Calling for the savory morsels
Hidden inside the curled fingers of an old man
I long to—
Stand beneath the tangerine sky
Lazily descending into the cradle of the sea
Vacating heaven for the snowy celestial sphere
Hung upon Vincent’s starry canvas
Ten thousand lights scattered forever
I long to—
Be embraced by the tenebrous sea
Her loneliness engulfing me like lovers of yesterday
I long to—
Gaze beyond the past wrapped in sorrow
The years of trudging through cheerless mire
Searching for reasons without answers
Answers without questions
I long to—
Remember only moments worth remembering
A twirling montage of love and hope
And dreams
Of a time when two became one
Hearts pulsing in harmony
Minds ascending to tidal floods of ecstasy
I long to—
See your face
To walk hand in hand
To where the land ends and the ocean begins
I long to—
Do it all again
Old man
he lived over there
in a house of dreams
alone
every day
he fetched his mail
I woke
when he died
Now I stare at the window
where a little boy
watches me fetch my mail
alone
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
(C)London F. BuSS. 2022
'There was a wealthy old man from Kansas
Wasn't concerned if he caught the virus
He was wealthy you could tell
Owned ten rolls of cottonelle
Said If I die "least I've got a clean A. S. S. ".
Written 13th March 2020
I once had knew a man
Who became older than a dead man
A tired soul, he was.
Looked like he'd never seen a bed
And
His gray hair resembled a cloudy day,
With fog, and his swollen eyes -
- looked like someone had just punched him in the face
His skin was wrinkled like a dollar bill in a child's pocket
Told to put it in his wallet, but Gosh darn it, he didn't think it
Through,
the skin on his face was sagging like the jeans of a teenage delinquent,
Or like borrowing a pair from someone who weighs a hundred more than you
His back was hunched like he was searching for answers that lie upon the ground
He had always kept his walker close to him, it helped him get around.
Too someone else, he may just seem to be an old man
But too me, he is a gold man.
'Cause That's my old man.
Redeployed in an ugly skin
Pleated and spotted and grumpy within
What I call walking ,they call shuffling
I'm bending down to tie my shoe
While Im down here what else can I do?
When driving down my lip protrudes
Only for the dentist will I open mouth
Okay , Ill wave at you but I wont smile
The dog and the toilet are my only true friends
You get up to go and then you go again
Memories are yesterday
Forgetfulness is all over today
Ill tell you what it is
But forgot what I was going to say
Got to buy dogfood
Where are my glasses?
Who am I talking to?
They've all gone away
The Old man of Merces
His wrinkled face bearing slaps of time
His eyes barren like a desert starved of rain
Glittering they must be during his prime
Crumbling body holding spirit in chain
His trembling hands resting on knees
Sinking and floating in thoughts deep
Oblivious of dry leaves falling of trees
Looking exhausted from lack of sleep
Unloved by loved ones abandoned by friends
His profile silhouetted like a ship aground
Tired of beleaguered life’s twists and bends
Wishing his soul ascended the chariot Heaven-bound
A loveless life senseless for him
Agony and heartache ceaseless for him
The society appears as heartless for him
A longer living meaningless for him
My heart urged to stop by and greet
His souring thoughts from confines of chest release
The man with love and compassion treat
But alas my tongue isn’t Portuguese
Each day in the morning cold
The snow-haired I found, resting on a boulder
Wearing a coat lusterless and old
With the muffler around neck hanging over shoulder
After absence of few months as I return
I find him no more on the boulder dozed
Like boiling waters in vapor turn
Seeing everything with eyes closed
With spirit in bondage and soul in chain
The picture of despair in a society blind
The symbol of affliction, anguish and pain
The venerable old man I failed to find
---
1 A small town in Sintra District in Portugal
Feb.2010
He said, "Hey old man, what you doing in there
Living in a cardboard box
Why don't you come out of your hole
Throw that bottle away and get yourself a job."
He said, "Hey old man, are you listening
Bet you didn't even hear a word I said.
Winter's coming on, and it's getting cold
You might be better off dead."
The old man said, "Come her son,
And I'll tell you a story if you got time.
It might help you understand
Why I'm living here in this slime.
Here's a picture of my little girl
With my wife and I loved them so.
They were killed by a drunk driver
About thirty years ago.
Now you might think I'm a useless old drunk
And maybe that is true
But, you see, when they died in that accident
Part of me died too."
He told the boy how they would take long walks
And played laughingly in the park.
He told them about the old oak tree
Where they carved their initials in the bark.
"My will to live was taken away.
My life became a bad dream.
I buried my sorrows between bottles
Of Jack Daniels and Jim beam
So, you see, son, always be careful of
The things you say and do
Long ago, I had a family
And a good life, just like you.
The boy shook his hand and gave him a hug
As they said their sad good byes
When the young boy turned to walk way
There were teardrops in his eyes.
Vince Suzadail Jr.
Just An Old Man
Just an old man I came to know
his mind still busy, feet were slow.
Tired feet lounged in old, worn shoes
he had lived, lived and paid his dues!
An old man, one I always loved
one who taught me to fight when shoved.
Showed me to be kind when one could
how to work hard and saw firewood!
An old man, long ago I knew
taught me to say, yes sir on cue.
Suffered to give more than he had
to raise good sons, not to be bad!
An old man, one God took away
taught me true love and how to pray.
Gave his kind heart and gave his all
to teach me to stand proud and tall!
An old man, that never forgot
to aid me, were I on the spot.
Old man that gave, not being asked
in that bright light, this soul once basked!
Just an old man, so brave and true
wore the old, to buy me the new.
An old man, one I so cherish
I pray to meet, when I perish!
An old man, one I hope to see
that good son, he raised me to be.
Just an old man, one that loved me
pray I, to one day be as he!
Robert J. Lindley, 9-24-2017
Rhyme( A Tribute To My Father)
NOTE: Greatest blessing in my life was to know, love and be loved by this brave and kind man. He passed away in his sleep on the morning of his 68th birthday.
I have labored on writing this tribute poem for about 9 weeks now. Leaving it, coming back,making changes.
Always trying to improve it, as nothing seemed good enough.
Then I finally saw the light, my father tho' extremely intelligent was still a simple man. One that believed good triumphs over evil, that people are only human and thus they should not be judged against a perfection yardstick.
For weeks I sought perfection to honor him, one I so dearly love.
Then he seemed to say to me this morn-- " son, when love is true it is already perfection, regardless of how its presented."
With that in mind, I finished this poem today. And hope you may enjoy it and think beautiful and loving thoughts/memories of your
father, be he now living or passed on as is mine..
You sockdologizing old man-trap long decayed
where claws curl tight in dust and brittle bone
your lies are hyenas dancing in the flame
their jaws a rattle tearing flesh to stone
their laughter cracks the silence and the name
of truth that bleeds until the world has grown
as hollow as the bones they gnaw upon
each tooth a dagger that breaks the heart to dawn
beneath your skin a hunger spills and swells
its teeth are rust its eyes a fevered glow
it gnashes bone until the broken tells
of sins that fester deep where no one knows
your hollow self a wind that pulls and wells
the hunger of a lion’s endless throes
and in your voice a low and raspy cry
that cracks the earth and cracks the brittle sky
beneath the skin your hunger splits the bone
its grasp a vice that crushes what it seeks
the stars fall silent cold and overthrown
their light consumed in frantic, bloodstreaked streaks
the air is thick with death and poisoned stone
where hunger howls beneath the shadowed peaks
yet still in your trap the pulse of truth will grind
a seed that's sown then left to twist and rise
your walls of lies are dust beneath the weight
of hunger’s edge and all that once was wise
though still you chase the fading spark of fate
your fingers crushed beneath the weight of mind
from soil once cursed where hate was built to last
the truth will rise unbroken and unmasked
for lies may hunt but truth though torn and scarred
is cut deep and rips your sockdologizing heart trap apart
The Old Man In The Mirror
Who is that old man who looks at me in the morning?
When I shave and shower he is there living in a pane of glass
Grey hairs replacing the dark walnut brown
More and more each day, each hour
Eyes looking tired from ages of struggles
Each reflecting a soul which was once so full of life
Now it lays stagnant and lost
It has the memories of its youth
Doing this that that man can only now remember
Wrinkles took so long to show
Even fooling that old man into thinking he was younger than he is
Every grey hair, every wrinkle has been earned
They are the wages of stress, pain and anxiety of aging
Some called them badges of honor
I look in the mirror and see that old man looking back at me
I don’t see honor, pain, stress or anxiety
That old man looking back at me has lived a full life
Successes and mistakes of the past are reflected in the mirror
Lost loves and loves found are hidden in his spirit
I look at the old man in the mirror
I look at the grey hair and the sad eyes
I see each and every wrinkle
I look at the old man in the mirror and I see life
It was a homeless old man near a shoe store who fell asleep
He was so tired that nap turned to a sleep that was deep
A little boy walked passed with his mother and noticed that the old man had one shoe
He felt sad, “mother it’s something I just got to do!”
That little boy face was full of tears
His little heart grew big because he cared
He grabbed both of his mother’s hand and tightly grasped them leading her into prayer
After the short and quick prayer, “Mom I was just told to share.”
He had ten dollars from his allowances that he saved for weeks
His mother didn’t know what to say, she couldn’t even speak
Immediately he rushed in the shoe store and asked the clerk how much was that one black wing tip shoe
The clerk had a big smile and said it was thirty-two
Every customer and fellow employee gave money to make the little boy prayer come true
Instead of thirty-two dollars he now had sixty four
He quickly grabbed the shoe box and ran out the door
The little boy shook the old man out of his sleep and gave him the box
When the old man woke up his eyes was full of tears and he was shocked
Big crocodile tears rolled down his face
He grabbed the little boy and gave him the tightest embrace
The old man yelled, “This is the best gift yet!”
Some say the old man got up and danced until the sun set
Mark 12:30-31 (NIV) Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’[a] 31 The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b] There is no commandment greater than these.”
Down where the willow trees blossoms
And the pear blooms white as snow
Old man works a garden that is awesome
He's worn out from years of work that was gusto
And the pear blooms white as snow
Touched by God's sweet kindness and grace
He's worn out from years of work that was gusto
There'll be a pear crop in this place
Touched by God's sweet kindness and grace
Old man works a garden that is awesome
There'll be a pear crop in this place
Down where the willow tree blossoms
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story - VII-IX Continued
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
VII
The One-Act Play's the favourite Old Men's roman fleuve
Experience shows Old Men how to keep the Wench in hell
They know how to stoke the Imagination with love
They need no how-to softwares to write a novel
VIII
The One-Act Play they say is still Old Men's mainstay
Though on Freytag's Triangle they slip down climax
The Wench cannot make Old Men still come up their way
Not so the Youngster his horns gore Wench's false syntax
IX
The Wench always seeks to milk Old Men in side-burns
Old Men know One-Act Plays don't box-office burgeon
Nor drips invested in banks ensure big returns
Not so the Youngster who banks his bit in oven
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 11, 2018
The old black man came riding up
On a wagon pulled by a mule
In the wagon he had a plough
And some other old rusty tools
As best I recall it was late in the fall
Of nineteen sixty two
He said hello and told my dad
He was looking for something to do
And for a fee would unhitch Ol' B
They'd plow up the garden out back
The old man smiled as they dickered awhile
Then began to unpack
Ol' B wore blinders as he walked behind her
It only took them a bit
With all of the kids from the neighborhood
The pair had made quite a hit
Put the cash in his pocket gave her a carrot
Hooked up and went on their way
As the old man whistled to the clippity-clop
The old mule loudly brayed
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner