See but a crabby old man ... Thanks Clay and Carol Vice- Old friends

I have to be considered an old man, at 77, Clay and I know you aren't far behind me. Like my compatriots, I worry about my short time memory and the further decrepitation I must face as an older man. But I see a loving God throughout my life. The things I do I should not and the things I should do I don't in so many instances. God made nothing, in all our varied interests, as interesting as people. Art, history, nature's beauty, crafts, literature, world wonders, are there for our taking as we age, and these things enrich our lives.




I love this poem and it gives a lot of life's experiences most humans, man or woman, face with age. What the caretakers may see outwardly of us aged is but a shell. Will they know of the great experiences of Clay or Carol Vice with their girls' softball programs. Perhaps not. But you guys have contributed so much richness to the culture of Portsmouth Ohio and this world and its inhabitants.




Thanks for sharing this. It just makes this old fellow think ...




Sam


----- Original Message -----





From: "Clay Vice"




Sent: Wednesday, January 27, 2010 10:40 PM



Subject: Fw: Fw:



---- Clay Vice wrote:





Subject: Fw: Crabby Old Man? that I love and respect more than you

know ...



Amazing poem...




I appreciate it even more as I age before my own eyes...





CRABBY OLD MAN





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 a 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!



















PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM



















The best and most beautiful things of this world can't









be seen or touched.











They must be felt by the heart.



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