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Post by ARENA on Mar 3, 2014 10:22:49 GMT
An Old Lady's Poem
What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise, uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her 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 stocking 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 girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet, dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.
A bride 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 woman 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 man'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 husband is 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 woman ...and nature is cruel; 'Tis 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 girl 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 woman; look closer ...see ME!!
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 15:31:45 GMT
I love that Arena.
Who wrote it?
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Post by ARENA on Mar 3, 2014 15:51:02 GMT
Anonymous. She was an inmate in a Scottish nursing home........
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Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 16:06:08 GMT
Anonymous. She was an inmate in a Scottish nursing home........ Fabulous. Made me think I might have a crack at something a bit more serious. JJ
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Post by ARENA on Mar 7, 2014 9:54:31 GMT
Getting penning JJ. Love to have it!
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Post by Deleted on Mar 7, 2014 11:50:16 GMT
I need to be in the right frame of mind Arena. Did close to 350 miles on the road yesterday including a pretty intense meeting. Feeling quite holy though. My big diesel gave me 48mpg yesterday cos I was not hammering it.
It will come, maybe. The funny bits of doggerel seem to come quite easily.
Which reminds me of the tale I heard of a kids panto, all in rhyme.
The genie was meant to appear through a trap and a piece of flash paper is triggered at the same time to give the illusion of a flash of smoke and light.
One afternoon the paper did not go off and the genie appeared up through the trap looking puzzled.
Almost without pause the leading man said:
Goodness gracious what a caper
Someones pissed on the magic paper.
I don't think he lasted too long after that!
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Post by jimshoo on Mar 7, 2014 14:12:08 GMT
The Old Stage Queen by: Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)
Back in the box by the curtains shaded, She sits alone by the house unseen; Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded, She who was once the people's queen. The curtain rolls up, and she sees before her A vision of beauty and youth and grace. Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her, Silver-throated and fair of face. Out of her box she leans and listens; Oh, is it with pleasure or despair That her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens, While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air? She is back again in the Past's bright splendor-- When life seemed worth living, and love a truth, Ere Time had told her she must surrender Her double dower of fame and youth. It is she herself who stands there singing To that sea of faces that shines and stirs; And the cheers on cheers that go up ringing And rousing the echoes--are hers--all hers. Just for one moment the sweet delusion Quickens her pulses and blurs her sight, And wakes within her that wild confusion Of joy that is anguish and fierce delight. Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleaming Brightly o'er circle and box and stall. She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming-- Her past lies under a funeral pall. Her day is dead and her star descended, Never to rise or shine again; Her reign is over--her Queenship ended-- A new name is sounded and sung by men. All the glitter and glow and splendor, All the glory of that lost day, With the friends that seemed true, and the love that seemed tender, Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet? She rises to go. Has the night turned colder? The new Queen answers to call and shout; And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder, Then all unnoticed she passes out.
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Post by ARENA on Mar 8, 2014 13:47:02 GMT
That is so nice Jim.
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Post by scorp on Mar 8, 2014 16:04:34 GMT
I can never see the name Ella Wheeler Wilcox without thinking of her book - Poems of Passion - blimey! And of course she was the model for Richard Murdoch's 'My old aunt is Ella Wheeler Waterbutt and/She lives down in Burton on Trent/When she goes out shopping on her bicycle/She always gets her handlebars bent...
I liked the above poem - if only some of them would go as quietly!
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Post by ARENA on Mar 9, 2014 15:17:15 GMT
A Maiden To Her Mirror
He said he loved me! Then he called my hair Silk threads wherewith sly Cupid strings his bow, My cheek a rose leaf fallen on new snow; And swore my round, full throat would bring despair To Venus or to Psyche.
Time and care Will fade these locks; the merry god, I know, Uses no grizzled cords upon his bow. How will it be when I, no longer fair, Plead for his kiss with cheeks, whence long ago The early snowflakes melted quite away, The rose leaf died – and in whose sallow clay Lie the deep sunken tracks of life’s gaunt crow?
When this full throat shall wattle fold on fold, Like some ripe peach left drying on a wall, Or like a spent accordion, when all Its music has exhaled – will love grow cold? Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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