A POOR OLD MAN
Posted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 10:25 am
G'day all,
Its real hot where I am right now, miss'n home quite alot. It made me think of this I wrote a while back. I know its not technically correct for a poem, but I'm still learning. SO here goes and like always all constructive comments are welcome......
A Poor Old Man
This tiny, frail, crooked old man
Gingerly he walks, then stopping to stand,
thats because this old man, now simply can
A new cane steadies him within his left hand,
sore feet hurt, yet upon them he gingerly stands
A straw pompadour sits upon his old head
The brim covers frown lines on his forehead,
just covers whats left, oh to his dread
Sweat soaked band weathered a pinkish red
His hat shades the summer rays from overhead
His slow walk to the inn, its just to cool, within
A horse trough sits out front, dirty water a murky rusty sin
But Skipper the cheeky black dog just jumps right in,
his tongue draped out, yet he's careful of its hot tin
Gee, what a hot day it is at the old Newington Inn
Sounds of talk and clanging glass fills the pub air,
doors held open, but the customers don't really care
Tired ceiling fans twirl, over welcoming chairs,
mirrored signs of Tooths, TAB, Fosters always flare
He wipes his sweaty brow, this heat today is too much to bare!
Yet he climbs the one, then the second, stone stair,
his old sun glasses cause him to trip and swear
A fine young lass runs to his aid, she's so afraid
“Oh's I'll be all rights, love, cuz thank gods I prayediz,
young lady, I can't walk these stair highs gradeizs”
He reaches his chair, below the batsman Clarke
In days past his mates would all sit and have a lark,
they'd watch fools try to leave the pubs car park
Loud horns blast drivers that can't disembark
Stanmore Road wears all their scared braking marks
He looks with glare up the road to Maundrell park
The rose garden once beautiful now is gone, its trellis falls apart
Old men played games of chess or domino's in times past
Its old oak trees stand tall, solid like a sailing ships mast
Paths of grey concrete, cut grounds of green buffalo in contrast
He sips his amber beer from his familiar middy glass
Looks around, he remembers ANZAC friends departed, alas,
he's lifts his glass, a memorial from him on all their behalf's
A remembrance to all lives lost, tears and great laughter
a life he's lives, tales forgotten, their calls from hereafters
Glass empty, time to get home as night begins to fall
He pulls his chair out, hat and cane, good night all
Down the stairs, along the broad footpath he walks
He turns a corner, broken bricks, careful demons stalk
Home for this old man, now shallow breaths choke and a bork
His beloved family, Alf, Teddy, Bobby, Molly and Essie see his fate
They come to his sleep all welcoming through heavens gates
His old battles and memories quickly lost, time forgets all his mistakes
With welcomed arms the light draws him close with no debate
This poor old man is now gone, if we forget its all very much too late.
Oh, we all should have loved this great old man.
NOTE: Oh and Please respect the copyrights to this poem, thanks much!
© PHILIP ANTHONY
I have added a sketch below for members of the Stanmore Hotel which is now the Newington Inn. I couldn't find any up-to-date photos of the Newington, so I will have to get someone else to take some "high res" photos for me. I'd like to get one of the rose garden in the park as well. But I hope this digital sketch only just adds to my poem.
Its real hot where I am right now, miss'n home quite alot. It made me think of this I wrote a while back. I know its not technically correct for a poem, but I'm still learning. SO here goes and like always all constructive comments are welcome......
A Poor Old Man
This tiny, frail, crooked old man
Gingerly he walks, then stopping to stand,
thats because this old man, now simply can
A new cane steadies him within his left hand,
sore feet hurt, yet upon them he gingerly stands
A straw pompadour sits upon his old head
The brim covers frown lines on his forehead,
just covers whats left, oh to his dread
Sweat soaked band weathered a pinkish red
His hat shades the summer rays from overhead
His slow walk to the inn, its just to cool, within
A horse trough sits out front, dirty water a murky rusty sin
But Skipper the cheeky black dog just jumps right in,
his tongue draped out, yet he's careful of its hot tin
Gee, what a hot day it is at the old Newington Inn
Sounds of talk and clanging glass fills the pub air,
doors held open, but the customers don't really care
Tired ceiling fans twirl, over welcoming chairs,
mirrored signs of Tooths, TAB, Fosters always flare
He wipes his sweaty brow, this heat today is too much to bare!
Yet he climbs the one, then the second, stone stair,
his old sun glasses cause him to trip and swear
A fine young lass runs to his aid, she's so afraid
“Oh's I'll be all rights, love, cuz thank gods I prayediz,
young lady, I can't walk these stair highs gradeizs”
He reaches his chair, below the batsman Clarke
In days past his mates would all sit and have a lark,
they'd watch fools try to leave the pubs car park
Loud horns blast drivers that can't disembark
Stanmore Road wears all their scared braking marks
He looks with glare up the road to Maundrell park
The rose garden once beautiful now is gone, its trellis falls apart
Old men played games of chess or domino's in times past
Its old oak trees stand tall, solid like a sailing ships mast
Paths of grey concrete, cut grounds of green buffalo in contrast
He sips his amber beer from his familiar middy glass
Looks around, he remembers ANZAC friends departed, alas,
he's lifts his glass, a memorial from him on all their behalf's
A remembrance to all lives lost, tears and great laughter
a life he's lives, tales forgotten, their calls from hereafters
Glass empty, time to get home as night begins to fall
He pulls his chair out, hat and cane, good night all
Down the stairs, along the broad footpath he walks
He turns a corner, broken bricks, careful demons stalk
Home for this old man, now shallow breaths choke and a bork
His beloved family, Alf, Teddy, Bobby, Molly and Essie see his fate
They come to his sleep all welcoming through heavens gates
His old battles and memories quickly lost, time forgets all his mistakes
With welcomed arms the light draws him close with no debate
This poor old man is now gone, if we forget its all very much too late.
Oh, we all should have loved this great old man.
NOTE: Oh and Please respect the copyrights to this poem, thanks much!
© PHILIP ANTHONY
I have added a sketch below for members of the Stanmore Hotel which is now the Newington Inn. I couldn't find any up-to-date photos of the Newington, so I will have to get someone else to take some "high res" photos for me. I'd like to get one of the rose garden in the park as well. But I hope this digital sketch only just adds to my poem.
for that old pound sign and those accent marks that you sometimes need to use.