Waiting For God - Poem by David Wood

this poem presents a vivid reminder of naked realities of life (Report)Reply

A very poignant poem David about an elderly man waiting for the end.
I wrote one myself on this subject titled The Old Man alone in his Room, see what you think?
Well written by you on a very sad but alas a very common situation these days. (Report)Reply

The plight of the old and the infirm confined in the old age homes is so very moving! The greatest tragedy in life is not debilitating diseases or accidents or natural calamities, but of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for! A thoughtful dedication! ! (Report)Reply

Very pathetic in tone... Old age, scary! (Report)Reply

the mental trauma one undergoes when left with none truly horrible. well defined poem. Thanks (Report)Reply

you managed to show the pain in a very perfect manner, , , , great write (Report)Reply

very neat and painful expression...it is devoutly wished that we should take lesson out of it! ! ! (Report)Reply

Great minds think alike. Good poem.

Waiting for God

They sit around the walls in chairs with washable seats,
'Just in case.' the Matron says 'Accidents do happen, '
This is their own private hell as they disintegrate towards death.
The room littered with Zimmer frames and sticks
An odd wheel chair, the accoutrements of old age.
The television babbles on loud and raucous;
Being to old and frail or not here in the world but in dementias grasp.
Chemically coshed so as not to be to troublesome.
They have no power to change the channel
So ignore it, as just another indignity to be endured.
The air holds the smell of stale cabbage and urine,
Bring out your dead, bring in your undesired.
A prison for the unwanted, their lives limited,
Proscribed by bitter routine whilst pushed and prodded
By carers if only in name, not nature.
The old dears have to be fed and watered, washed and cleaned.
Not that they want to be unkind but poorly trained and badly paid
With not enough time to waste on idle chatter they are brusque.
They're charges are unresisting and scolded by indignity,
Their last shreds of modesty stripped away.
For this they all pay a goodly sum.
Maybe death will come as a blessed relief.
So we condemn the old to such sanctuaries, out of sight;
Except for the obligatory Sunday visit.
With no news to tell they sit dumb
Or pretend to doze so as not to show disinterest
In a world, that no longer exists for them, outside those walls.
Slowly they sink into their memories, their last refuge, whilst
They sit around the walls in chairs with washable seats,
Waiting For God.

P H Brookes Copyright 19/4/13

BB : O) (Report)Reply

very true but also very sad (Report)Reply

A fantastic poem about something sad but so true.
And the sad thing is I don't think things will ever change. (Report)Reply

very good poem, thanks.
I invite you to read my poems and comment. (Report)Reply