The Old Man
He sits quietly murmuring
Talking only to himself
His eyes sunken and dark
A look of tiredness across his face
His head is slightly bowed
Resting upon his hand
He sits alone in almost darkness
Except for a small table lamp
In the far corner of the room
There is little in the way of light
Old books gather dust
In piles around upon the floor
Those stories he once read
The worlds to which he escaped
Now stacked without order
Like memories becoming forgot
A glass of vintage wine
Held in his thin, bone like fingers
Softens his pallet, soothes his throat
While he sits alone each night
In quiet conversation with himself
Another old man growing grey
Wishing on yesterdays
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Old grey eyes
Old grey eyes
~
He sits alone in the bar
Slumped into his chair
Looking down onto the table
Turning the glass in his hand
Occasionally, looking up
He surveys the room quietly
His brow furrowed
Eyes deep cast look tired
The is an air of sadness about him
That no-one seems to know
He is just old grey eyes
The man who sits in a bar alone
Looking down at his drink
Almost mouthing words
In conversation with himself
He is sensibly dressed
With old tatty shoes
He picks through his change
Counting out another drink
He will be there for a while longer
And then when he has gone
Who will say ‘old grey eyes’
‘Do you remember him’
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Single Rose
She wants a poem
Read to her by candlelight
While she sits at a small table
This would be sheer delight
She would like live music too
In the background I suppose
A stark white tablecloth with
A single rose
Don't forget the wine
A white wine '03 or '02
Slightly chilled
Will do
This should be a special poem
One she could say is mine
If she only knew a poet
Regardless of the rhyme
Who will read it to her
Does he need special clothes
Or just a sincere voice and a wine glass
To go with the single rose
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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The Attic
The door from the attic, with its darkness handle.
Eco's hand clutching his open
Breathing dust and cobwebs, tickle the face.
Of dark place of bricks and mortar
Those stairs incomplete, greyish, without any importance
Climb into the unknown, where the past is set apart, confined.
With the roof barely, resting on wall closets
That my head bends.
Days' ancestors, forgotten by the light
Of the window roof,
where the dust, like magic flying in the wind,
It mixes with reflections of glass.
And those sheets of bed, piled.
They have been sleeping for years, without bodies to keep them warm.
Only dust and spiders dreams
And just around the corner where light barely penetrates.
Boxes sealed with tape, expect to be open.
Ready to flee from their exile
Memories illuminate, that mute room.
Rich, locked to themselves.
Fled forgotten, until now, abandoned.
poem by Luca Menin
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No-Name The Cat
The cat and I stare at the room
No-name the cat, the cat and I,
She stares at me, I at the gloom
The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.
She sits and waits, No-name the cat,
Sits and waits for a sign from me
But I in the corner chair am sat
And make no sign for No-name the cat.
We’re all alone, alone are we
No-name the cat, the cat and I
Only the two, No-name and me
Yet once in the past we numbered three.
Now on the floor, between us two
No-name the cat, and me, lies you.
Your eyes are staring, your cheek is slack,
Your tongue’s thrust out and your face is blue.
The cat and I stare at the room
No-name the cat, the cat and I,
She stares at me, I at the gloom
The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.
30 June 1999
poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Tragedy
Among his books he sits all day
To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay,
The roses red and white.
I walk among them all alone,
His silly, stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done -
An empty thing is life.
At night his window casts a square
Of light upon the lawn;
I sometimes walk and watch it there
Until the chill of dawn.
I have no brain to understand
The books he loves to read;
I only have a heart and hand
He does not seem to need.
He calls me "Child" - lays on my hair
Thin fingers, cold and mild;
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,
I wish I were a child!
And no one sees and no one knows
(He least would know or see),
That ere Love gathers next year's rose
Death will have gathered me.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Glass Partition
she lives her life
behind a glass partition.
shuffling papers, washing dishes,
sweeping the floor.
sipping on sterile water,
her hands squeaky clean...
even her cat's been declawed!
he comes in from work,
both tired and bruised.
his pants are dirty,
his hands ache and throb.
pours a small drink,
and lights up a smoke...
sits quietly with an angry stare.
two worlds revolving,
two distant shores.
the phone rings, wrong number,
there's a knock on the door.
she turns her head unwilling to feel,
he hurls the bottle at the glass...
stands up, and looks for the broom!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Fisherman
He sits by the shore
all day long casting his bait
line after line
into the lake fishing
hoping for that bite
the kind that makes his day
but nothing comes
he sits there alone
only thoughts for company
what goes through his head
while he sits there
watching cold eyed
the open lake before him
is he at peace
or making plans
who could say
he just sits there alone
watching
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Dead Boys Poem
The child sits and weeps,
How could this be all that matters,
Why did this have to hurt so deep,
How could this be life?
The child sits with the pain inside,
He sits with his heart in his chest,
‘How could I have died? ’
Is all he thinks, he forgets the rest.
The child’s eyes closed so tight,
His fists clenched so strong
He feels the night,
He knows everything that happened was wrong.
The child stands and looks into the houses light
He stares at not the window,
Not at the sight,
Yet only for the weeping widow.
The child stands holding the gun,
The gun he died holding,
As he remembers his father killing him, his only son
He remembers his father scolding.
He knows he took a life,
Yet he knows his father took his,
He remembers not the taking of his father’s life,
Only the pain of his father stealing his.
His eyes so dark,
His mind so lost,
His hand tracing deaths mark,
As he remembers it’s cost.
He remembers the scene, the time,
He remembers the look in his father’s face,
He remembers doing the crime,
He remembers seeing the pain in his father’s face.
But then his memory stops,
And reality takes place,
For this is when he dropped,
This is when life left his face.
He walks past,
To eternity; to roam
Of all his memories this shall be his last
For this is the dead boy’s poem.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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And Here Comes Dark
It's dark outside
But I see the light
Then darkness
I see the light again
And here comes dark
It's dark outside
I am lonely and sad
But I see the light
You ask my name
Then darkness
You take my hand
I see the light again
We fall in love
And here comes dark
It's dark outside
I can't find you
But I see the light
You were right there
Then darkness
I have my doubts
I see the light again
You say I'm wrong
And here comes dark
It's dark outside
I reach for you
But I see the light
You don't reach for me
Then darkness
I feel alone
I see the light again
I read your face
And here comes dark
It's dark outside
I want to leave
But I see the light
You're come to me
Then darkness
I feel your grip
I see the light
You're hurting me
And here comes dark
It's dark outside
I try to scream
But I see the light
You have my throat
Then darkness
I can not breath
I see the light
For the last time
And here comes dark
poem by Yasmin Rubayo
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A Casualty
The old man sits
On top of a brown
Battered suitcase
This now contains
All his belongings
I remember him
He was the toymaker
In our village
He was always a happy man
Now I see him
As we flee
The light has gone
From his eyes
There is fear there
That stops me cold
What does he know?
What has he seen?
He sits there
Waiting for his family
People pass by
Asking him
If he needs help
He says no
He is waiting for
His daughter to come
She went into the fields
To pick some sugar canes
That's when the soldiers
Set the fields on fire
Burning sugar
Caramel
Now pungent
But the first whiff was sweet
That's when the village
Began to burn
The old man sits
And waits for her
I wonder how long
He's been sitting there?
He looks to every face
And says her name
Every girl he stops
And examines to see
If it might be her
The old man sits
All alone.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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In A Room Of So Many
In this room I am one with myself,
I sit alone, away from them, from the people,
I sit in the chair in the back, with only myself,
None notices me except the two people next to me.
They sit around me laughing with friends, playing their games,
They are all happy, all together, with one another,
But thats what it is to them, a game,
They don't need more people they don; t need another.
The girl on my right sits, lost, in her book,
Maybe she's there with the characters, in the past, or maybe the futrue,
She looks from word to word page to page within her book.
This is her pasttime, her fantsy, she is lost to know the books future.
To my left a boy sits facing the wall, music playing,
Both thumbs pressed against the small arrow keys,
POKeMON is what he sits and plays;
The small animals battleing growing, and looking for keys.
And here, in the middle of them of all the others, I sit alone,
At the tabble in my bubble of scilence, the aloness of being non-social,
In my green chair I write, alone.
If only I could talk to them, if only I were social.
So many people playing so many things,
UNO, rummy, conect four, cards and sharades,
These are only a few of the things,
Yet they don't notice me, my longing to know them, my own sharades.
This room is filled with every feeling, everything good,
So few differences, yet so many,
I feel apart from them, yet in a way watching feels good.,
Sitill I sit and I write, I am alone, I am one, in the room of so many.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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If Someone 'Is' Dismissed
Do not believe for one second,
One dismissed sits and fidgets...
Wishing their presence is missed.
Too many perceive they have the power to do this.
As if the one that has been dismissed,
Sits making adjustments...
In a chair doing nothing,
But looking at thumbs as a twisting of them is done.
Do not believe for one second,
One dismissed sits with wishes to be enlisted...
Into a clique of forget-me-nots full of 'wannabees'.
And usually they are the ones issuing approvals,
To those fearing rejection.
Too many perceive they have the power to do this.
As if the one that has been dismissed,
Sits making adjustments...
In a chair doing nothing,
But looking at thumbs as a twisting of them is done.
Do not believe for one second,
One dismissed sits and fidgets...
Wishing their presence is missed.
How foolish would this be...
If someone sat seeking for an authority,
To approve the choosing of what they do...
And 'who' they should do it with.
If someone 'is' dismissed,
They should be glad of it.
Since there has been a lifting from them,
Any kind of restrictions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Never Can Forget That Memory
Deep in the darkest
Part of my head
There is a memory
Of how I saw you dead
It sits there
Alone
In the shadows of depth
A memory of you
That I have kept
It wants to come out
Of this dark scary place
But it is a memory
I could never erase
It sits there
Alone through day and night
listening to everything
I hear
And say
I want it to leave
And never come back
To leave me alone
The feeling if sadness
To go away
So that I can
Once again
See
The light of day
poem by Broken Hearts
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Destroyed
Her sits a girl sad and all alone.
She wishes she could have a happy life.
She only wants to be free.
But bad memories stain her heart.
Rape and abuse all her life.
It was all she ever knew.
Right from the start and the beginning.
The girl wishes for a knew tommorrow.
She sits all alone.
The memories and the voices.
Getting to her once more.
She hates it all but what can she do?
Her heart has died.
And she has been destroyed.
She can't trust now.
All men seem to be her enemy.
She wont go far alone.
She hates going out.
Her sits the girl.
All locked away.
She hides herself away hating the world.
Inside her shttered heart she is destroyed.
Rape messed up her head
And it wrecked her heat soul and mind.
Her shattered heart lays on the floor in bits.
May it forever rest in peace
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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The Vine
The wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great, rich Vine.
poem by James Thomson
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The Life Of A Lonely Man
he sits alone
in a cold dark room
no windows
no doors
icy cold air
he sits alone
in the deep dark and gloom
poem by Tom Langmead
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Early Works - The Victors Have A Ball
Coloured lights shine across the cloister
on the dancers on the floor.
While on the stage a soloist is singing
of life’s lost cord.
In the corner sits a young man
with a moustache on his upper lip
trying so hard to look hip.
While an old, man is saying freedom
with happiness to all.
Let wars die of stagnation
and the victors have a ball.
The silkiness of a wayward light
makes shadows on the door
while creatures in their lustfulness
gather by the hoard.
In the room of bedlam, a young man sits
eating a stick of rock
and breaking it into bits.
While an old, man is saying freedom
with happiness to all.
Let wars die of stagnation
and the victors have a ball.
Date unknown.
Author’s note:
I have a feeling that this bit of nonsense was written in 1967. It is a guess, but because of certain things written in it sounds about right for that era.
poem by David Harris
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All Alone
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
HER CHILDREN GROWN
WITH FAMILY OF THEIR OWN
SHE WONDERS WHAT HAPPEN
CHILDREN ALL OF THREE
THEY HAVE GROWN LIKE FRUIT UPON THE TREES
GRANDCHILDREN SHE HAS SIX
GETTING HARDER TO REMEMBER THEIR NAMES
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
NO ONE COMES TO VISIT
HER GRANDCHILDREN DOESN, T KNOW HER
HER CHILDREN HAS FORSAKEN HER
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE LOVED HER CHILDREN DEARLY
WANTED NOTHING BUT THE BEST
WORKED HARD AND WENT WITHOUT
HER CHILDREN SHE WOULD DIE FOR
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE AROUND HER
LIKE ALL MOTHERS DO
GET TOGETHERS ON SUNDAYS
SEE A MOVIE OR TWO
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE REEKS HER BRAIN
WONDERS WHAT DID SHE EVER DO
TO GET SUCH COLD TREATMENT
FROM THE BABIES SHE ONCE KNEW
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
THE ANGELS CAME AND CARRIED HER HOME
poem by Verna Ralph
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There is a girl
There is a girl
Who sits alone
She never talks
As she’s on her own
She sits in the corner
She tries to fade away
She doesn’t see colours
She only sees grey
She wears lots of clothes
To cover her cuts she has
No one wants to know her
‘The emo girl’ she’s known as
She cries out for help
But no one will see
What’s really hurting her
Why can’t she feel free
She comes off as different
Not like the rest
Most of it’s others judgments
Just by the way she is dressed
She’s just like any other
But down with some pain
Don’t just ignore her
Don’t make her insane
poem by Lisa French
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replaying mozart's serenade #3 in G
middle age sits on a bench
at the park
just watching people pass by-
a fat lady with a pink purse as small as as a snail
a thin man looking like he's dying of tuberculosis
a little boy being held tight by his mom smiling at me
two lovers as sweet as sugar and walking too close like a glued pair of slippers
middle age sits alone and laughs loud like he's winning
this lonely game of optical illusion
this trajectory projection
middle age inside this cell of himself
looking for an opening
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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