Treasure Island

David Wood

(07 April 1950 / London)

Waiting for God

Sitting by the window looking out
Over the manicured lawn green,
Black birds and robins did shout
Their calling, wanting to be seen.

Memories were his only comfort
Of his dear wife of years gone by.
Life now seemed to be so short,
So lonely, he’d sometimes cry.

His family seldom visited him
Waiting for God at the farm
They came once a month on a whim
In the hope he hadn’t come to harm.

Surrounded by others the same age
Old and infirm in their ways
Writing their last paragraph on the page
Waiting at the end of their days

Submitted: Sunday, May 19, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, September 11, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

For all those forgotten people in old folks homes everywhere.

Comments about this poem (Waiting for God by David Wood )

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  • Kevin Halls (5/22/2013 2:24:00 PM)

    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

  • Valsa George (5/22/2013 12:05:00 AM)

    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

  • Shahzia Batool (5/20/2013 12:16:00 AM)

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

  • Paul Brookes (5/19/2013 3:40:00 PM)

    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

  • Dave Walker (5/19/2013 7:25:00 AM)

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

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