The Old Man

This is one of the first poems I ever wrote. It’s one of very few from my teen years that I am still fond of.

I sit and stare
At the wrinkled man,
His gnarled face
And spindly arms
Never move or sway.
Not now.

I try to talk 
To the old, wise man.
He merely stays silent - 
Not even a whisper.
Not now.

I try to protect 
The kind, sleeping giant.
He does not think 
Or know what I did for him.
Not now.

I stand my ground
For this pillar of strength.
He does not think 
Or know what he did for me.
Not now.

And then they came
To take my friend away.
But he did not struggle.
Not then.

He went in peace 
As they cut him down.
His leaves will never whisper;
His majesty will never rule again.
Never would he sway in the breeze,
Or creek, or crack, 
Or just stand and think
Never again.

Dedicated to my grandfather: Ronald Kendall

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