I was browsing through my Writing directory and came across a folder I totally forgot about, called Poems 2000. These are poems I wrote around the year 2000 and after reading a few, I decided to review them and perhaps use them in a new poetry volume.
Here is one of them. Not sure what made me write it–perhaps an old man sitting on a park bench or memories of my father?
I hope you’ll enjoy it!
The Old Man and his Memories
He always walks the same street
stops at the same coffee shop
sits at his favorite table
looking lonely and somewhat boredToday is different; today his eyes
accentuated by the blue hat
are deep and longing
he scans the sky
as if he heard the spirits of lost friends
converse with one another
somewhere above the evening clouds
He’s holding a long-stemmed rose
a perfect bud of red with white tips
who knows which young girl
took pity on an old man
quite decently dressed
alone and possibly ill
the blotchy skin
one edge of his mouth drooping
and the hands unsteady
signs of a past stroke
Perhaps he’s thinking of that night
he walked along the beach
of the flecks of gold on the horizon
of his wife, long dead,
who used to love sunsets
of his married daughter who lives in France
and the grandchild, a girl with long dark hair,
who sends him letters in French
he barely understands but
delights in anyway
I don’t have it bad
he probably thinks
a place to live
a few friends
you can’t ask too much at my age
an occasional phone call from overseas
the usual invitation to come and visit
We’ll take you to Paris
didn’t you always want to go there?
No, not anymore, not without his wife
it would be too sad to always be reminded
how much she would have enjoyed it
more than he who’d really rather stay home
but he would have gone to please her
but now there is no reason anymore
His daughter and the family come to visit
once in a while for a few weeks
the young girls passing by the coffee shop
remind him of her; she used to have long hair
braided the French way
Tonight, perhaps, he’ll sort out
the old photos in the cardboard boxes
and stick them into albums
which he had been planning to do for a long time
only to abandon the task
feeling the life flow out of him and settle
in memories of past adventures
past loves
Sometimes, before falling asleep,
voices from within the bedroom walls
convince him that someone is still alive there
He’s smiling now
a slightly crooked smile
one corner of his mouth pointing upwards
the other one hanging down.
