Array ( [sid] => 24174 [catid] => 1 [aid] => Mick [title] => The Porch Sitter [time] => 2003-10-01 08:05:00 [hometext] => A poem about an old musician. [bodytext] => Here I go,
singing those old songs
I love again.
Soothing myself with the
ashy tones of my voice,
damaged decades ago by overuse.
I used to could hit them high notes.
I used to could fly.
Now my hands are warped and wrinkled
and crippled by my arthritis,
and I can’t even pluck out
Stairway to Heaven or Mary had a Little Lamb
on my guitar anymore.
The dust in my eyes has stained them brown
and bloodshot,
and it kills me to stay awake past ten.
I pay for my medication what I used to for rent,
so now I live with my loving daughter.
She takes care of me, most of the time,
but I can’t shake the feeling
that she sees me as a burden,
and not a love.
My wife died fourteen years ago today,
and I can’t help but wonder when the Lord
will finally reunite us,
but until that day comes,
I’ll be content sitting here,
going back and forth in my rocker,
singing those old songs I love,
and soothing myself with the ashy tones of my voice. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 170 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems ) Your Poetry Dot Com - The Porch Sitter


The Porch Sitter
Date: Wednesday, 1st October 2003 @ 08:05:00 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Butterat_Zool
Here I go,
singing those old songs
I love again.
Soothing myself with the
ashy tones of my voice,
damaged decades ago by overuse.
I used to could hit them high notes.
I used to could fly.
Now my hands are warped and wrinkled
and crippled by my arthritis,
and I can’t even pluck out
Stairway to Heaven or Mary had a Little Lamb
on my guitar anymore.
The dust in my eyes has stained them brown
and bloodshot,
and it kills me to stay awake past ten.
I pay for my medication what I used to for rent,
so now I live with my loving daughter.
She takes care of me, most of the time,
but I can’t shake the feeling
that she sees me as a burden,
and not a love.
My wife died fourteen years ago today,
and I can’t help but wonder when the Lord
will finally reunite us,
but until that day comes,
I’ll be content sitting here,
going back and forth in my rocker,
singing those old songs I love,
and soothing myself with the ashy tones of my voice.

This poem is Copyright © Butterat_Zool


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