Colin F. Jones
Those who are desperate and lonely,
Those who are crippled and chaired,
Those who have no one to care for,
Those who have still not repaired,
They are the unseen who suffer,
Lying in alleys and lanes,
Drinking whiskey and port for their supper,
Trying to drown their debilitating pains.
They are the shattered and fallen,
The unloved the scorned and the shamed,
Who were born with the defects birth gave them,
Now are by them crippled and lamed;
Who have no one who cares much, I fancy,
Such as good hearted people like Nancy.
‘Tis just a shack some thirty miles from town,
Along a track of potholes formed by rain;
The trees are solemn all there gazing down,
Upon this sanctuary of memories and of pain.
Here lives a hermit a solitary man and strange,
Who cries at night and hides throughout the day
A Vietnam Veteran a man who cannot change;
He has no wife no children with whom to play.
None cherish him; none give him love and hope,
None seek him out to share his loss of trust,
His torment is his alone with which to cope,
On the track there are no footprints in the dust.
Some lose their way and need a guiding hand,
But they who help sometimes don’t understand.
©Copyright February 25, 2002 by Colin F. Jones
This poem is a response to, “What Can We Offer” ~ ©Copyright February 24, 2002 by Nancy L. Meek