Colin F. Jones


You would not see me passing in the street,
Limping on my aged diabetic feet,
You would not cast a glance upon my face,
For in this world it does not have a place.
Yet if you took the time you’d find me kind,
Always willing to give but never take,
Quite aloof and shy you would find,
But strong of will of that make no mistake.
You’d find a man with no boat to row,
Just a quiet man who goes where he might go,
But lacking drive and purpose of desire,
For life has quenched the flames of his fire.
For now I watch the days before me flee,
For growing old is far from being free.

In being down at least one must agree,
The only pathway left is to arise;
Even raised to the level of one knee
Is beneficial to the one who tries.
Too oft a wounded warrior forgets his place,
Reliant on the nurse who tends his wounds,
Which will devour his stamina with disgrace,
Confine him to more bitter shameful glooms.
Without a stick we walk when absent are,
Such props we use because they are always there,
Striding with new confidence afar,
Away from all the anguish and despair.
Sometimes it takes another’s ailing face,
To restore the crippled hunter’s faded grace.