The Beggar Man

The Story of the Post: This poem was written in 1991. I used to argue with my English teacher that when some people could set their reason to rhyme, there was no need to use the term "poetry" for words without rhyme. Then one day, I saw this really old man sitting on the road side and I wrote this. I meant to write this as a prose piece, but realized it was more poetry than prose. I ate crow.

The Beggar Man

The dusty road meandered
Past old worn out, dried trees.
The empty tin can rattled;
The only coin in it seeking company,
Like any other lost soul.
Lost, in the darkness of a void.
A void unfathomable and frightening.

A pair of feet passed by.
He sat there, still,
Very still;
The wizened old man.
The pain dulled eyes
Stared unseeingly into the
Little clouds of dust raised by feet.
Feet scurrying to and from God knows where!

The tin can picked up courage
And voiced its complaint.
Still more feet.
Denser cloud.

The courage turned to boldness.
A louder protest issued forth
from the very bottom of its being.
The listless eyes in the wrinkled face,
focused with difficulty on the legs.
Legs busy.
Legs uncaring.
Legs unfeeling.

The can now pleaded.
Pleaded piteously.
The man's voice reinforced the plea.
Not with a word,
Not with a cry -
a mere, almost inaudible grunt.
Old worn out hands
shaded the now pleading eyes,
as the upturned face caught the full
wrath of the morning sun.

Feet. More feet.
Now rushing, almost at a run.
One trod on his stick.
From somewhere above came a
hurriedly flung apology that
was lost in the crowd's hurry
and the man's senile reflex.

The tin cried now. Openly.
Feet flew past.
Clouds thickened.
The eyes blinked.
And then it all subsided.
The final cry, waning slowly
into a small "clink".
Then...
Silence.
The clouds settled.
No more feet.
A whimper from the disappointed throat.
The eyes again unfocused.

The dusty road meandered
past old, worn out,
exhausted trees.


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