Rambling Crazy Old Woman

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December 15, 2017
park bench

The Rambling Crazy Old Woman was created because my perception is that some of the “normal” people think that we are crazy.  After an intense therapy session in which discussing old age was the subject, I was driving home and the poem began to take shape.  In probably an hour’s worth of time, the poem was done.  I thought a lot about the poem and realized that it wasn’t the whole story.  Thus I wrote “I Don’t Mind”.  As I grow older, I have made a choice to become more of the woman that is reflected in the poem “I Don’t Mind”.

Rambling Crazy Old Woman

Going it alone,
Growing old,
Not much fun
Not Remembering.

No one seems to care
To really be my friend.
To them, I’m crazy old woman
Rambling on with nonsense.

Talking to yourself,
Finding anything, something
To make yourself
Feel good and alive,
To find worth in who you are.

When I am gone,
Will they remember or care
That they didn’t come to see me:
That I was all alone?

Dying isn’t fun or easy.
It hard knowing
That the reaper is coming
And night is here.

What will they say,
What good did she do,
That crazy old woman
That no one cared about?

So, night, maybe I should embrace
The end and close the door.
For its been open
And no one seems to care.

No one walking through the door
Saying, “Stay a little longer
I want to hear that story
What did I miss when I wasn’t here.”

Oh, yes, you say I forgot
Not enough hours in the day.
I have my priorities
Besides you, you say one more time to me.

It’s just that rambling crazy old woman
Who no one cares for.
Just as a child and just as old lonely woman
The night has come.

And so has the reaper:
“Come in, come in
I’ve been waiting for you
But can I bring a few things?”

A blanket to stay warm,
Flashlight to shine a way,
A picture of grandkids
She never knew.

Purple is the dress,
A walking stick to help along the way.
Ache for what should have been
An ache – aloneness in who I am.

Not much fun growing old,
Not much fun doing it alone.
But let me open the door, reaper
And walk me through the night.

I Don’t Mind

There are people who say
There she is again:
The crazy old woman
Who rambles on and on.

Yes, I am that she,
But for the first time
I like me and don’t care
If people think me strange and crazy.

I do enjoy many things
Which I was afraid to be.
Before I had on a ‘face’
One I thought you wanted to see.

Oh, but my; am I happy now.
I love walking sticks
The color purple, of course,
And talking to complete strangers.

I love leaving an impression,
One that people will remember,
A uniqueness, a difference
Of a strange, crazy old woman.

Yet, I know for sure
I put a smile on their face.
For craziness and strange
Is an inner self of each other.

People also put on a face
Of one that really isn’t them
For talking to stranger
Is not just for them.

You see that one they wish
They had the courage to be.
Of craziness and talkative
And having the time of life.

For I like making your day.
Walking sticks,
And the color purple,
Babies, clouds and pretty flowers.

Oh you say, “But that not a flower
But just a colorful weed,
Growing here and there,
One that they are tempted to leave.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
A weed, yes, but
Oh so colorful and free.
Just like happy content me.

A colorful crazy old woman
Who has survived the worst,
And I just don’t care anymore
‘Cause I am, at last, free.

Free to be
That crazy old woman!
Arlene Passer

Arlene Passer

Arlene L. Passer was born in 1949 in Traverse City, Michigan. She is a college graduate, a proud mother of five children, a novice poet, and a journalist of her own childhood experiences. These are the writer’s first poems describing her personal struggles with depression and her growth through recovery. Arlene’s passion for art includes making jewelry and wreaths in her spare time. She lives in Southeast Michigan.

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