Giving

Every day in the park,

he shared.

Scattered crumbs,

the happy chirruping

of his fellow party goers

a symphony to his ears;

whilst at his feet, leaves swirled

in approval, becoming alive again.

Passing by, there were those 

that understood,

those that didn't.

But all nodded a greeting,

somehow assured

by his metronomic presence;

the lightness of feathers

surrounding him like a halo,

'It rained today,' someone said

to someone else, their footfall
receding as time slipped.
'Bit of a chill in the air,

but he was still there.'

'Yes, he must be lonely,'

came the reply from someone

who didn't understand.

'Still, as long at is makes

him happy, and the birdsong
is rather pleasant.'

Then, one day, early autumn,

as shadows lengthened

and days became shorter,

he wasn't there.

A puzzle to those who

didn't understand;

especially when the birds

still chirruped and the

leaves swirled, as if waiting.  

'I expect he's passed away,'

someone said to someone else

after a week had gone by.

'He was pretty old wasn't he.'

"Yes, but he was never lonely,'

someone who understood replied.

'Giving does that for you.'

Reviews

[Eilis]

There is something unsettling in the ways that we look at things outwardly, but don't put ourselves in a position of responsibility to respond to them in any real way. Your poem makes me think of homeless people and the thin thread that keeps them alive at times, and how we might feel uplifted to see some sign of hope or outward gesture connected to them, but then just go about our lives as though they don't exist. As though they are a television program that can be turned on and off when we need the exposure.

I was listening to the radio the other day and a fortunate woman was talking about being inspired by how a homeless woman helped her to repair her shoe when she was walking down the street and the heel of her boot broke. And the way she spoke of the woman in need as some kind of other thing from herself and the fact that she allowed the woman to help her but did nothing in return--it really hit me in a primal place and made me realize how self-absorbed we can be as a species.

So, your poem is great because it offers this portrait of a soul who gives daily because it sustains something within him, but also because of a selflessness within him. But you offer a counter view of the outside observer who sees and understands the situation in a certain context but always remains hands off. Why are others not inspired to give once the man has gone away? Do we believe it is always someone else's responsibility to fill in the gaps? These are great questions you raise here, Beccy. I always enjoy your forays into these philosophical questions of life.

[Norman 223]

Living in a area where there are so many widowed and retired people, we are surrounded by dog walkers, and this is the saving grace for many of them as a brief chat leads to a regular companionship, which still proves to be a boon in these days of enforced isolation. Being near the sea, gulls tend to rule the roost, which does not endear them to bird lovers.
Your moving poem highlights the indifference that can exist in big towns where everyone is too busy to see outside their own life.

Norman

[Jibey]

A moving scene which which vividly captures the solitary existence that is enjoyed by some, who somehow find a way of giving meaning and purpose to their lives. I guess we often fail to understand the state of mind of others who live in different circumstances. The gentle flow of words and insistent repetition underpin your insight and empathy. The moral hit home.

[lakinbob]

Beccy. I don't really have much in the way of words to do justice to this beautifully wrought and quite thought provoking poem. Sufficient unto the day, that I leave with a lighter step and a gladdened heart.

Such excellent writing.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This is beautiful in thought and word. I can't live without something or someone to care for. It's the crux of my existence. I've had animals and plants and gardens and wives and two baby girls thirty years apart. I cared for my mother the last five years of her life. My last child was born right after my 54th birthday. Someone asked me how I could just "start over" at that age. I just said, I'm not starting over, I'm only continuing. I love your poem.

[Chris Shaw]

These are the characters I find most interesting. These are the stories that need to be told and these are some of the people that I find I have to stop and talk to. Loved this story Beccy. It reminds me that any one of us could find ourselves isolated from the mainstream.

Chris

[Ballpark Frank]

This is a beautiful story of hope and giving. I like how it's written too !

[barleygirl]

On the surface, this may seem like a pleasant well-written commentary, but I'm feeling a bit of biting satire between the lines. To me, this speaks of all of us (me included) who walk right by people who we deem to be too insignificant in our lives to stop & talk & get to know them, but we entertain ourselves with our presumptuous running commentary, could be over years, of how we think this person's story goes. To me, this seemingly empathetic story is not so much about the guy scattering crumbs as those watching while "social distancing" (ever notice how people have been social distancing for millennia, but it's only horrible now becuz we have to) . . . This is a superbly thought-provoking poem! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Beccy]

You are very perceptive; it's why I talked in my poem about the difference between those who 'understand' and those that do not.

Beccy. x

[Jimmy Yetts]

A wise and lovely portrayal; invaluable for daily contemplation.
Between our typically inconspicuous arrival to this plane and relatively abrupt departure,
what we give to family, friends, acquaintances represents our truest legacy.
Lonely are the takers.
Exceptional work, Beccy!

[Lorry]

Yrs it does. And to how many, whether feathered or just a nod, smile, hello... the simplest gesture may seem simple, but not to those who felt a comfort from such simple interactions of being noticed, which he was in his absence.
Might not mean much to must, but everything to someone.
Nicely penned.