When he’d be suppin’ stout, he’d smoke his pipe,
A quietly sort and quiet he be, at peace.
He’d watch the world go by in all its hype,
But he of no concern, not in the least.
For he to while away, himself engage,
Where he would dwell in dreams of yesteryear,
When he did long to act upon a stage,
A part perhaps, in Oscar’s Windermere.
But he with horse and plough to till the land,
His father’s son, a farmer born was he,
So he remained at home, a helping hand,
No finer farmer he’d become to be.
And now, though old and worn he’d lay a bet,
Though still a dream; he’ll be an actor yet.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: October 24th, 2026 06:55
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, Cheeky Missy, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments4
A lovely caricature of a man of the earth that still, although old, has dreams. Set in wonderful rhyme and colloquial vernacular it sets a peaceful but unresolved mood. I suppose that we all still carry dreams with us despite our age. Although they may no longer be of a sports stare or a hero in war they carry on with our desired image. Nicely written my friend
Yes, indeed, Soren, we'd be lost without dreams. My ones are mostly outrageous but I enjoy them and free of charge. LOL. Delighted you dropped by, you are always welcome here.
Wishing you good health and happiness'
Tony.
You are very welcome Tony and it is always a pleasure visiting your work may your day be full of joy
Tony, as someone who has pursued creative passions alongside the responsibilities of everyday life, I can certainly appreciate this. Sometimes our dreams take the long way around, but that doesn't make them any less worthwhile. Thank you, my friend! 🌾🎭🍂🙏
Hello, Tristan,
Keep dreaming, my fine fellow, who knows, some day the flower will bloom. Lovely of you to drop by, truly.
Wishing you much happiness.
Tony.
There’s a warm, gently wistful charm here, portraying a quiet farmer whose outwardly ordinary life never quite extinguished the theatrical dream he carried from younger days, with the stout, pipe, and plough grounding him in a world he accepted without entirely surrendering to it. “Though still a dream; he’ll be an actor yet.” is the keeper for me, because that final turn gives the old man a lovely spark of defiance, reminding us that the body may grow worn and the years may narrow our choices, but the imagination can keep raising its curtain.
Hello, Thomas,
Your sincere admiration for this old farmer finds me delighted, a lovely reward for writing this sonnet and I am most grateful.
Wishing you all the very best,
Tony.
Such dignity love your last lines too. 🌹
Hello, Teddy,
Hard toil, dignity and dreams, a man amongst men. Very kind of you to drop by.
Wishing you well,
Tony.
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