HOW TO WRITE DESCRIPTIVE
WRITING ON A OLD MAN
A presentation all about it
The idea of words to describe a old
man’s face. (in their levels)
winter-white smoky- riverwizened desi fossilized mummified
Hair
powder-white grey gun silver
s ccated
metal- alt-andgrey
pepper
Eyes
aged
b milky
jaded
fatigued
brumous
nebulous
lood-flecked
water crow’s feet way worn
y
Beard
a
spade Abe
Captain
Moses
Methuselah
goatee
shaped Lincoln Va Ahab Socratic
a Galway devil’s ndyke
fork
Walk/movem limping unst drowsy flagging leaden
let vapid
listless
ent
eady
wiltin spiritless hargic
g
Clothes
dusty
shabby tatty
musty
s tattered
threadbar
moth eaten
scruff ragged oiled
e
y
Fingers
crooked tw inflamed knotty mi hoary
gn rheumatic
gout
isted
contorte sshapen arled
inflamed
d
Smile
friendly ple angelic megawatt vivacious capti electrifying
asant
amiabl terawatt vating
scintillating
e
Bright eyes twinkling spa gleaming galaxy- fulgenlambent as bright as
rkling
glintin blue cerul
a jackdaw
like
g
ean-green
earthshine pools
Voice
weak
ile
frag feeble trembling bird
Quaking quavering
flims faltering shell brittlea
y
gravel-andsyrup voice
Example on level 2 (on grandmother)
My grandmother is the nicest person I know. She makes those
beautiful chocolate éclairs that all grandchildren love and she is
very generous with them. Her hair has is gunmetal grey and is long
and lush. Sometimes her eyes can appear milky when she is tired
but usually they are gleaming with energy. Her face can
appear world weary at times also but usually she is active and
alert.
Every Saturday she walks the two miles into town and then she can
appear drowsy in her movements on the way home. In the winter
her fingers get slightly inflamed from the cold but she says it
doesn’t hurt her. I have never seen her wear shabby clothes and
they are always clean and fresh. She has the most angelicsmile I
have ever seen and, even though her voice can appear feeble at
times, she is very healthy.
Example on the level 4
Reading the newspaper today made me laugh out loud. It also brought back a memory that I thought had been buried forever. Let me paint the scene for you…
It was roughly fifteen years ago on Christmas Eve. The snow was falling in a cloud of Merlin-white and the air was beautifully cold. It wasn’t the skin-biting pinch of a windy day, more like the
powdery cold of a crisp, refreshing Alaskan snowfall. I was standing outside the front entrance of a shopping mall in New York, enjoying the high spirits of the shoppers as they swarmed around
me. My mother was inside getting some Christmas presents. I suppose I was about fourteen at the time.
There was a homeless man in the middle of the street weaving his way through the traffic. I could only assume that he was homeless as his actions and clothes were bizarre. He held a brown, paper
bag in one hand and he would occasionally put it to his mouth to take a drink from the bottle within. The other hand was being used to make obscene gestures and to thump the bonnets of the
honking cars. All the while he issued forth a string of obscenities and vile curses. Not just your ordinary curses either. This guy was threatening the motorists that the milk would curdle in their
fridges’, their food would turn to sawdust and that he would render them barren and infertile for eternity. He was like a one man comedy show with the outrageousness of his performance.
He had a strange appearance, almost as if it was contrived. His hair was wizened and straw-like, nearly fossilized it was so dry. He had sad, way worn eyes and a distinctive beard. It wasn’t a
thick, captain Ahab beard but rather something a lunatic might have: straggly, unkempt and spittle flecked. His face was toil wornand tanned from exposure to the elements and he walked with a
weary, lethargic air until he would suddenly explode in a burst of rage. His fingers were gnarledand knobbly and the clothes he wore were musty and minging judging by the reaction of the
people he passed. Their noses would crinkle in disgust and they would peel away from his presence. I don’t want to sound pass remarkable and over critical in all this but he was a truly unpleasant
character. What made it worse is that he made a beeline to where I was standing.
I shuffled uncomfortably as he approached. His eyes seemed to laser in on me as if I was his target for the day. His voice was surprising, a gravel-and-gravy mix of whiskey roughness and
educated brogue.
“Hey kid-gotta buck to spare?”
He seemed very gentle, a complete contrast to the South Park character I had witnessed earlier. I normally didn’t entertain vagrants or weirdos but I was so grateful he wasn’t shouting at me that I
gave him the first note out of my pocket. It was twenty bucks. I felt a pang of regret then as it was part of my money to get Christmas presents. He looked at the note and I remember that he said:
“You’re a nugget, kid. God bless all generous and good looking people.”
With that he was off. He zigzagged his way across the street, screaming at anyone who honked. I saw him going across to another shop front and that some old lady was giving him money. That
was the last I ever saw of him. Now my eyes drifted to an article in the Obituary column of the New York Times. The caption was ‘New York’s Unlikeliest Billionaire.’
‘Died Monday, aged 65. Lloyd ‘The Tramp’ Carson, heir to the Carson Steel empire and notorious practical joker. Lloyd, who was a dedicated actor and keen observer of human life, liked nothing
better than to dress up as a vagrant and shout insults at his fellow New Yorkers. Although knocked down twice as a result of these escapades, he played out the role until his last day on this earth.
His last words were known to be: “You’re a nugget, man. God bless all good looking people.” Indeed, these are the exact words which shall be on his epitaph as per his wishes.’
It is believed that Mr Carson has left an estate worth north of $1.7 bn. As he does not have any immediate family, speculation is mounting as to who shall be the beneficiaries of his largesse.
Rumours abound that he had a team of private detectives following him and they would discover the identities of people who were particularly generous to Mr Carson’s alter ego. It may be
another urban myth, of which New Yorker’s are particularly fond of, but sources at the New York Times are adamant that Mr Carson intended to pay back those who had a generous spirit.
I laughed out loud again as I finished the article. He was most definitely a character, this guy. I had to hand it to him. He knew how to get a kick out of life.
I thought nothing more of it until a letter arrived three months later. Then I didn’t laugh at all. I cried with happiness
Descripition of an old man
I'm writing this in a crisp, white hospital bed. I'm getting old. So many things are getting worse: my
joints are creaking, shrieking with pain; my hair is getting greyer everyday; my memory is going
now but I still know what I want. Lying in a ward for elderly patients, I don't want to be here. My
daughter forced me, my Doctor forced me. Why can't they mind their own business and let me die
peacefully in my own home? It's what I want. The first line of my Will reads,"After dying peacefully
at home, I leave..." That will never come true now. I'm too weak and feeble to go home. All this has
been made worse by the medication they are pouring into my veins. I hallucinate, I forget things
but I still remember every vivid detail of how I got into this state-into this ward.Huddling by the
scarce warmth of the gas fire in the hospital waiting room I knew what was coming next. The
Doctor would emerge from the room next door and tell me I was dying. I didn't need to be told. I
have known for months now that I am fading away. It was just the way I wanted it to be; to die
peacefully at home, no-one need ever know that I was suffering. That dream, that one last wish
flew out of the window when my rude, disrespectful daughter drove me to the hospital in the next
town. I didn't want to go. In fact I didn't know I was going.'Let's go for a drive, Dad.' WOW! That
sounded lovely; 'perhaps' I thought 'she loves me after all'. No such luck, I should have guessed. I
thought I was going for a nice peaceful drive in the countryside, something to take my mind of my
aches and pains. My happiness, however, dissolved as we entered the hospital car-park. She
forced my shuffling, old body into the hospital on a wobbly walking stick. She introduced me as
only my daughter would,“My old, ill father would like to see a Doctor." When had she ever asked
for my opinion? She didn't even stay with me. I was stuck then, no money for a taxi and no hope of
being
Despair
I sit in the pit that has become my world, the only decorations my own nail
marks on the walls I cannot scale. Though I know there is light at the top it feels
a million miles away and, were it not for him being down here with me, I
wouldn't even try. Every time I reach out with love to someone up there,
someone I hope can throw a rope, the floor sinks a little lower, jolting my body
as it stops - crushing me with a new pain, another abandonment. Perhaps now
is the time to realize it isn't me I'm supposed to get out, it's him. And so I let my
eyes become accustomed to the darkness he has dwelled in these many years
and see that intermingled with the marks of my own nails are his too, older
though, the blood long dried. And then I know, he gave up because there was
nothing else for him to do and that the best day of his life was when I fell in
there with him, our tears running together. I'll get him out, if it's the last thing I
ever do, I will. Because that's how I know I can love like I was born to, that I can
put another first even when my winter is at its darkest. For I am never truly
empty, when I spend my last "penny," I always get just one more. This is how I
know who I am, and so even this despairing pain can be seen as a gift, a
chance to know what I'm made of - to earn my own respect.
Task

Write 4 paragraphs on the description of this
picture?
Write a description on this image shown above?
My description the task….
As I slowly walked through white, snowy mist,I felt inhospitable as it
was a glacial night. The dark,deary sky looking straight to my eyes,
the day couldn’t get any dauting as it was crespucular. I was the
only soul walking down the watery road. The moon was giving off
it’s blazing, luminous light to show the lane. As I came nearer to the
grave yard , my heart was pounding tumultuous, I ceased; for one
moment, I saw a shadow looking towards a grave and then after a
blink of time it was truant. The gates were opened to the graves, the
mist(clouds) covered the walls of terror, the entrance was guarded
by two trees that only had branches,and no leaves looked like living
long hands.
Propaganda means
This is short but you could write about 2 pages on the picture.
(you reminds of propaganda)
information, especially
of a biased or
misleading nature, used
to promote a political
cause or point of view.
The main task
write a description on this image
War of the worlds
https://www.youtube.com/
watch?v=xAz8xb8yD-o
Watch the clip
https://www.youtube
.com/watch?v=rYG
WG2_PB_Q
watch the
movie
The description