A Poem : Hope for the Weary Old World
While driving along the Colorado freeway, I looked up at my mountains and was struck with a thought: no matter how the world crumbles, these mountains keep on being beautiful... how brave! Though the world is bent with sadness sometimes, there seems to be a deep down joy that will not be stifled. And so I penned this poem. Joy Clarkson
May 29, 2016
Weary Old World, lift your head.
The sun still shines, and I am in love with you!
Grace has not yet abandoned your bent frame;
Freeways and gas lines have not yet seen you tamed.
You still run wild in the quiet dawn's bursting,
Before men rush to their weeping and worsting.
Weeping Old World, wash your face.
Babies still laugh and you are my beloved home.
Hope still surges with the returning Spring.
Though causeless noise abounds, birds still sing.
Your iron will spits upon despair with blooming flowers.
Over sleepless, tattered cities, you cast the spell of golden hours.
Tattered Old World, Change your clothes.
The Bridegroom comes, and I'm invited!
Soon ends your timeless headlock with man's vexing moods,
For over the bent world the Holy Ghost still broods.
Evil is not forever and redemption comes not in halves,
So shake your verdant head, Old World, and dance for Joy and laugh.