Poetry Pleases: The Old And The New
Young can't bring in the young by throwing out the old says Glen Taylor, as she reflects on the arrival of a pony-tailed new minister.
We've got a brand new minister
Who's full of new ideas,
Long greasy hair in pony tail
And clothes straight from a jumble sale.
Ideas flow out fast from him.
That goes out and this goes in.
Hot rock music is the game,
As very few of us remain.
Let's have this merry chorus,
He shouted out, with glee
To the six old sitting stoics,
Back as far as they could be.
He beats the out of tune guitar,
Singing flat and prancing far
And the six, now standing, stoics, stare
And, silently, a frown do wear.
The ghetto blaster blares out loud.
The young crowd, they should be around,
With dread locks, crew cuts, torn tee shirts.
But the six old stoics wear tweed skirts.
'Time to move and groove' he'll shout,
As Heavy Metal beats it out.
But seized up joints and groggy knees
Just make the stoics sit and freeze.
The sermon tells them they are damned,
And in hell's fire they'll all be crammed.
He shakes their hands, not knowing names,
As they go off on zimmer frames.
Ah well, they think, as it does end,
Our memories will our woes amend.
'See you next week, if I am spared,
Your turn for coffee on the third.'
The moral of this story,
If I may be so bold,
Is, you can't bring in the young
By throwing out the old.
Afterthought ( Optional.)
Perhaps this priest, alone, at last,
In empty church, his ideas past,
Hears in the rafters laughs of those
Who polished brass, arranged a rose.
Maybe he hears the choirs sing
And through the roof the organ's ring.
The joy of children gathered there,
When told to pull the bell 'with care.''
Perhaps one day he'll realise
That from the old the new arise.
Not all at once, and in one go,
And, like the stoics, at the back,
We realise this one great fact,
That God above has never changed
And in His house, His peace remains.
