The Good Old Days

How really were the ways
painted in poets’ plays,
the sunsets and the suns
set out in Cadmus’ songs?
The lyre, the ancient lays,
the sages’ interplays?
They covered countless wrongs,
the misery of the throngs.
The pauper now repays
the rich for serf’s harsh thongs.

I write on in my rhymes
about our former times,
to which some turn with awe -
misplaced nostalgia! -
to comment on the crimes,
the sweeps, the Mr. Grimes.
We’ve travelled very far
from carthorse to the car, -
though children still shaft mines -
few coal for railway lines.

The 'Good Old Days' it seems,
remembered from our dreams,
show slight reflection bright
when held up to the light.
So though now trouble teems
distorting climate streams -
as we are warmed at night,
asleep and tucked up tight,
dreams remain but dreams, -
Reality’s in...sight!

© Jonathan ROBIN robi3_0027_robi3_0000 XXX_JZX 14 December 1974

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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