Old World New ~ Philip Brent

Spinning stories so I may begin to understand
Walking within a sheltered wood, artist’s view
Pine needles slip beneath my steps and recall
Soft, changing winds, tires on newly-fallen rain
Ideas from distant time, till this one, right now
Our own insights or through eyes, ears, hands
As composers, artists, writers interpret our life

They might not fully comprehend what comes
The new exists not in the past times, but future
What eyes could see van Gogh, ears hear Ives
Heralds, dazing senses, scandalizing sensibility
Until a yet unborn prophet conquers our fear
Our vision clears and truth floods our corneas
Hear an unsung hero, an ugly duckling to swan
Till the world’s not blind; it’s us who won’t see