What’s Wrong with the World

The men signed of the cross of Christ go gaily in the dark.


What’s Wrong with the World is dedicated to the defense of what remains of Christendom, the civilization made by the men of the Cross of Christ. Athwart two hostile Powers we stand: the Jihad and Liberalism...read more

Tuesday Verse

Behind every ring of the old cliché
“We’re not getting any younger,”
Heard constantly today —

Is a terrible secret
Which, baffling the modern mind,
Lies concealed inveterate.

The surface truth, plainly enough,
Admits not of gainsay or dissent,
Seems to well conclude the stuff.

Yet gradually does it appear,
To focused reason, to rooted thinking,
That few errors indeed are more dear

Than this: supposing little children,
Like sad small adults, sunken and downtrodden;
Oppressed by the burden —

The burden of approaching expiration:
The old serpent with his death,
And his gospel of acquisition.

For with the laughter in falsetto
That filters down the hall
To our tired ears comes also:

News that falsifies the old cliché
By reminding the dull adults,
That slow-witted cretinous company —

Recalling to their minds
What bad theory took away
And cliché unjustly confined —

That we’re all getting younger
Indeed every last one,
Whose destiny is bound up with the young’uns.

For a newborn babe,
In becoming a three-year-old,
His awakened mind lacks naught but age;

Or a cute little girl
On the verge of being well and truly
A young woman, for all men a flag unfurled.

‘Tis simply true that a child youth gains
Brains and body age
But hardly become decrepit or tamed:

O the child in growing youth gains
In him society procreates
In his flowering the cliché faints.

Every parent, no matter how aged
Or oppressed and dragged down
Need only think to his child as a babe

To say to himself in all truth
That “younger indeed I’m getting:
The babe in my arms was proof.”

Comments (3)

A concealed inveterate truth indeed.

Just reading it makes me feel younger; I love it.

Thanks, Paul.

Very nice!

I discovered more proof just without a frosted pane:

Snow Wonder

He stood barely three feet tall,
Though knowing Leah, he was a she-
And it's hard to tell with snow people,
From their backside especially,
Which is how I was viewing her-
This marvelous creation wrought
In the front yard one snowy morning
When school, though in session, was not;
I worked at home that stormy day
And at computer, upon my seat,
Momentous things did I observe
Without which our world is incomplete;
Each one of us knows the process,
Each one of us has rolled the ball
Then formed and patted and reformed,
Perhaps cursed when the head breaks or falls,
But this time I saw something special:
Leah, like Michelangelo,
Somehow imparting herself to
This sculpture, this person of snow;
As permanent as a snowball,
A puddle just waiting to be,
Into which she inserted coal
And, lovingly, felled limbs from a tree;
I went to the window, so nearer
I might be for to see, with such boon,
For ever so faintly, upon straining,
I could hear her humming a tune;
Now she would add a little here,
Smooth, and after tilted head glance,
Chisel out a little more there,
Not willing to take the chance
Of snow person lopsidedness;
To be sure each modification
Was precision, as if laser cut,
Adhering to some specification;
I consulted the ANSI spec
And volumes that felled many a tree
In search of that precious wisdom
But found naught, for it is especially
Dear and really can only be found
In one place, which one cannot know…
Unless content to be kneeling
Before a three foot person of snow

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