Jack Worthington Poems

Feeling down, I look around at the world passing before me
The sun on its fatalistic arc, streams light through aluminum blinds
A fading afternoon, where nothing was done but wasting time
I slip on my shoes and sunglasses, and then grab my keys.
...

Standing tall on the arid desert floor
An ancient young man throws his arms to heaven
He cannot shout our names but knows us through our brethren
Standing there, year by year, a man of native lore.
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Tell me what's real, I need to know
For what purpose I don't know, perhaps to grow, but who knows
I remember that town, an arid place, where only people grow
That valley, where the sun in all its glory shows, so acidic on the soul
...

Throughout the ages past and yet to come
In an ocean of pride and cynicism
Hearts filled with truth are never undone
Just as light comes through a prism.
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Papers strewn about, victims of callous thoughts gone nowhere.
I remember a time, seems so long ago, before our world went asunder.
No weeping, the room is silent, my heart sinking heavily into my chest.
As I remembered that time, when the radiant sun, danced around your dress.
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The golden sun set over the crest of the big foggy mountain
In it's wake, a thousand shades of green slowly turned grey
The leaves of oak unfurled wave goodbye to the midsummer day
Still damp from the noontime rain, dripping like a fountain.
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His heart sank with the sun as another day passed
Light streamed through panes of glass to touch the floor
Casting ever longer shadows that covered the door
He reached for his keys tripping over a cord
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Long ago but just yesterday I knew a man who flew
In a town so far away where the nights became the day
The sun shone so bright on this city made of clay
Our dreams were big, the day long, and the city new.
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Seven years ago a vow was made
Even then, she seemed quite afraid
Concerned her hair stayed in its braid
On that morning before the day began to fade.
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He said he was from Colorado, then from Texas
I'm still uncertain from where but somewhere out there
Where the dust clowds blow in the summer air
Many small towns are out there, where America despairs.
...