POEM of the DAY (17)

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ARE WE

a product of our times

AND LIMITED THERETO?

.

THE SAGE

often says so. He could be right. He’s very much into rum and baccy himself and never above casting asparagus at the mores and means of an age (ours) that in theory should be quite beyond the ken of of a simple seventeenth century pirate (deceased). Yet he stays afloat and my rum crock is ever endangered.

FOR MYSELF

I watch with cynical eye the transience of fashion. And what is life, if not entirely fashions? Fashions in art, fashions in science, evolution of styles in dress—hemlines go up and down, say some, in accordance with the heartbeat of the Economy. But at last I see a glimmer of hope for an old dog, grounds for optimism … ladies’ hair.

NO EXPERT, ME

on the topic but nonetheless a lady’s hair should frame her face, complete her aspect, and enhance her femininity. This across the board—I see no reason why even the gayest of gay ladies (such a waste!) should style themselves on Arnold Schwarzenegger on a bad-hair day (but then again, I have a different perspective). To each his/her/its own.

So I love long hair.

On a damsel.

Soft, silky, long, flowing, catching the airs and snapping like petulant pennants in the breeze—I’m a romantic, so sue me—and obviously well tended.

THANK HEAVENS

this current fashion for looking as if they’ve been chewed by rats is now dying the death it so desperately needs. ‘Rat locks’ is how I describe it despairingly to my sympathetic Spouse. She agrees, ratty is a negative enhancement that served to attract attention “Look at ME! I’m different!” only for the daring originators and the First Wave. Latecomers reveal themselves for what they are, unoriginal, a bit pathetic, unimaginative and slavish. I imagine that if the right trendsetter were to bash a few of her teeth out and display her new face as the cutting-edge of fashion there’d soon be sheeple teeth all over the place (and many ladies fpeaking like thiff).

TRUE BEAUTY

comes naturally to the young. It’s a gift from the gods every bit as much as life itself. But young lacks experience, young is arguably at the wrong end of the great trade-off that is life.

Experience accumulates and (sometimes~!) morphs into Wisdom. The price can be high, it’s an inverse exchange; the hills get steeper and once-distant horizons loom closer as sagacity piles on. In making our trades we follow a well-worn track around the standard bell curve—as was succinctly noted by one Charles Kingsley a hundred years ago—

When all the world is young lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among —
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

—Charles Kingsley

—and although a lot has changed since then the basic formula hasn’t. He called it and he hit the mark.

THIS POET

has obviously seen enough of life to know what he’s about.

AND I’LL GUARANTEE

that his wife didn’t have blasted rat-locks!

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CARPE DIEM

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