Thursday, June 30, 2011

Time and How We Use It

On le baathe-room walle
We skrybe
Observationes of ouer

From days we schouled
At home, averse to
Mumy's ruule.

We contemplatted, younge and
Sittting on ye olde commode.

Heavy things,

And somme
...notte sou'd.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Two Mottos

Hints of Overwhelming Negligence. Indifference Toward Vote Intransigence  

Keen Prose&Compost Motto
"One Sock, one drop of negligence; one missed vote, one sick land."
(I never knew how hard
It was to run a household well.
The more my orphan socks collect,
The deeper grows a nation's hell.)

Motto of Caen (Normandy, birthplace of Matilda, mother to Thomas a  Becket)
Un Dieu, un Roy, une Foy, une Loy.
(One God, one King, one Faith, one Law.)

The Dance of Death (This Chant Royal depicts a most complicated form of poetry in Northern France during the 14th century, though not as complex as the sestina, which was more popular in Southern France. [1] The form was often used for stately, or heroic subjects.)

After Holbein
"Contra vim Mortis
Non est medicamen in hortis."

Austin Dobson (January 18, 1840 – September 2, 1921), commonly Austin Dobson, was an English poet and essayist.)
He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith--
"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play."
There is no King more terrible than Death.
The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armed Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate;
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech* his chilling finger stay . . . [doctor]
There is no King more terrible than Death.
All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,--the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth:--
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
He hath no pity, -- nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnished and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:--
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,--at the sinking ray,--
In the last furrow,--feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray . . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright.
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness and decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,--
All these he leadeth by the lonely way . . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,
Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,--
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,--
When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,--
There is no King more terrible than Death.


Friday, June 10, 2011

Afraid of Mr. Beachcomber?

There were only two deletions made to yestdy's published letter to the OC Register. One of them seems to point to a good ol' boy rule among publishers to not 'dis each other.  (That 's laudable, but in this case, the decision was also likely borne from a desire to protect their reader - me. I dared to 'dis the editor of a local freebie news rag and lived to tell the tale. But not here...)

The letter was a response to a story lamenting tasteful clothing options available for young girls, but the writer's schtick is a Frumpy Mom personae, demonstrated by her ugly hat and glasses.

Here's the letter entire:


MarlaJo Fisher's treatment, Skimpy Now Stylish (LIFE section, 6/7/11), is an ongoing topic in our home, as witnessed by the attached photo image of the front of our refrigerator.* I only wish you'd chosen a respectable conduit for this important opinion piece/rant.  MarlaJo has thousands of frustrated counterparts out here who actively oppose retailers who flaunt underwear as outerwear (I refuse to wear Playtex, as they were first to break the sex sells sound barrier with bras worn by live models in the 70's), newspapers who advertise for sex/strip clubs (Mr. Beachcomber recently labeled me insane in a most unpleasant encounter), and boycott Victoria's Secret, where I once returned a perfectly wholesome robe, just because I hate their premise that sex is a recreation to be enjoyed by unmarried teens.  So, with all the sobriety that we put into these same lifelong convictions, we obviously cheer Fisher; but her frumpiness comes as a disappointment to those of us who want to be taken seriously.  While I love her writing and tenor, I hate that stupid hat.


Thank you for refusing the Strip Club advertisers, but what's with your ads for 'exotic ecstasy with young asian girl' massage parlors?"

Maybe the good editors at the Register did not want to "out" Mr. Beachcomber as the meanyhead he was during my visit to his offices.

Implicit in the removal of my "PS," however, is an unwillingness to own up to their own complicity in the sex industry. 

How else will old-school newspapers stay afloat?