Tag Archives: loss

And I will tell you “Celebrate!”

1 Dec
Photo by rickmester.com

Photo by rickmester.com

 

And I will tell you “Celebrate!”

By L. Stewart Marsden

 

And I will tell you “Celebrate!”

If no money in your pocket
Then because you merely have them
And they shall be filled again;

If no food stashed in your larder
Then because it shall be packed;

If no friends to gather round you
Then because you shall be loved;

If no comfort in the dark night
Then because the sun shall rise

And you shall stand tall once again

To give and drink and eat from plenty
To join hand in hand
Against the dark night
To celebrate the rising of the sun.

The man he used to be

17 Jun

 

 

 

The man he used to be

by L. Stewart Marsden

There were nothing left of the man he used to be;
the tone and taut were billowed out
and flapped about the wind, they did;
and he, bereft of youth’s young skin
and all the bravery within that lioned heart
once pawed the streets in headiness,
was now much less,
and, feebled by his raucous years,
had come to this:
maneless,
toothless,
friendless,
ruthless;
scattering all before his rasping roar,
not afeared, but chuckling o’er
the deep demise of
the man he used to be.

Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 17 June, 2014

Innocence Lost

2 Aug

Innocence Lost

by L. Stewart Marsden

I caught myself today reminiscing about childhood days long past — well, relatively speaking, that is. The Parthenon is long past.

I’m a part of that glut of baby-boomers who, when we grew up, had the world by the tail (see, even the expression is pretty telling). We could bike anywhere in town without our parents worrying. We played outside from dawn to dusk. We greased our peroxided hair into ducktails, and Converse high tops were $8 a pair. We flocked to the Paramount downtown for hours of big screen entertainment — cartoons, news reels, adventure series, and a swell grade B movie about blobs or Godzilla or maybe Gene Autry, the singing cowboy.

The edge of living was rounded and smooth — not cutting and dangerous.

Forty-fives ruled the teen tune appetite, with The Platters and Pat Boone and The Kingston Trio.

McDonald’s arches were new. And the sign read “Over 100,000 hamburgers served” at its beginning.

Radio was AM, crackling in and out as we drove along. And, speaking of driving — four and forty air conditioning: roll down four windows and go forty miles an hour. Seats were vinyl — cold in the winter, skin searing in the hot summer.

Baseball. Barbie Dolls. Mickey Mouse Club. The Captain and Mr. Green Jeans. Howdy-Doody.

The good old days.

So, I rue the passing of time in terms of the loss of innocence. It’s a rather boring theme, I know, to those who didn’t experience that innocence.

The past was not without its deep and dark drawbacks. Segregation. I remember the evidences of that, too, but more as a wonderment than as something that impacted me on a daily basis.

Perhaps every generation has its own time of innocence. I keep thinking that period of time has been accordioned down to a really short period of time, judging from the news and the culture of the day. Judging from how children are quarantined and protected against God knows what; how they spend their days, fused into various gadgets that allow them no alone time, no creative time, no boredom.

I’m still a bit biased in thinking my old days were the good old days. I morn the loss of scary movies back then that are pretty laughable today, when compared to the stark and gruesome film techniques of modern Hollywood. Very little left to the imagination.

And the accessibility via the internet of — well — pretty much anything you would want to see and a whole lot of things you should never know — in your innocence — exist.

So, here’s to Fabian and to The Day the World Ended and to Rock Hudson and Doris Day and to candy cigarettes and to National Geographic and to Norman Rockwell and to White Castle hamburgers and to roller skate keys and to penny loafers and to Greasy Kids Stuff and to a myriad of long-forgotten or fading or never experienced moments — the essence of innocence lost.