Monthly Archives: May 2013

Reflections on Beatrice Arthurs Bosom

In the news lately was the tempest-in-a-teapot over a twenty year old painting of actress Bea Arthur topless, when she was in her sixties.

Of all the ills our era suffers from, we have been spared the horrors of a shortage of  images of womens breasts . Civic minded ‘artists’, relentless photographers, and  desperate editors, strive tirelessly to insure that no one can travel from stoop to curb without being smacked in the face with the newest proof that Ms._______ does indeed have a BOSOM, as do three and a half Billion of her sisters on this sad, old Earth. Having seen countless thousands of these proofs over my lifetime, I can state authoritively that they look remarkably similar to each other.

In the early sixties, there was a movie, the title escapes me, about a man married to the worlds foremost Bikini model. He never saw her fully clothed; she was either in a bikini for a photo shoot or lounging around the house nude or nearly so.
He was the envy of every man.
He spent his time daydreaming of her dressed in long flowing  gowns, or bright sun dresses, once I think dressed as a Nun.
It is the ancient curse of Man that he yearns for what he does not have, and tires of what he does.

There is an odd passage in the Bible, Proverbs I think;
“Be content with the breasts of the wife of your youth.”

To the great relief of artists, photographers and desperate editors, people don’t read the Bible much anymore.

Three men at the Tomb

                Three men at the Tomb                             

                                 by W A Adams

Three men at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

My Father, My brother and me

At the post, day or night

For all eternity

 

Building the Tomb was my father

Who taught us to face the storm

And turn it aside if we could

If not, To keep others from harm

 

In the Tomb is my brother

Who went to take my place

I hear his heart beating still

Though I cannot see his face

 

In front of the Tomb is a pathway

I walk every day and each night

Behind,  thousands who came before

Ahead, those not yet in my sight.

 

I do not stop for the rain

It is only my father’s tears

I do not stop for the snow

It is only the long empty years

 

That my brother might have lived and sang

Of the joy that was in his soul

But he is in his tomb, and I’m on this path

That the world may see and know

 

That he  never will be forgotten

Through the rain, the snow, or the years

So long as brother loves brother

So long as fathers have tears.

Should We Have Dropped the Bomb on Hiroshima?

Report From The Front