Moored to Oneself

 

 

To what are we moored

In this pluralistic time

Where everything seems relative

And jelly is spine?

 

No difference, it seems,

Between sand and rock

And one can pass for the other

Like dress and frock.

 

Nothing is steadfast

And we just float around,

Same difference, some would say,

Whether up or down.

 

To each his own reality-

That’s how he sees it,

No reference point or benchmark

Informs his habit.

 

Moored to myself

Makes me feel free

And it really does not matter

If I drift aimlessly.

 

No beginning, no end,

All one continuous bend

Riding the world’s merry-go-round,

World without end.

 

No reference-point

Nothing by which to gauge,

The entire world is just a stage

And I am its sage.

 

It’s me and me alone

Accountable to only me,

And my truth is as good as anyone’s

So, set me free.

 

 

 

Nothing is absolute!

Bear this in your mind,

One man’s freedom, my friend,

Is another’s bind.

 

It’s nothing topsy-turvy

If it works for me,

I am the centre of the universe,

And I am free.

 

My beauty is my beauty,

My truth is my truth,

Thus, my values are my values

And I am my proof.

 

My reason to be here

Is my own purpose,

It has nothing to do with anyone

Hence, it is just.

 

The survival of the fittest?

Call it what you may,

This means of all there is, I succeed

While all beside me fail.

 

 

 

I am moored to me:

Distinctly myself and I

And don’t you dare try to change me;

Don’t even try.

 

And so, I present to you

The world’s dilemma,

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

And each book its cover.

 

Thus, all things of beauty

But no distinctive beauty,

No benchmark by which a judge

Can perform his duty.

 

Many varying values

But no moral plumb line,

Morality and immorality are the same

Together combined.

 

 

 

A myriad of truths:

Yours and mine and theirs

But no truth by which to measure

What is just and fair. 

 

Different purposes

But no defining purpose

That rightly informs all of humanity

On his return to the dust.

 

From dust created He us

To dust we will return

And the sooner we understand this

The more we will learn.

 

God is the only absolute

By which all can be measured

And to ignore His divine blueprint

Is to miss life’s treasure.

 

Truth is at the top

Forming value and beauty,

Out of these emerges our purpose

That informs our duty.

 

 

 

Moored to the Rock

Though adaptive to change,

For to be moored to oneself

Is to be deranged.

 

Stewart Russell © September 17, 2025

 

If Looks Could Kill

 

Have you ever thought about this?

Sir, Dame, Mister or Miss,

What is the standard for good looks?

Do supply me with your sources or books.

We refer to someone as good looking

And to another person as ugly

By what standard do we measure?

Or from where do we derive this authority?

Someone has beautiful eyes or teeth

Another has a nice looking nose,

She has a most angelic face

And he looks so handsome in his clothes.

Her face could launch a thousand ships

His would stop planes from flying

And we are adamant that we can tell the difference

So much so that it’s no use denying.

Love at first sight is a result of a face

A face that brightens up our space

And before long we are head over heels

All inhibitions vanishing without a trace.

And it appears to me as I analyse each case

That short men like me could never be handsome

For it takes a tall man to be classified as such

In a contest a short man has never won.

I remember too when long hair was the thing;

I don’t mean bought extensions and such,

A girl was as beautiful as the length of her hair

But these days she does not have to have much.

There was a time too when short hair was picky

And knotted up hair was a crime

But now these are considered glamorous styles

In this era or modern time.

The benchmark has changed from time to time

And all of us seem to comply

For the measure by which good looks are measured

None of us dare deny.

  

There must be some built in device

By which each and everyone tends to agree

For whatever classification one person decides

It appears it is what everyone else sees.

Well, I have come to that place

Where for me nobody God has made is ugly

But some will laugh me to scorn

Because I consider that every girl is pretty.

But what is the use if beauty is only skin deep

And you hide away when you wake up from sleep?

Why, you would be one pretentious creep

And would live to regret it when he has his first peep.

More often than not, it’s a face upon a face

That hides up the first one without a trace

And when the first comes off and the next is revealed

It’s a case of mistaken identity once concealed.

If looks could kill I would be dead,

I didn’t keep your secret; I disclosed it instead

And now you are mad at me I know

But everybody is beautiful; God made us so.

Stewart Russell © 2016