Sunday, July 5, 2015


Gentle Reader,

What you’ll find below is an upside-down anthology of sorts: a journal of my frequent morning musings from January 2008 till now, in reverse order.

Much of what I write here is verse in traditional rhymed iambic pentameters, old fashioned in form but contemporary in topics and idiom. It asks to be read aloud so that the effects of rhyme and meter may be felt.

Sometimes I write brief prose essays, but even my verses are essays, or attempts, pursuing a line of thought to some conclusion, though more sonorously than those in prose: discursive verses, I call them.

In either case, you’re the reader over my shoulder as I write, which makes my writing different than when I have no audience in mind but only a vague urge to express. So I thank you for whatever attention you give my words and thoughts and feelings because you might so easily attend to something else, and you soon will.

To beguile you to linger longer, though, I’ve coupled most of my compositions with a photo or image I’ve taken or borrowed, which often corresponds with my words of that day.

Thank you for visiting here.  I hope you enjoy your stay and are moved to come back soon.

—Alan Nordstrom

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               Sometime in the early morning hours,
               July the fifth, while most were deep asleep,
               Some fool lit a bouquet of bursting flowers
               That must have made our startled neighbors leap

               From their snug beds, as much appalled as we:
               The normal fireworks of July four
               We tolerate with equanimity,
               But such egregious ruckus we deplore.

               “Come on, you fuddy-duddies, get a grip;
               It’s still the weekend of this holiday,
               And I’ve some extra doozies to let rip”—
               Is what I might imagine he would say.

                    I heard one neighbor shout into his yard:
                    “May you—you fool—be hoist by your petard!”


Saturday, July 4, 2015


               To take for granted this abundant wonder
               Of consciousness and grand intelligence
               We own would be a monumental blunder,
               Clear evidence of impercipience.

               The proper way instead ’s to celebrate
               The gift with which our species is endowed—
               No better way than working to create
               That which would make our own Creator proud.

               Good Orderly Direction brought us here
               Endowing us with capabilities
               That in no other creatures now appear
               And opportunities that we must seize.

                    Our calling and our duty then is plain:
                    To compensate for our original stain.


Thursday, July 2, 2015


               To take the marvel of all life for granted
               Instead of seeing that the world’s enchanted
               Is to commit a most atrocious blunder
               When what’s appropriate is wonder—WONDER!


Wednesday, July 1, 2015


               How all this came to be inspires awe:
               This world, this life, this consciousness, this wonder,
               And yet for all our glory we’ve a flaw,
               Which makes one think our Maker made a blunder.

               Or is it, rather, we’ve a way to go
               And have implicit purpose to reveal
               And that our species is designed to grow
               Displaying virtues errors now conceal?

               Adventure seems the purpose of it all
               And revelation of some destiny
               Implicit in the first creatures to crawl
               Now manifesting in humanity.

                    If we shall truly realize our end,
                    There’re glaring errors humans must transcend.


Tuesday, June 30, 2015


               A walk with Gyp and Tiggy on their leads
               Is always an adventure for their noses,
               The landscape like a news report each reads:
               Reports of poops and pees more than of roses,

               But best of all is sniffing out a bone
               Chucked from the window of a worker’s truck
               Snatched on the sly and savored as her own—
               A putrid, gross, delicious slimy snack.

               Good luck on wresting such great treats away
               From the clenched jaws of either of these girls
               Growling protectively if you should try:
               You’d think these bones were precious gems and pearls.

                    One way is to negotiate a trade,
                    So bring a treat: that’s how a deal is made.


Monday, June 29, 2015


“Realizing that our consciousness is immortal would give us the assurance we need to experience joy in living and tranquility in dying.”
—Ervin Laszlo

               How is it that mere matter grows to mind,
               Or are things quite the other way designed:
               Mind being perennial and giving rise
               To all above and all beneath the skies?

               Then when we die, our minds re-elevate
               To their primordial, perennial state
               Awaiting possibly another round,
               Another destiny toward which they’re bound.

                    And so mind cycles through eternity
                    Then manifests just now as you and me.