Wednesday, October 1, 2014



AFTERWORD


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




This blog was produced on a Firefox browser   
 and looks best on one.




 * * *

A MIMETIC POETIC

         The best of verse becomes a meme:
         So brightly do its virtues gleam
         Of meter, imagery and theme
         That it approximates a dream
         Which makes things real that only seem—
         To fond applause and high esteem.
         (This verse, of course, is off that beam.)








*

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


EVOLUTION’S BLUNTED ARROW

      Though evolution’s arrow points through us
      To a species more evolved, less dangerous,
      We’ve proved to be a perilous stumbling block,
      To any wiser being a laughing stock,
      Who are, if we can find no way to mend,
      Most likely to result in a dead end.









*

Monday, September 29, 2014


FLOURISHING

        Good orderly direction is God’s way
        For human beings to honor and obey
        The calling of our heavenly vocation:
        To rise into that beatific station
        For which we’re born, our holy destiny,
        By realizing all we’re called to be.

        We each have talents we must exercise,
        For buried in our being deeply lies
        A soulseed that with tending comes to flower,
        Giving the world its beauty and its power.

        Ignoring it or failing to respect
        One’s native gifts will cause this dire effect:
        The withering of what has failed to flourish
        That rightly love and charity should nourish.








*

Sunday, September 28, 2014


LUCKY DUCK

          A frog is an amphibian because
          It lives on both the water and the land,
          But better yet is what a tribian does
          Who occupies the sky, the pond, the sand.








*

Saturday, September 27, 2014


SIT STILL

      What could be more imperative to know
      Than if you have a mission in this world,
      Some latent destiny as yet unfurled,
      Fulfilling which is how you’re meant to grow?

      If this be so, then how are you to hear
      That calling which innately summons you
      Or recognize what goals you should pursue
      Or find the roads along which you must steer?

      The certain way’s to find your inner guide,
      A source of wisdom deep within your heart
      With whose assistance you may surely chart
      The ways and means by which you must abide.

         Therefore, sit still and calmly meditate,
         And in due time you’ll realize your fate.










*

Friday, September 26, 2014


SPIRIT GUIDE

All right, let’s just assume that I’m allied
With some benevolent, wise Spirit Guide
On whom I might depend for sound advice
If I could only learn how to entice
It to appear or by some means reveal
Its wisdom in a way that I could feel—
By subtle signs or in a prescient dream
Where distant visionary prospects gleam.
The closest thing to evidence I know
That such a supposition may be so
 Is watching how my pen and mind can find
 The words with which this poem is designed.
    There’s something supernatural guides my hand,
    Presenting what no conscious thought had planned.









*