Tuesday, November 24, 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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                    The weather’s cool and Gyp would rather be
                    Outside in the back yard than here with me
                    And Tig, or so she thinks, but soon her bark
                    Proclaims she’s grown weary of her lark
                    And wants back in.  Perhaps the chirring squirrels
                    And chittering birds who all upbraid our girls
                    Have gotten on her nerves and changed her mind
                    And now for warmth and quiet she’s inclined.
                    “All right, old girl, then come on back inside,
                    Or stay there on the porch—as you decide.”
                    She came right in and took my handed treat,
                    A Greenie nub, which she plopped down to eat,
                         Which meant that Tiggy too got her reward
                         For doing nothingjust for being adored.


Monday, November 23, 2015


                                           If you fall in a bush,
                                                 Then an azalea
                                           Is better than a briar,
                                                  Which will impale ya.



                    What matters more than what you may believe
                         Is how you have decided to behave,
                    For ideologies often deceive
                         And many a True Believer can deprave.


Sunday, November 22, 2015


                    For writing all these poems, I suffer from
                    Dissociated sensibility
                    As waiting for some apt ideas to come,
                    My mind explores its inner galaxy.
                    Were this free verse, I’d feel no such constraint,
                    My mind allowed to rove in any way;
                    I would not need the patience of a saint
                    With no such regulations to obey.
                    Yet, even so, I would not change my style
                    Because this kind of versing is a game
                    More entertaining, fashioned to beguile,
                    Which is, for poetry, its foremost aim.
                         By craft and subtle art, we poets strive
                         To leave behind some wonders that survive.



                    “F**k your dogs!” he shouted from his car,
                    Idling in the dark across the street,
                    While Gyp and Tig, each twinkling like a star
                    With blinking safety lights stood near my feet,

                    And then he roared off, having no reply
                    From me, aghast at his discourtesy
                    And scorn, and for no reason I could spy—
                    It must have been long-festering misery.

                    “Who knows what evil lurks within the hearts
                    Of men?” the Shadow said on radio
                    When I was young, or how such illness starts,
                    But likely it arises from deep woe.

                       I’m sorry for the pain that shadowy man
                       Must suffer from, a modern Caliban.


Saturday, November 21, 2015