Friday, March 24, 2017

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 





                    What tale is there, from this our time, that could
                    Compare with one of yours, O Bard of yore,
                    That, were it dramatized, as surely would
                    Arouse a captive audience to adore?
                    What Hamlet or Othello, Lear, Macbeth
                    Have we to mount our stage and captivate
                    Our ears with passionate and glorious breath
                    That we’ll hereafter praise and contemplate?
                    No longer now does poetry prevail
                    To lift our spirits to enraptured heights,
                    But rather now prosodic scripts assail
                    Our weary ears, revealing no insights
                        Compared to yours into the heart and soul
                        Of our humanity—true drama’s goal.


Thursday, March 23, 2017


                    How can I best employ my intellect
                    To amplify the cosmic logosphere
                    And cause the most significant effect
                    That through my ardent efforts might appear?

                    Is it by versecraft that I’ll demonstrate
                    A wit and wisdom worthy to sustain
                   The hearts and souls of hearers and create
                    A visionary world, a higher plane?

                   If this may be, I’ll try to tune my mind
                   To visualize keen insights from above
                   Of how an elevated humankind
                   Would always live in wisdom and in love.

                        This verse, contrived in slumberous ecstasy,
                        May prove, I hope, a true epiphany.


Sunday, March 19, 2017


                    Before the beginning, when only nothing was
                    (Or wasn’t, to try to say it properly),
                    Because, of course, there was then no because,
                    Because there was no cause and couldn’t be—
                    But then there was, as even now it does:
                    May it continue to infinity!


Friday, March 17, 2017


                     I woke up early morning to pure bliss—
                     It’s fading now, but I remember this:
                     That it is what is called “beatitude,”
                     The most exultant human attitude,
                     What mystics claim is Cosmic Consciousness,
                     Attaining which is ultimate success,
                     The highest state there is of human being,
                     Equipping one for supernatural seeing
                     And access to a transcendental world
                     Where universal secrets are unfurled.
                     Once, in my youth, I found this cryptic place,
                     Discovering, for the first time, perfect grace,
                     The memory of which has lingered on,
                      A priceless pearl, a soulful paragon.


Thursday, March 16, 2017


                    A Shakespeare sonnet always starts with               A
                    Delightful sense that very soon you’ll                      B
                    Enraptured with a witty mind at pl                            A
                    And that there’s nowhere else you’d rather              B
                    Yet though you’re now intrigued, you’re still at         C
                    As to its purpose, though the melo                           D
                    You find beguiling, so you’ll wait and                        C
                    If it’s for real or slapstick come-                                D
                    Provoking laughter or monoton                                E

                    Composed by someone sharp-eared or tone dea    F
                   A masterpiece or a monstrosit                                   E      

                   By  a meat grinder or a master che                            F
                        The craft-work of a skillful prodi                            G

                         Or something needing an apolo                           G