Monday, February 20, 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 



                    When, shortly after rising in the morn,
                    And tending to our dogs and their concerns
                    I come to sit here where my poems are born
                    To find which way my seeking spirit yearns
                    Some dream or figment, memory or notion
                    Before too long will render up a theme
                    And, shortly after, set my pen in motion:
                    A recollection or perhaps a dream,
                    Which turns, just past midway, toward clarity,
                    As comprehension of my bent then brightens,
                    And what’s implicit clearly comes to be,
                    A presence that reveals, sometimes enlightens,
                         Out of the twilight, now at last in day:
                        What was mute and inchoate has its day.


Sunday, February 19, 2017


                    So gentle, sweet, adorable, this pup
                    Who lies between our heads in bed at night
                    And sleeps till morn, waiting till we get up
                    To start her frolics in the morning light
                    By chasing squirrels when I toss out nuts
                    Into the back yard, shortly after dawn,
                    With Tiggy harassing their fuzzy butts
                    Making them scurry all about the lawn,
                    Until I lure her with a Greenie treat
                    To come back to the house with prospects of
                    A bowl of Royal Canin set to eat,
                    As further evidence of our dear love,
                         Which she has won by being her sweet self,
                        A pup who is part Miki and part elf.


Saturday, February 18, 2017


                    It’s morning, so this eager sonneteer
                    Has sat down in his half-cocked easy chair
                    To see what happy notions will appear
                    With contemplation and assiduous care,
                    Two requisites for how a sonnet grows,
                    And here, as you now see, the poem begins
                    As with its movements, inspiration flows,
                    The poet deaf to any outward dins—
                    The barking dogs, descending planes above,
                    The clattering of trucks on his brick road,
                    And even the anticipation of
                    His breakfast with his growling stomach’s goad,
                         But now, at last, this sentence-sonnet may
                         Conclude and, satisfied, he’ll start his day.


Friday, February 17, 2017


                     "Video-video-video," sings the bird
                     Outside my window as I write this verse,
                     Which, if this bird sings Latin, then that word
                     Proclaims, “I see,” a message clear and terse,
                     Instructing me in what a poet, too,
                     Alert now in the morning, ought to do,

                    Except my calling is to gaze inward
                    And search for what imagination sees,
                    Some linkage of ideas that’s occurred,
                    A notion that in form and sound agrees,
                    Yet this achievement only very few
                    Have both the wit and talent to pursue.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017


                      Happily, I have this interlude
                      Most every morning just to sit and brood
                      And add to my accumulating batch
                      To see if yet another verse will hatch
                      Of poems for this year’s Verse Chronolog
                      Before it’s time to take the dogs to shog
                      Along their morning walk in Baldwin Park

                      Their always much-anticipated lark.

                      It suits well, then, that so pedestrian
                      A topic such as this should ‘scape my pen;
                      Tomorrow, though, may inspiration flow
                      Into my torpid brain so I may show
                      That I have something with more wit to say,
                      Although such inspiration failed today.


Monday, February 6, 2017


                                 If football is a game that evolved
                                 To teach hunters,
                                 Then what game evolved
                                 To teach gatherers?