Sunday, October 4, 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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                    It isn’t so much birdsong that I hear
                    Out the back door, although it comes from birds,
                    But rather it’s a caucus moved by fear,
                    A tone expressed almost as clear as words.

                   Some renegade (most likely it’s a cat)
                   Is prowling in the yard upsetting them,
                   An agile and a stealthy acrobat
                   Possessed by some malevolent stratagem.

                   But suddenly it’s silent.  Danger’s passed.
                   Then all the ordinary sounds resume
                   With no more malefactors to be sassed

                   And nothing signaling impending doom.

                       The squirrels now caw and chitter as before
                       With nothing any longer to deplore.



Saturday, October 3, 2015


                         Utopia’s a place that never was
                         And yet we must imagine it because
                         A better world than ours will never be
                         Without the guidance of a fantasy
                         Envisioning what we might realize
                         By cultivating mores that are wise.

                        A Global Wisdom Culture would entail
                        Customs where love and sanity prevail;
                        Instead of greed and heedless practices,
                        Cooperation is the emphasis,
                        Concern that everyone be well supplied
                        By all that generous natures can provide.

                            Utopia’s a place that yet may be
                            But only if we’re ruled by charity.



Friday, October 2, 2015


                              If only we could be enough profound
                              To find a way to Heaven on the ground
                              Instead of seeking for it in the sky,
                              We’d have it here and now, not by and by.


Thursday, October 1, 2015


                    The Miller, Pardoner and the Wife of Bath,
                    Among the sundry other pilgrims on
                    Their way to Canterbury, rode a path
                    Of immortality, and though they’re gone
                    (Or never were indeed), what Chaucer did
                    Imagining them, undying now in verse,
                    Will never be forgotten (God forbid!)
                    Since each new generation will rehearse
                    And relish what may seem like history
                    But flowed from an imagination steeped
                    With lore and colored by rich fantasy
                    So when well read, off from the page it leaped,
                    And now and ever after will delight
                    Our hearts and our imaginings excite.


Tuesday, September 29, 2015


                    While many feel the power of belief
                    To comfort and console them in their grief,
                    Supposing that a Godly power above
                    Can heal them with the goodness of His love,

                   Not everyone can muster such a faith
                   But finds incredible a holy wraith
                   With supernatural power and loving care,
                   Despite what ancient holy texts declare.

                   Yet I'd not be so careless to ignore
                   What millions have been joyful to adore
                   Because they found relief and happiness
                   In what their true believing could redress.

                        Affirming that each has a sacred soul
                        Is the best way to keep one’s body whole.