Saturday, May 30, 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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* * *


               Let’s not forget: the Universe made us,
               Which reasonably implies there’s life elsewhere,
               A happy reckoning, not ominous,
               For if we meet, we’ll have much good to share.

               Forget the science fiction aliens
               With conquest and destruction on their minds;
               Those who come here are bound to be our friends
               With nothing but inquisitive designs.

               And once we’ve learned how to communicate,
               Think of all the stories that they’ll tell
               And all the information they’ll relate
               Of where they’ve ventured and where others dwell.

                    And, best of all, how they made warfare cease,
                    Finding the cosmic paragon of peace.


Friday, May 29, 2015





               What seemed to be the truth of things when I
               Grew up is changing now, the theories
               Describing cosmic matters are awry,
               Although no strict materialist agrees

               Because it’s reckoned now that mind comes first,
               That through the cosmos there’s intelligence,
               The matrix from which everything’s disbursed:               

               Instead of randomness, intrinsic sense.

               “The mind of God” religionists once called
               What now appears a true phenomenon:
               As former reckonings are overhauled,
               A mental essence proves our paragon:

                    Whatever is appears to be designed
                    And manifests from this amazing Mind.


Wednesday, May 27, 2015


               At first there’s little that I have to say,
               But soon a line arises in my mind
               That starts me galloping along my way
               As it grows clearer how my thought’s inclined,

               For poetry’s about discovery,
               And at the start there’s no way I can know
               Where after fourteen metered lines I’ll be:
               I boldly write and watch the poem grow

               Until the ninth line, where I’ll take a turn
               More certain now, but not entirely sure
               Of where I’m headed, for I’ve still to learn
               What point I’m making as my lines grow fewer:

                    Verse is a vehicle that takes you where
                    You never know you’ll go until you’re there.


Tuesday, May 26, 2015


               “What kind of dog is that—the little one?”
               Folks ask me as I walk with Gyp and Tig—
               A prompt for me to have a bit of fun—
               They mean our Tegan, who’s just six pounds big.

               “It’s only on the outside that she’s small,”
               I say.  “Inside, her ego is immense.
               What kind of dog?  One who’s ten inches tall,
               Who’s lovingly laid back, but then intense.

               “Her breed’s a Mi-Ki, which must be a mix.
               What dogs,” I ask, “do you think she looks like?”
               “A Yorkie?  Papillon?—those ears transfix!
               A Pomeranian?  She’s such a tyke.”

                    “Those are good guesses, but as for myself
                    I think, besides the others, she’s part elf.”