Sunday, September 25, 2016


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



                          We’ll see tomorrow if New York’s tycoon
                          Is a contender or a big buffoon,
                          And if on that same platform Hillary
                          Will topple Trump or find a pillory.


Saturday, September 24, 2016


                 The sound of distant hammering reminds
                 Me, though it’s Saturday and barely eight,
                 There’re people up and following designs
                 Because there’re always projects to create,
                 Which now inspires me to put my hand
                 To work, albeit in a gentler kind of way,
                 Nor following a blueprint duly planned,
                 But finding as I write what I’ve to say.
                 But now I’ll turn from what’s still incomplete,
                 Because our dogs have grown imperative
                And want their walks, but first something to eat,
                And what they ask for, that I’ll always give.

                     But, hark, the hammering’s paused: he’s on a break
                     And so I’ll follow suit—my leave I’ll take.


Friday, September 23, 2016


                         I don’t believe there’s aught I ought to say,
                         Not something new, arriving just today;
                         In which case, I’d be better off to stay
                         Silent—merely invoke the Muse, and pray.


Monday, September 19, 2016

                           Goodness is not an object but a way,
                           A practice that you follow every day,
                           Nor is it something you just merely say,
                           But deeds that harm and suffering allay.


Sunday, September 18, 2016


                    Soon, off we’ll go to take our walkabout, 

                    Gyp, Tig and I, but not until this verse
                    Has ambled through the wilderness I scout
                    In seeking what I have to say as I rehearse
                    The possibilities that rhymes present
                    And tread the narrow path I slowly find
                    On which I’ll seem inevitably bent
                    Arriving where originally inclined.
                    The truth, however, is quite otherwise:
                    I’ve little notion when I start my poem
                    Where I am headed for as I devise
                    The clearest passageway to take me home.
                         This done, the dogs and I may now proceed
                          Out on our walk, on which I’ll let them lead.


Saturday, September 17, 2016


                 It’s shortly after dawn, and as I sit,
                 The early planes above make their descent,
                  So now my game’s to shape lines meet and fit,
                  A feat on which my mind is wholly bent.

                 The dogs have had their outing to the yard
                 While Kimmie’s still upstairs asleep in bed
                 Dreaming of scenes in which our dogs have starred:
                 It’s they, not sugarplums, that fill her head.

                 And now it’s they who’ll ride this sonnet out,
                 A presence in our lives to celebrate,
                 But if I am too long at this, they’ll shout:
                 “It’s walkie time for us!  Your poem can wait!”

                      Let’s see if I can wrap this up right off
                      Before they come to me to plead and scoff