Sunday, November 29, 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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                 When one’s last breath is fatefully expired,
                 Is there a spirit still that then remains
                 To prove a living body’s not required,
                 And many odd phenomena explains?

                 Suppose the soul’s then in another zone,
                 A spiritual dimension we can’t see,
                 No longer tethered to one’s flesh and bone,
                 Experiencing a new reality,
                 Which some have keenly seen while briefly dead,
                 Before resuscitation brought them back
                 To claim that angels, spirits gently led
                 Them toward a light that suddenly went black—

                      When they returned to Earthly consciousness,
                      Which then seemed not advancement but regress.



                    The spirit, soul or essence that is life,
                    The breath we breathe as long as we’re alive,
                    The power that makes such animation rife
                    Is something more than accidents contrive.

                   That life originates from more than chance
                   Implies the presence of a guiding hand,
                   A providential gardener who plants
                   The seeds of life for reasons he has planned.

                   It seems that we especially are made
                   To ponder this essential mystery
                   Discovering how the game of life is played
                   And why it is that we have come to be.

                       The universe arrived at consciousness
                       In us, who’ve yet to prove that spells success.


Saturday, November 28, 2015




                     The deepest mystery we recognize
                     Is how the Universe has come to be,
                     And yet for all our science it defies
                     Our fruitless probes into Reality.

                    Yes, science has revealed some of its laws
                    That chemistry and physics have explained,
                    But still we have no knowledge what first cause
                    Brought it all forth, and how it is sustained.

                    Good Orderly Direction, nicknamed GOD,
                    Has given rise to our mythology
                    That postulates we have been made from sod,
                    The artifact of a grand deity,

                          For it seems simple logic to suppose
                          That ultimately like from like arose.


Friday, November 27, 2015



                    When I’m inclined to ponder all there is—
                    The wonder, joy and marvel of it all,
                    An occupation that will make you diz-
                    zy as you view all things both great and small,

                   Then I am overwhelmed with ecstasy,
                   An exaltation mystically induced,
                   A glimpse into a new Reality
                  That makes me feel from human bondage loosed.

                  Once only did such exaltation lift
                  Me utterly beyond my normal state
                  And seemed to be a supernatural gift,
                  A source to motivate what I create,

                       Though ever after, when I’ve most desired,
                       I can access that source and be inspired.