Tuesday, April 25, 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 



for Ervin Laszlo

                    I am assured, by those who’ve grown wise,
                    That all that is will never cease to be
                     (Despite what custom leads us to surmise)
                     But in a Field resides eternally.
                     What now seems disparate and out of touch
                     Remains always in this Akashic realm,
                     And such awareness rescues us from much
                     Torment that otherwise would overwhelm
                      Our equanimity and cause despair,
                      Since now we know what is will ever stay
                      Available for humankind’s welfare,
                      And Heaven’s where our souls forever play.
                           Akashic consciousness reveals how we
                           Can live with God in blissful ecstasy.


Saturday, April 15, 2017


                    The birds of morning greet the glints of dawn
                     By piping orisons into the skies,
                     As squirrels begin to scamper on the lawn,
                    And soon the frolicking of butterflies
                    Will signal that the blooms of early spring
                    Are blossoming, exultant, bright and gay,
                    Up-lifted by the orisons they sing,
                    A balm to winter’s torpor and dismay—
                    Likewise, my heart is light and I must sing
                    A sonnet that shall celebrate all this
                    Uplifting of our spirits to new heights,
                    Even to the pinnacle of bliss,
                        Exultant in this grand, ecstatic trance
                        That blithely stirs my rising soul to dance.


Tuesday, April 11, 2017


                    My highest calling now is to create,
                   To exercise my art in poetry,  

                   By sitting as I do to contemplate
                   How meter, matter, sound and sense agree
                   While I depict the subjects on my mind
                   Discovering, as way leads on to way,
                   How novel artifacts may be designed
                   That sense and sensibility display.
                   Without the challenge of this daunting form,
                   I’d not be prompted to discoveries;
                   Such provocations set ideas a-swarm,
                   Which is one of life’s happy mysteries.
                        A couplet here will make this poem complete,
                        This tumbling gymnast landing on his feet.


Wednesday, April 5, 2017


                               With little insight or capacity
                               For thought, much less sagacity,
                               He stumbled on in his audacity,
                                Clueless still of his opacity,


Tuesday, April 4, 2017



Monday, April 3, 2017


3 APRIL 2017

                    This day, each year, recalls the happiest time
                    That ever I have known in all my life,
                    A day when chapel bells began to chime
                    Proclaiming we were joined as man and wife—
                    Now thirty-five years since, and we’ve come far
                    And traveled happily along our course,
                    While led always by heaven’s brightest star.
                     The Love we learned from our immortal Source,
                     And even though my health is not the best,
                     My hopes are high we’ll be together long
                     And always celebrate how we’ve been blessed,
                     Which is the purpose of this annual song:
                         You are my dearest Dear, and may I be

                         The same to you throughout eternity.


Saturday, April 1, 2017


                 What will we in a hundred years have done
                 Advancing still our human enterprise
                 As, spider-like, from sapience we’ve spun
                 A web that proves we have at last grown wise,
                 Transcending those inanities that now
                 Portend our imminent catastrophe
                 But then a better prospect shall allow,
                 Fulfilling our potentiality?
                 Contention then shall yield to compromise,
                 All parties striving for each other’s good
                 For only then may our race realize
                 The transcendental benefits it should
                      When humankind is properly aligned
                      With that intent for which we’ve been designed.   


Friday, March 31, 2017



                    ·       (US) IPA(key): /ˌkætəˈwɑmpəs/, /ˈkætəˌwɑmpəs/


                     catawampus (comparative more catawampus, superlative most catawampus)

                       1.     Out of alignment, crooked, cater-corner.
                       2.     Fierce, destructive.


·                      (out of alignment): askew, awry, crooked, off-kilter
·                       fierce, destructive): destructive, fierce

 * * *

                    I rather doubt that anybody has
                    Included cattywampus in a verse:
                    So now, without ado or razzmatazz,
                    Let me, then, be the first one to disburse
                    This word into the world of sonnetry
                    To find out how it fares where Shakespeare walked,
                    And if it proves a bumptious refugee
                    Soon doomed to be ridiculously mocked,
                    Or chances to inveigle some support
                    From connoisseurs of this exalted art,
                    Appealing to the whims of that cohort
                    As something to be savored, quite apart
                         From diction that’s traditionally enjoyed,
                          But now is cattawampically deployed.


Tuesday, March 28, 2017


                    What are we here to do but realize
                    The essence of our homo sapience,
                    Which means our human mission’s to grow wise,
                    And that potentiality’s immense;
                    Yet, even long ago, in ancient Greece
                    And with the sages of the Orient,
                    Wisdom arose to bring our forebears peace
                    By straightening out their woeful, wayward bent
                    Reported in old scriptures as our Fall,
                    For which we’ve henceforth suffered to this day,
                    Failing to acknowledge Wisdom’s call
                    But living forlorn, cast off and astray,
                        Until new revelation leads us well
                        Toward heavenly bliss, beyond this ghastly hell.


Friday, March 24, 2017




                    What tale is there, from this our time, that could
                    Compare with one of yours, O Bard of yore,
                    That, were it dramatized, as surely would
                    Arouse a captive audience to adore?
                    What Hamlet or Othello, Lear, Macbeth
                    Have we to mount our stage and captivate
                    Our ears with passionate and glorious breath
                    That we’ll hereafter praise and contemplate?
                    No longer now does poetry prevail
                    To lift our spirits to enraptured heights,
                    But rather now prosodic scripts assail
                    Our weary ears, revealing no insights
                        Compared to yours into the heart and soul
                        Of our humanity—true drama’s goal.


Thursday, March 23, 2017


                    How can I best employ my intellect
                    To amplify the cosmic logosphere
                    And cause the most significant effect
                    That through my ardent efforts might appear?

                    Is it by versecraft that I’ll demonstrate
                    A wit and wisdom worthy to sustain
                   The hearts and souls of hearers and create
                    A visionary world, a higher plane?

                   If this may be, I’ll try to tune my mind
                   To visualize keen insights from above
                   Of how an elevated humankind
                   Would always live in wisdom and in love.

                        This verse, contrived in slumberous ecstasy,
                        May prove, I hope, a true epiphany.


Sunday, March 19, 2017


                    Before the beginning, when only nothing was
                    (Or wasn’t, to try to say it properly),
                    Because, of course, there was then no because,
                    Because there was no cause and couldn’t be—
                    But then there was, as even now it does:
                    May it continue to infinity!


Friday, March 17, 2017


                     I woke up early morning to pure bliss—
                     It’s fading now, but I remember this:
                     That it is what is called “beatitude,”
                     The most exultant human attitude,
                     What mystics claim is Cosmic Consciousness,
                     Attaining which is ultimate success,
                     The highest state there is of human being,
                     Equipping one for supernatural seeing
                     And access to a transcendental world
                     Where universal secrets are unfurled.
                     Once, in my youth, I found this cryptic place,
                     Discovering, for the first time, perfect grace,
                     The memory of which has lingered on,
                      A priceless pearl, a soulful paragon.


Thursday, March 16, 2017


                    A Shakespeare sonnet always starts with               A
                    Delightful sense that very soon you’ll                      B
                    Enraptured with a witty mind at pl                            A
                    And that there’s nowhere else you’d rather              B
                    Yet though you’re now intrigued, you’re still at         C
                    As to its purpose, though the melo                           D
                    You find beguiling, so you’ll wait and                        C
                    If it’s for real or slapstick come-                                D
                    Provoking laughter or monoton                                E

                    Composed by someone sharp-eared or tone dea    F
                   A masterpiece or a monstrosit                                   E      

                   By  a meat grinder or a master che                            F
                        The craft-work of a skillful prodi                            G

                         Or something needing an apolo                           G


Thursday, March 9, 2017


                      The birds of morning greet the glints of dawn
                      By piping orisons into the skies,
                      As squirrels begin to scamper on the lawn,
                      And soon the frolicking of butterflies
                      Will signal that the blooms of early spring
                     Are blossoming, exultant, bright and gay,
                     Up-lifted by the orisons they sing,
                     A balm to winter’s torpor and dismay—
                     Likewise, my heart is light and I must sing
                     A sonnet that shall celebrate all this
                     Uplifting of our spirits to new heights,
                     Even to the pinnacle of bliss,
                          Exultant in this grand, ecstatic trance
                          That blithely stirs my rising soul to dance.


Wednesday, March 8, 2017


                   “ZOO-kia, ZOO-kia, ZOO-kia, ZOO!”
                    Shouts a bird in our backyard as I settle down
                    To write my day’s poem, by the dawn’s early light,
                     Unaware of its species, unable to see
                     This mysterious singer who’s haunting our yard
                     But has planted the beat of this rollicking verse
                     That I’m now endeavoring to rightly rehearse.


Tuesday, March 7, 2017


                    Leaf blowers and lawn mowers fill the air
                    With raucous sounds and hubbub to deplore
                    That keep my Muse at bay and cause despair
                    At this feindish mind-rattling uproar:
                    What is an ardent poet to do but cringe
                    When on his meditation sounds like these,
                    Such raucous cacophonics now impinge
                    Afflicting him with tremulous disease?
                    Nothing but pray that soon this blare abates
                    And finally his muddled mind may clear,
                    So what a poet dreams and contemplates
                    May come to view and a new verse appear.
                         Well now, at last, that raucousness has gone
                        And I may find fresh thoughts to ponder on.


Sunday, March 5, 2017


                  I’m ready now to summon up my Muse
                  In hopes she’ll scatter out before me clues,
                  As I throw nuts out to our backyard squirrels
                  Who then are chased by our two doggie girls,
                  And as I sit here listening to them squawk  
                  Atop a palm, proclaiming that a hawk
                  Or other predator is stalking them,
                  Which it is their sworn duty to condemn—
                  Though now tranquility returns, and I
                  Can ruminate and see what thoughts apply
                  Until a phrase occurs and patters on
                  In a pentameter not pale and wan
                       But zippy, like the squirrels that I’ve observed,
                       Who leave you fascinated, though unnerved.

Saturday, March 4, 2017


A Sentence Sonnet

                      So, here we are, alive on Earth, but not
                      Alone within this vasty universe,
                      No singularity, by a long shot,
                      But evidence of what it must disburse
                      Prolifically throughout infinity,
                      According to unfathomable design,
                      While we persist in searching for the key
                      That will unlock the treasure in this mine
                      Of Mind—the Source of Providence—
                      Revealing how and why all being arose
                      And, in the course of infinite eons, whence
                      It will proceed, and why such bounty flows:
                           Once entering the mind of God, we’ll see
                           How all this cosmic wonder’s come to be.


Friday, March 3, 2017


                    What all our world’s religions aim to do
                    Is show us errant humans what’s above
                    The miseries we’ve made so much ado
                    About through all our history—that Love 
                    Is the sole guiding principle we must
                    Espouse if we’d transcend inveterate sin,
                    Misleading us toward anger, greed and lust
                    And other lethal ways we’ve wandered in
                    Not yet awakened to the highest joy,
                    A latency in our capacity
                   That guidance will allow us to deploy,
                   The blooming of supreme felicity—
                         For only love, encompassing the world,
                         Can save us now, in endless error hurled.





Tuesday, February 28, 2017

                    Skip and Ripple are our backyard squirrels,
                    Up every morning for whoever hurls
                    Them peanuts out across the dewy lawn,
                    Most typically before the crack of dawn,
                    And just before our doggy girls race out
                    To see what all their scuffling is about:
                    But now the noisy yard guys are intruding

                    On the pure rapture of my lyric brooding,
                    Their mowers and leaf-blowers in uproar  
                    With sounds that even barking dogs deplore—
                    So what is this poor sonneteer to do

                    Diverted from a subject to pursue
                    Intended to attain a higher plane
                    Of consciousness, not this one—driven insane?


Monday, February 27, 2017


                     All right, you ask me if I think we’ll be
                    Together when we’ve left this earthly plane,                   
                    If there is truly immortality                    
                    And that the essence of us will remain                    
                    And even may return for future rounds                   
                    Of mortal life, to take yet further strides                    
                    And add more gems to our celestial crowns                   
                    By learning how to live where love abides,                    
                    Where magnanimity is our grand aim,                    
                    Our souls alight with charity and love,                    
                    Not seeking after temporal acclaim                     
                    But, in the spirit of the Holy Dove,
                        Content to nestle in the arms of God,
                        Protected by His holy staff and rod—