Wednesday, October 18, 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




                    O, Muse of making something difficult
                    Seem easy—assist me, please, in this endeavor
                    So that my poem achieves the grand result
                    Of living in posterity forever—
                    This sonnet, though, I know’s not such a one
                     Since it now simply talks about itself,
                     A subject that most readers readily shun,
                     A book of which would never leave the shelf,
                     But if I could pull off a tour de force
                     By writing in a single sentence one
                     Persuading even skeptics to endorse
                     My prowess, I’ll be proud of what I’ve done,
                         And I, of course, will praise you for your aid
                        Without which such a verse could not be made.


Monday, October 9, 2017


                    A wise old owl now sits beside my chair,
                    A figurine I found in a thrift shop,
                    Reminding me of owls with whom we share
                    Our backyard oak trees, where they perch atop,
                    Reminding me as well to realize
                    That Homo sapiens sapiens should be wise.


Tuesday, September 26, 2017


                    I don’t know what I think until I see
                    What putting pen to paper brings to me;
                    Just vaguely musing in an idle mood
                    Proves nothing but a fruitless interlude;
                    The way a verse emerges, line by line,
                    Foot after foot, revealing its design
                    Is but a function of exigency
                    That seeking rhyme and meter brings to be—
                    Though if well done, a verse like this will seem  
                    The manifest expression of a dream.


Friday, September 22, 2017


                      How comforting to think we’ve many lives,
                      That something of our essence still survives
                      To grow and flourish with experience
                      So over eons we’ll become less dense
                      As Homo sapiens sapiens grows wise.