How an Ice Age Starts - Jan 16 2026

 

How an Ice Age Starts

Jan 16 2026

It snowed again.

Not a blizzard

just a gentle sprinkling

that never seems to stop,

painting over the tired stuff

with a fresh white coat.

It seems relentless, day after day;

like the slow drip

that wears away rock,

and how an ice age starts

 — imperceptibly,

until we’re looking up at a sliver of sky

between walls of snow and ice.

I console myself

it isn’t hail or rain or sudden thaw,

a flash flood on frozen ground.

Just a postcard, snow-globe, or Christmas card,

a Rockwell painting of wintertime

too sentimental to call “art”.

Where the lawns and roads are a wonderland,

trees bejewelled in white,

and well-scrubbed kids

with ruddy-cheeks

frolic in the snow;

1950s kids

who will never grew old

feel the cold

or forget their winter tires.

I pause

rest my hands on the shovel

and look up at the sky,

imploring the weather gods

for relief.

Or at least 

a brief interregnum of rest.

But the gods are impervious, impulsive, capricious,

and weather

too fickle to predict.

So we learn to be fatalists,

wearily accepting

and making the best of things;

shovelling out the driveway

and plunging through the drifts,

gathering round the fire

and calling in sick.

And when it’s good packing snow

just being kids;

dropping onto our backs

and flapping our arms and legs,

wet snow down our necks;

making angels

that will take an act of faith

to last at least a day

in this winter of discontent.

If Rockwell is too sentimental to be regarded as more than a good illustrator by critics who can’t paint, then I guess this piece is too sentimental to call poetry.

(Or at least the stuff the gatekeepers of modern poetry — the critics, academics, and poetry editors (that is, of the few remaining outlets that actually still publish poetry) —  deem worthy, which I find (beware, here comes the rant) too intellectual to affect me, too discordant to pleasurably recite, and so frequently confessional that it strikes me more as self-indulgent therapy than relatable.  Frankly, I find a lot of the poetry I encounter in publications such as the New Yorker and Atlantic incoherent word salad that just makes my head hurt.)

But it does feel like a slow drip so far this winter. No sooner do I finish shovelling than more comes. The forecasts are unreliable; the high pressure systems of cold air and clear skies don’t persist like they used to. 

It is beautiful, though. The graceful boughs of the evergreens bejewelled in snow; the starry sky on clear nights, like sharp points of light against the black; and the flowing contours of snow that soften the countryside, concealing its sins and blemishes.

To Make a Joyful Noise - Jan 15 2026

 

To Make A Joyful Noise

Jan 15 2026

There are still small breaks

of open water

where the current is swift

or the river drops. 

Black holes

and a furious sound 

that both seem out of place,

don’t belong

in the smoothly scoured whiteness

and plushy silence of snow.

Or really, just how wrong it seems

that liquid water even exists

in this ice-bound land,

water

from some inexhaustible source

even further north.

We talk of rivers as living things;

if not a spiritual belief 

then a handy metaphor.

But this insurgent sound

 — wild, determined, defiant —

does seem alive;

or at least a reminder

that even in the stillness of winter

the river lives,

flowing inexorably downstream

according to its destiny.

Is it human nature

to raise from the dead,

breathe life

into inanimate objects?

Do gods lurk everywhere?

Even me, a self-proclaimed skeptic 

can’t help but feel uplifted

by the sound of moving water on a still winter day.

By those small breaks

in the pure monastic whiteness,

like apostates

renouncing their faith

and breaking vows of silence.

By these bottomless black pools

treacherously edged

with thin transparent ice,

rippling with light

and pulsing like blood

with every surge and ebb.

How rivers run.

How life finds a way.

And how we make a joyful noise

to celebrate.

As a fundamentalist atheist (I admit, I get a cheap thrill out of appropriating the term), I’m embarrassed to say that the expression referenced in both the title and conclusion is Biblical in origin. To crib from my AI’s research:  “The wording comes famously from Psalms, especially Psalm 100:1 ‘Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands’ and Psalm 98:4 ‘Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all the earth.’ These verses call all people to exuberant worship.”

I like the poetry of the term, but would prefer to think of it in more of a pantheistic sense:  an appreciation of creation, but without any belief in a creator.  

We are all pantheists, in a way, shamelessly anthropomorphizing:  children, as much in love with their plush toys as any living thing; environmentalists, who revere trees and see in them a living spirit; and even the superstitious, who name their cars and endow them with a personality.

And when you consider all the wildly improbable contingencies, bottlenecks, and near misses that led to both us and this living planet, a natural explanation for the universe is so much more awe-inspiring than some divine entity sitting on a cloud and calling it into existence with a simple wave of his hand.

Endling - Jan 12 2025

 

Endling

Jan 12 2026

Words beget words.

All the clans, begats, and dynasties

dictionaries miss,

the illegitimate children

you wish were proper nouns.

As for me, my etymology is lost

back beyond 2 generations or so;

even the revisionists

can’t contort history

to let me know.

If only language didn’t shift

words inflate

terms perish;

like stillbirths,

mourned, but never named. 

I write, talk, digress.

My words give birth to words

as if I’d invented sex,

hoping they’ll outlive me

but knowing they won’t.

After all

would verbose, prolix, long-winded

make them listen once again?

With too many mouths to feed

would eating your children make sense?

While abundance is fine,

it’s scarcity

that incites desire;

the one-of-a-kind,

rare objet d’art.

Which reminds me of the perfect line

I plagiarized,

the only child

of undivided love.

The orator 

at his turn in speaker’s corner

pounds the lectern and rants,

predicting Armageddon

in spittle-filled sentences

promiscuously sprayed.

He’s either scorned or ignored,

his expletives

landing like shrapnel

on barren ground.

I don’t know which is worse,

the mockery he gets

or my bitter regret

at never giving voice.

To be an endling;

as impotent

as the last of its kind,

fruitlessly searching 

for its illusory mate.



So There Can Still Be Mystery - Jan 11 2026

 

So There Can Still Be Mystery

Jan 11 2026

I envy the magician.

His disarming patter

and sleight of hand,

the clever way

he makes me doubt reality.

He has me feeling wonder,

something I realize I haven’t felt

since I first encountered the world 

as a little child,

wide-eyed

and open to everything. 

Mere illusions and tricks

I know aren’t witchcraft or sorcery

but still seem supernatural.

So instead of questioning

I accept magic into my life

at least for now;

I am a skeptic

suspending his disbelief,

a cynic

softening his sourness. 

All those years of politicians

deceiving and distracting

and promising magic

when they know they can’t,

of perfecting their patter

while glad-handing voters

and slapping their backs,

and of holding out a hand

to grafters and sycophants

and shady scallywags

have hardened me.

But this silly man

in a top hat and shabby pants

has me laughing and clapping 

with giddy delight,

pleased to be fooled.

I’m sure his parents disapproved.

How could a sensible man

make a living playing children’s games? 

And how could their son 

commit his life to a skill

more suited to conmen and grifters

than upstanding citizens?

But passion always wins,

hard work pays. 

Close-up magic

on a black velvet table-top

inches from my eyes.

A momentary escape

in a world I don't recognize,

and feel more and more unsafe. 

I can’t help but lean in closer,

laser sharp

not to let him outsmart me

with his armament of tricks.

But frankly, happier

if the illusion goes unspoiled

his secrets unjrevealed.

So there can still be mystery in this world

when we know too much

for our own good

. . . or think we do.

And so I can let go

instead of always taking charge.

There was a day

when the guardians of morality

would have denounced this display

as witchcraft and wizardry

the devil’s handiwork.

Would have preached and rabble-roused,

inciting the mob

to  burn him at the stake,

or hold his thrashing body

underwater

to see if he drowns.

I’m an avid viewer of Penn and Teller’s Fool Us. It’s an hour of absolute delight and breath-taking skill, imagination, and artistry. Before I discovered this show, I never know that magic these days had become so creative, entertaining, and sophisticated.  I remember when Letterman had on as a regular guest a terrible magician, but one who took himself quite seriously: amusing irony (if a little cruel), but lousy magic! Who knew magic had progressed from kids’ parties and lame tricks to brilliant illusions in plush theatres before hundreds of astonished adults.

My favourite is close-up. And I always think that in a more superstitious age (which is most of human history — and I fear seems to be returning, after a brief enlightened interlude) these magicians would have been denounced as witches, and most likely burned at the stake. Or subjected to the perverse logic of forcing underwater:  if they survived, they were guilty; and if they drowned, innocent — exonerated, but dead!

Nowadays, though, magic inspires a very different response:  wonder, as well as the realization that there is still mystery in this world. Which is why it’s better not to know — despite how much we may want to — how it’s done.

(You can find the show on the (relatively obscure) CW network. There are also plenty of great clips on YouTube.)

Skimming Along - Jan 9 2026

 

Skimming Along

Jan 9 2026

Sometimes, a memory appears;

like a bloated body

half decomposed,

rising to the surface

on gas-filled innards

reeking of fish.

How many years has it lingered

inscribed in some neuron’s secret code?

Submerged

beneath a tall column of cells

in some deep dark sulcus

of some cortical well;

like a benthic fish 

with vestigial eyes

deprived too long of light.

So I’m relieved, in way

that my failure to recollect

is not one of loss

but retrieval. 

It means my whole life could be archived there;

preserved

minute-to-minute

in the chemical signatures

of billions of cortical cells, 

as if a documentary crew

had been dogging my every move. 

So that all I need to revisit the past

is a diving bell

and long rubber hose

running all the way back from the depths.

Too bad 

its the bad ones that are stickiest,

written in bold

and anchored by strong emotion.

Too bad

they keep drawing us back,

hardened by exposure

with their connections reinforced. 

Or do I unknowingly

make things up,

filling in the gaps

with confabulation 

and educated guesses?

Which more and more, I’m prone to do

as retrieval falters

and my memory goes;

quietly down the drain

like dirty bathwater

when a toe dislodges the plug.

Either way, entropy rules,

and memory will end

just as everything does

in its lowest energy state.

Like the static buzz

tuning from station to station;

the Big Bang

down to white noise

after 14 billion years.

The slow death of forgetfulness

  . . . until we forget ourselves, 

because memory

is really all we are.

I am a deep sea diver

exploring my past,

goggles fogging up

and air running short.

If I surface too fast

I’ll succumb to the bends,

linger too long

run out of air.

I should have stayed on the surface,

breathing in the fresh sea air

and yawning in a balmy sun.

The art of forgetting,

skimming along in the salty spray

without a backward glance.

Desperate to Believe - Jan 8 2026

 

Desperate to Believe

Jan 8 2026

I keep waiting

for that clear moonless night

I will look up and see a light

lost among the stars,

then hypnotically watch

as it steadily grows

  . . . descending closer

until I find myself enveloped

in an unearthly glow.

And then, all I will remember 

is stumbling from a fragmented dream

that no one will believe 

and I’ll be too circumspect

to share.

Huddled here

in my quiet outpost,

a small clearing

hemmed in by rocks and trees

with the wilderness closing in.

Where else, after all

do flying saucers

and their alien occupants

find human subjects to probe?

Isn’t it always in the dark;

a lonely road

run-down farm

uninhabited hinterland?

Or have the extraterrestrials

felt they’ll do better

moving on;

overlooking me,

just as, it seems, I’m always overlooked.

Unworthy even of them,

despite having travelled eons

to this backward planet

in a minor galaxy 

to observe or interfere,

perhaps make mischief

just for fun.

A skeptic, who is desperate to believe.

Who wants there to be more

in this vast indifferent universe

than humankind.

Intelligent life

that didn’t doom itself

so soon in its existence,

too clever and hubristic 

for its own good

   . . . let alone 

the planet it despoiled. 

Of course, the physics don’t work,

the intersection in time

is clearly absurd.

And why earth;

why care

about an insignificant planet

too far from the centre

to be of any concern?

Yet I want to be picked.

To have an adventure

feel special

be an avatar 

of how earthlings are,

even though I’m hardly typical

 — in fact, a bad example

if not the worst.

So in the dead of night

when the sky is clear

I keep stealing glances overhead. 

Both excited, and afraid

and wondering what I’ll say

should I feel the spotlight target me;

that is

if my waking dream doesn't vanish

and anyone bothers to ask.

I'm a great admirer of Neil deGrasse Tyson, and he has effectively debunked any notion of extraterrestrial visitation.

Nevertheless, niggling doubts remain.

Apparently, there's a documentary in which credible high-ranking military figures (and well-briefed politicians) present disturbing evidence of ...something!

And not everyone who claims to have been abducted by aliens is attention-seeking, delusional, or mentally unbalanced. Many are credible people with a reputation to protect. They're reluctant to come forward, not looking for notoriety. And their stories are remarkably similar in even the small details. So unless they're colluding or doing deep dives into the literature, one can't help but wonder.

In the past, of course, people saw angels, not aliens. So what is imagined or how an experience is framed is embedded in the cultural moment: when religion ruled people's lives, it was angels; and when we started going to space and fictionalizing other worlds, it became aliens.

If all this does turn out to be delusional, perhaps the reason is that we're looking for a saviour at a time when the earth's environment and our geopolitical situation are both looking dire. And, of course -- as Tyson amply demonstrates -- people who are not scientifically literate are prone to misinterpret easily explained phenomena.

I'm a skeptic. But I have to admit, a saviour these days would be welcome! Not that malevolent intent isn't also possible. And since it's natural to project human nature onto the other, perhaps this is the more common feeling: not relief that there are extraterrestrials among us, but fear they mean harm.

Barely Speaking a Word - Jan 5 2026

 

Barely Speaking a Word

Jan 5 2026



The last few days

I spent alone.

I read, puttered, thought.

Wrote a couple of poems

none of them good.

Spoke only to the dogs;

who are good listeners

no matter what I say,

may not obey

but at least don’t correct me.

They say solitude is torture.

But that’s locked in a spartan cell

where the lights burn ‘round the clock.

Or shipwrecked

on a south sea atoll

with no one but yourself,

drinking salt water 

and eating bugs.

Don’t prophets sojourn in the wilderness;

Jesus for 40 days

and Elijah the same,

the Buddha’s 6 years

of vagrant self-denial?

Aren’t vows of silence

isolation of another sort?

And haven’t wellness retreats

become a thing?

But then, what you miss;

speaking up

being seen

human touch.

And if it’s true

that we only exist in the eyes of others

then solitude is a kind of oblivion;

eventually, a sense of unreality overcomes

when you start to question

if you’re a figment

instead of really here.

And like those holy men

who emerge with commandments

manuscripts

and manifestos,

they expect some kind of wisdom

to come from it.

While I just rested my voice

and lost track of time.

Wrote about being alone,

a self-indulgent poem

that isn’t profound or insightful

won’t change anyone’s life.

But at least learned

that time went on without me,

and that without it

I did perfectly fine.

Enough of this

and my vocal cords 

will remain as smooth and full

as that adolescent man

who claims to be vegan

and is oddly proud

of his patchy peach-fuzz beard.

Who never shouted over the music

in smoke-filled party rooms,

drank hard liquor

or sung vulgar lyrics

in a bad punk band

until he and his buddies were hoarse.

So I will never sound old

like the worldly women and hard-living men

who spent their lives connected.

Instead, I’ll be like the lifers

who spent too much time

in solitary confinement

carving numbers into the wall,

and now, walk around bewildered

barely speaking a word. 

I spend way more time alone than most people. (I mean without human company; dogs don’t count!) So I can literally go days without speaking to another human being, even on the phone. Since I’ve always been an introvert and loner (although not the axe-wielding type, I hasten to add; the kind who do write manifestos, but then go on killing sprees!) I rarely feel lonely despite being alone. In fact, I need solitude. 

This poem began when I found myself once again noting how long it’s been since I spoke to anyone (even on the phone), accompanied by the wry observation that I may get old, but my voice sure won’t! And also how silly — even patronizing —  is the stereotyped parody of how old people talk:  no one sounds like that, even if they once did in recordings from the 1930s!

But as the poem evolved, it also ended up touching on my ambivalence toward all this alone time:  what I miss in a sheltered life that stays in its comfort zone; that keeps to its path of least resistance. 

(One last note:  can a punk band really be anything but bad? (Although considering that I’m a fan of Frank Sinatra, perhaps my music criticism doesn’t carry much weight!))

Iced-Up Wipers - Jan 4 2026

 

Iced-Up Wipers

Jan 4 2026

Snow freezes on the windscreen.

The iced-up wipers

skitter over crystals

like tires on a rumble-strip,

smearing a glaze over the glass

despite the full-blast defroster

blowing hard,

or at least as hard as it gets.

Which is about as effective 

as an octogenarian

trying to blow the candles out,

leaning over his cake

inches away

and puffing mightily —

but they just bend back a little

and refuse to snuff.

The ice scraper scrapes

snow-brush brushes,

but the white stuff just keeps coming down

and I can’t keep up.

Winter builds character, or so they say.

Which you wouldn’t know

what what with all muttering under my breath

and gruffly barked curses.

But still, winter is beautiful.

At least for the sensible people 

who welcome being snow-stayed,

hunkered down at home

in a well-worn easy chair,

gazing out at the storm 

through a big picture window

triple glazed;

a blazing fire at their feet,

hot drink

in easy reach.

Chill jazz softly plays,

accompanied by a sleeping dog’s

staccato snores.

While my soundtrack

is spinning tires

and the heater’s grating roar,

hunched over the wheel

and peering through the small circle of glass

the defroster has managed to clear.

But all I can see is blowing snow 

glinting in the high-beams

like swirling fairy lights.

Meanwhile, my dog

sprawled full length on her seat

also loudly snores;

as usual

contentedly oblivious

whatever season it is. 

I was winging to a friend about driving in the snow (did I mention that my snow brush and ice scraper were in the garage, not — as I thought — in the back seat foot-well?), and later decided it had the makings of a poem.

My apologies to Subaru. One thing my Crosstrek has over most other cars is a lights-out defroster. Really good!

I’m not thrilled about the octogenarian thing. I like the rhyme, but not the implication. Because I’m past 70, so in my 80th decade. Does this make me an octogenarian?!! Or at least an honorary one? Surely I can still blow out 80 little birthday candles!

And finally, does everything I write end up being a dog poem?? I always thought poets were supposed to be pale sensitive creatures who wrote about love and agonized over their existential angst. Not slobbering, flea-bitten, and liberally shedding household pets!