You Mostly Forget - Oct 30 2026

 

You Mostly Forget

Oct 30 2026

What I learned in high school.

 That answers were either right or wrong

   —  2 + 2,

the spelling of quandary.

That girls were mysterious.

A lesson I kept;

because even all grown up

they still are.

That football hurt

worse than losing.

Which I learned to get used to

because we often did.

How to type.

Back then, on big steel machines

that clattered instead of tapped

and took up most of a desk.

Before screens.

Before IBM.

Touch-typing

on mechanical keys

you felt in your hand

   —  the thunk of the slug

on white bond paper,

the heft of the type-bar, platen, bailer.

Later on I would learn

that spelling is simply convention,

and once auto-correct is invented

mistakes aren't held against you.

That while 2 + 2, incontestably, is always 4,

right and wrong are not arithmetic;

that moral quandaries

often land in the middle

and there’s always “it depends”.

If only life could be as simple

as end of term exams.

They taught us well

but not all lessons have served.

Because no one’s hiring cornerbacks

with bad knees,

even for office work. 

Because you can’t cram and forget

  —  someone always remembers

even if you don’t.

And because life isn't multiple choice

   —  no categorical boxes,

no checking-off

either/or.

It gets complicated.

You get old.

You mostly forget.

And your high school sweetheart

while just as hard to figure 

is now perimenopausal

and a mother of two.

But still, you’re glad you can type;

who knew

it would be the only thing you learned 

of any use.

I’ve actually been saying this for years: that the only useful thing I learned in high school was how to type!

The IBM Selectric had no type-bars, just a clever little steel sphere that looked like a golf ball-sized glitter ball. It bounced and rotated at hypnotic speed, striking and inking the document with every keystroke. Before those, typewriters were fully analogue: mechanical machines that directly connected your hand to the result. There was haptic feedback. Perhaps there was a greater sense of agency.  

Now, on my iPad screen, I’m reduced to 1-finger typing! (Don't get me started on the dictation option!)

Of course, good teachers don’t just cram you with facts, which don’t have much of a half life. Rather, they teach critical thinking skills, impart a respect for nuance, and model good behaviour. Convey a love of learning. Nurture curiosity. So it’s true, the facts are gone. But I went to a good school,  and the habit of mind is still there. And there’s no discounting the critical developmental stage of life that overlaps with one’s high school career. 

(Just for the record, I was a linebacker (although not a good one), and there was at least one season our team actually won a lot (a great quarterback, nothing to do with me!); the knees are OK (so far!); and I’m quite a good speller. And it could be argued (not by me, but I’m sure by someone!) that men may be just as mysterious to women as they are to us:  it may not be gender that matters so much as the unknowability of other people in general.)

Cold Cuts - Oct 28 2026

 

Cold Cuts

Oct 28 2026

It dipped below freezing

for the first time this fall. 

So on our late walk

under clear sky

that must have kicked-off its blanket of cloud

I felt thin-blooded;

even winter clothes

couldn’t keep out the chill.

As if summer had softened me,

poaching my brain like a 3 minute egg.

Had made me one of those southerners

with a honeyed drawl

who walks slow and talks even slower;

because while cold kills, if you dawdle

hustling in the heat

just makes you sweat more.

Cold cuts

like a knife filets fish,

its rapier-thin blade

slipping through the clothes

and slashing my flesh

down to naked bone.

Hairless, thin-skinned

and walking upright on two long legs 

we are not made for this;

we aren’t sleeping bears

with layers of fat

jiggling beneath the fur.

Our ancestors

out of Africa

would perish here.

Like adversity, cold hardens us

builds character. 

The way a morning plunge

in a glacial lake 

stimulates the blood and exhilarates the brain.

Or how a cold shower steels you,

standing there

unflinchingly

as your pulse quickens and body puckers.

Resiliency

for the next test life throws at you,

your next trial of will.

I picked up my pace

and felt a stirring of fire 

a spring in my stride

as my body began to acclimate.

Looked up at a sky

spattered with stars

like glitter flung at Mardi Gras,

sharp points of light

on a black abyss

that seemed to swallow light.

And Venus, by far the brightest,

the hothouse planet

shrouded in sulphuric cloud.

Atomizing heat 

that would vaporize me

just like that;

like water

on a red-hot grill

sizzling instantly to steam.

But here, in the cold, I stay whole.

Cold preserves

and energizes.

The kind of cold I prefer

over summer’s sultry heat

walking on an autumn night

under clear moonless sky.

Feeling my blood rise

and mind sharpen

to a carbon steel edge.

Looking out at space

through air so still

it doesn’t scatter light.

Pinpoint stars

through optical glass

polished to perfection;

a celestial lens

you can’t tell is even there.

I take a little mischievous delight in the title’s misdirection: is “cuts” the noun or the verb?

After all, a poem about deli meats hardly sounds promising!

Watching Sports on TV - Oct 27 2026

 

Watching Sports on TV

Oct 27 2026

I’m watching sports on TV.

It’s a manly thing to do, watching sports;

a “guy” thing

done in groups

before high-def big-screens

with plenty of snacks in reach.

Either rooting for the home team

or hoping to beat the spread.

Maybe both.

Your fandom is a test of loyalty,

another manly thing.

So I cheer for the home team

and my blood runs Blue Jay blue,

even though

I left home years ago.

I suffer when they lose,

rejoice when we win,

and turn up my nose

at the bandwagon jumpers and dilettantes.

Because victory must be earned

and is all the sweeter for the pain;

perseverance

as much test of virtue

as Jonah in the whale.

The further from the action, the easier it looks.

Because the screen is a panopticon

that looks down from on high

to give an illusion of mastery;

making us all Gullivers

in a Lilliputian world.

Which is true of life, as well

  — the more you distance yourself 

the easier to accept.

It could be floods in Indonesia, or bombs in Gaza

watching on TV

sitting in your easy chair;

you’ll nod sympathetically

then change the channel to something good;

perhaps a game that doesn’t count

but still can’t be missed.

The players are impossibly young,

and I’m well past imagining

being on the field

stretching for that ball.

Not when my eyes are bad.

Not when the knee barks, just to stand.

And not when they keep getting younger every year;

less than half my age

yet I somehow still look up to them

Naturally, I pull for the underdog.

The small market teams

and perennial losers,

the scrappy upstarts

and noble failures

who try but don’t succeed.

Because if not all underdogs,

don’t we at least

see ourselves that way?

Sitting and watching, it’s life and death.

So much adrenaline, passion, sweat,

when, in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

But perhaps, that’s why we go all-in

   —  risk without consequence;

a children’s game

in the playpen of life,

a time-out to catch your breath.

Bottom of the 9th

1 out

2 men on. 

The slugger’s up

the count’s full

and he grounds-out with a mighty cut

   — a weak dribbler to first.

And just like that, a double play

   — bat tossed

comeback quashed

game lost

in the blink of an eye.

The cheering fans go quiet,

players walk glumly off.

There’s no clock in baseball,

but in the bottom of the 9th

time still runs out.

Yet on a lovely summer night,

when the diamond

under the lights

is a lush green jewel,

how can you complain?

And anyway

when there’s life there’s always tomorrow,

and in baseball

they play most every day

   — another day,

another game,

another at bat;

short memories

and another chance at redemption.

Actually, I don’t watch sports on TV, I only watch baseball. And right now the World Series is on. Yes, 2 small market low payroll teams: so League Champions, but still underdogs! 

It’s not just that I don’t bet; I hate gambling, it’s wrecking sports. Anyway, it’s way more fun to watch with a rooting interest:  to be a true fan instead of turning the playing field into a casino. 

You’ll notice my considered use of pronouns:  they lose, we win. As if the players owe you something!

I know how hard baseball is — especially at the major league level — but it looks doable on a TV screen. And, of course, talented athletes make it look easy. Nevertheless, I’ve gotten old enough that I’ve stopped projecting — imagining myself on the field in their place. It was always unrealistic, but at least the illusion used to be there. 

Ultimately, win or lose, baseball is a beautiful game. (Soccer, stop calling yourself that!) And uniquely in professional sports, it’s played almost every day:  short memories serve well, and there’s always a chance to redeem yourself.

A Perfect 5th - Oct 26 2026

 

A Perfect 5th

Oct 26 2026



I have no idea what a perfect 5th is.

Except that it pleases the ear

has even been called euphoric.

The democracy of music

where even know-nothings get a vote.

Was it part of the music God chose

on the 7th day

when he took His well-earned rest?

The mellifluous interval

the orchestra ended with,

lifting their spirits

on the upper deck

as the Titanic went down?

We make music,

but really, like the laws of motion and speed of light

it’s out in the world

and we simply discover it;

as if the music of the spheres

governed the universe.

Because even the lowly mosquito 

an insect we despise

uses the 5th to harmonize,

a mating pair

adjusting their frequencies 

to create a perfect interval.

Perhaps I should listen more closely 

to that damned infernal buzz.

If only it was as simple for us

to find and keep a lover

   —  a pleasing duet

with the opposite sex

and you’ve found your perfect match.

Instead of punk,

smooth jazz

played by ear.

That knowing nothing of musical theory

or how to play an instrument,

you can still fall in love with your soulmate 

simply by listening closely

and clever use of the tongue.

A friend sent me this link, and the poetic possibilities came  immediately to mind.

https://www.mosquitoalert.com/en/los-mosquitos-armonizan-sus-zumbidos-en-duetos-de-amor/

Here’s the gist of the article:

“Until not so long ago it was thought that insects were great masters of timing and rhythm when it came to mating, just think of the summer concerts of cicadas and crickets, but they did not control the pitch very much, however the mosquitoes did. make. In fact, when both sexes adjust their frequencies, the interval between the pitch of the male mosquito and that of the female mosquito comes very close to what musicians call a perfect fifth. For centuries, composers considered the fifth interval to be the most euphoric of all, something that seems to work in the case of mosquitoes: if the male manages to create a duet with the female, creating a fifth interval, the chances of being chosen and reproduce multiply. In other words, the female tends to choose the male who best sings her duet.”

Making Do - Oct 25 2025

 

Making Do

Oct 25 2025

I sometimes watch my hands

at work

as if they’re disembodied;

unattached

and acting on their own.

No, they aren’t a farmer’s hands,

broad and fleshy

with the worked-in grime

that’s impervious to scrubbing.

But still, all lives are hard

and the signs unavoidable;

the calluses

and knobby joints,

bad nails

and jagged scars

left to heal on their own.

I notice the ageing skin

it’s too late to help,

slack and blemished

and close to the bone.

But also the skill they show,

from muscle memory

to millimetric control.

I notice the injuries

mapped on their terrain

like signposts

on my road-trip of life

I can travel in reverse

  — the knife that slipped

in a game of dare,

the nails I bit

waiting to hear,

and the knuckle 

that sucker-punched the wall.

I notice the touch

they’re capable of

and that sometimes scares me;

both the reaching out

and flinching from,

the neediness

that leads me who knows where.

Did evolution engineer the human hand

so precisely

it couldn’t be improved upon?

Are 5 digits

  — no more, no less — 

the optimal number?

Is the angle between finger and thumb

the best possible?

And why a pinkie

shorter than the rest?

Why didn’t mother nature

make a hand strong enough 

to crush steel;

a hard touch

to complement the soft?

Or, given how we abuse the power

we have even now,

would that be too much

for the things we hold dear

and people we love?

Far more likely

it was accident and randomness

over vast stretches of time.

Which is how evolution

came up with the platypus

as well as with us

with all our quirks and flaws

  —  by making do

and seeing what works.

As if design studio

kept throwing jelly against the wall

just to see what sticks.  

So I suppose a man smarter than me

could come up with something better.

A purpose-built instrument

of flesh and blood,

the Swiss army knife of hands.

Or even better, a titanium one,

with finely jewelled gears

carbon-fibre tendons

and lab-grown skin.

Clockwork hands

programmed precisely. 

As for me, I’m content as is.

Hands so familiar 

I rarely notice them,

and hands that have served me well

these many years.

I’ve stopped watching now.

My eyes are on the screen

as my hands type away;

missing keys

or double-tapping them,

stopping to scratch

or run one through my hair.

Working hands,

imperfect as they are.

Hands say a lot about a person. They embody personal history. They keep us in touch with the world. They’ve allowed us to build a technological civilization, and — through writing — save, transmit, snd amplify knowledge. 

This poem began with the farmer’s hands of the second stanza, inspired by a photographic essay in the weekend Globe on the loss of the family farm. It included an image of the hand of the author's father, and the caption under it contained the description “ …blackened, dried, and cracked by manual labour …”.  That set me off. (Unfortunately, I can’t reproduce the photo here.)

https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/282235197651169

I’ve been wondering why everyone’s building humanoid robots, which doesn’t strike me as necessarily the optimal conformation. Is it because familiarity makes human looking robots less scary? Domesticating them, you could say. Is it because they fit into world built for bodies of our size and shape? Or because we labour under the conceit that we couldn’t be improved upon? That we are the ultimate product of evolution?   . . . As if!

Hence the digression into evolution. Because the hand is probably not optimal. After all, it’s the product of a hit and miss process that makes do; that manages to repurpose traits that were selected for one thing and then use them for another. A series of kluges and approximations. Evolution isn’t planned. It has no intent. There is no such thing as a more or less evolved creature, as depicted in the so-called evolutionary tree (with us, naturally, at the top): there is only better or less suited to the environment an organism finds itself in. Yes, intelligence can be stratified. But if an animal does perfectly well without our intelligence, is it necessarily “lower”? Just because we privilege intelligence is no reason to think evolution does.

Searching - Oct 23 2026

 

Searching

Oct 23 2026

I am looking for a small orange ball

in a tangle of brush

in a crush of overarching trees.

Roots underfoot

claw at my feet.

The slope is uneven

ground soft

and light not for long

as the evening sky darkens.

The dogs, who have lost the scent

race excitedly,

tracing rough circular paths

with their noses to the ground

and ears pinned back,

at times

leaping like tightly sprung cats

ambushing prey.

On 4 graceful legs, they seem to levitate

over dense scrub

rotting logs

and through the thick scrim of branches

sprouting from the ground.

If not guided by some 6th sense

then by the grace of a god

who watches over the innocent

— the young children

and dumb animals

who can’t fend for themselves

and don’t know any better. 

While I am earthbound

and not so innocent,

slipping, tripping, and mincing my way,

ducking under branches

and bulling through the overgrowth. 

I watch, they smell.

But in the dark, they see better than me,

and their superhuman noses

work just as well.

So while I concede,

they were born to retrieve

and will run until their hearts explode;

single-mindedly

relentlessly

and sometimes even recklessly.

Because to my dogs

who live in the perpetual now

a small orange ball

well-chewed, and covered in slobber

is all that matters in the world

the meaning of life.

Something I’ve been searching for, most of mine.

Bullet Points - Oct 22 2026

 

Bullet Points

Oct 22 2026

• Just give me the gist
• skinny
• big picture.
• The lowdown, without the clutter,
• the cut-to-the-quick
• minus the puffery.

• The executive summary,
• distilled
• point-by-point;
• because important people like me
• can’t wait.

• I’m too impatient for detail
• nuance
• earnest argument.
• Just tell-me-like-it-is
• without the prolixity,
•   —  simple words
• a kid would understand.

• Because I count on getting the time I save
• back at the end.
• My plan to beat death
• barrelling ahead
• right on schedule!

Ways of Missing - Oct 21 2026

 

Ways of Missing

Oct 21 2026

I don’t mean missing out

or that missing tooth.

Not missed opportunities,

and not the bus that left without you,

standing in the rain

breathing exhaust. 

I mean the other ways.

How you can pass on the street

and miss each other

looking down at your phone.

How you can miss someone

who was once a friend,

is the lover who left,

or was taken from you

too soon;

whether by slow dementia

some chronic disease 

or sudden death.

How you can go missing yourself.

Perhaps to escape

failure, abuse, neglect,

or for just a change of air

  — a time-out

from the struggle and stress

of daily life.

Sometimes, even missing yourself,

putting distance

between the old version

and the reinvented you

you’re either working toward

or hoping to

  —  this time, for sure. 

And then there’s the girl

who disappeared one night

never to be seem again. 

The missing person 

that keeps haunting you

with guesswork, and dark conjecture.  

Like, why, and where, and when  . . .

  . . . The how, you dare not think about. 

Is she a Jane Doe

in some unmarked grave, 

sex slave in Dubai,

or homeless in Seattle?

A life left unanswered

perhaps for years.

To law enforcement 

a missing person is no priority.

The police will suggest she ran away,

remind you

that sovereign adults

answer only to themselves.

Trouble is, not only do you need their help,

the brush-off hurts. 

When the helplessness

feeds despair.

When all you can do

in the uncertainty

is imagine the unthinkable.

But you fear resolution as well.

Because while not knowing is hard

closure can hurt;

when knowing the worst

makes you miss them all the more.

This poem was inspired by a beautiful story I heard on The Moth — one of my favourite podcasts. Here’s a link:  https://www.themoth.org/stories/episodes/mortality

It’s the final story, and you can find it by fast forwarding to the 34 minute 10 second mark. (The others are also good listening!)