Mostly Somewhere Else - Feb 8 2026

 

Mostly Somewhere Else

Feb 8 2026

On our usual walk

the dogs are out front

scouting with their noses

and darting off into the woods,

excited by smells

far too subtle

for my crude receptors. 

While I trail behind,

trudging along

lost in thought

focused on the path.

Which I regret;

my inability to be present,

my monkey mind

swinging from tree to tree

and chattering incessantly,

distracted by some ripe fruit

or a glimpse of a rival.

It wallows and worries,

whipsawed

between a conflicted past 

and anxious future,

while the succession of “nows” recede

in an unremembered blur.

I suppose this is one difference 

between a visual creature like me

and my olfactory dogs —

I’ve become jaded

by the same familiar sights,

while their world

is repeatedly renewed.

We know the route by heart;

the dogs

occasionally looking back

just to be sure,

and me on autopilot

looking down at my feet

on the uneven path.

Since our last outing

a little fresh snow has fallen,

softening the ground

and smudging our prints.

But they persist;

the dogs’

criss-crossing like chicken scratch,

and mine

wandering a bit

but still purposeful.

And although now not so sharp

they're undoubtedly mine,

their unique tread

exact size

and matching gait

as forensically accurate

as my own DNA.

Which strikes me as an apt metaphor

for how the sands of time soften the past,

remembered

but instead of photographic

more impressionist art.

Just as all of history 

is essentially revisionist,

depending less on any actual truth

than on where you stand

and what you bring to it.

My old prints are also a rebuke,

reminding me how easily

I fall into ruts,

taking the path of least resistance

choosing the safest route.

How, like ploughing the same old furrow

I could step into them, stride-for-stride

and feel perfectly natural;

following myself

in a closed circle

that simply takes us back 

to where we began.

Retracing the usual walk

my enviable dogs 

find endlessly exciting.

While I will never be so mindful;

too lost in thought

and mostly somewhere else. 

Father at the Wheel - Feb 5 2026

 

Father at the Wheel

Feb 5 2026

They remind me of those long drives

after dark

in my Dad’s immaculate Buick. 

The 3 of us

in the big back seat

well past my bedtime,

eyes half-closed, half-asleep

half in-and-out of dreams,

lulled

by the heater’s steady whirr

and the rumble of the road

as tires hypnotically turned. 

The windows were frosted, street lights blurred,

and securely tucked

in fitful slumber

we gave no thought to drunk drivers

punctured tires

black ice,

breakdowns

white-outs

or blind-siding deer.

With our father at the wheel of the family car

we were safe,

and the trip

felt more like levitation

than hard-earned miles.

The night is black

on the icy lane

that winds its way home.

My two tired dogs

are curled-up in the big back seat

that’s become their own, 

so it’s hard to tell

which nose and tail

belongs to whom.

In the ghostly glow

of the dashboard light

I glance at my hands on the wheel

and see my fathers’ there;

the past repeating,

but now

with me in the driver's seat.

And while the  precious cargo is different

it really hasn’t changed.

I think of what one slip

near the cliff-edge might mean,

or a heavy foot on the pedal;

but my girls

fast asleep

are their usual oblivious selves. 

Is their faith in me

beyond question?

Or are they so sublimely naive

that there are no questions?

I envy them,

simple animals

who live so much in the present

there are no contingencies or collisions,

no accidents

or future tense

to unsettle an innocent soul.

Perhaps they think the car stays still

while the world turns,

home appearing

like a rearing wooden horse 

on its circling carousel.

But more likely, their natural state is surrender

to whatever fate decrees,

too passive

to act for themselves,

too trusting

to survive in the wild

without human help.

I recall looking out with half closed eyes

as reality spooled by

and fitful dreams intruded.

But theirs are tightly shut

and their sleep is deep,

fully contented

and lost in doggie dreams.

I ease my foot off the pedal,

peering out

through the scrim of gauzy frost

with extra wary eyes.

I realize that “cliff- edge” may sound overly dramatic, but there actually is one: a sharp bend in the two-lane road just a couple of feet inside a steep drop-off; no guardrail, not even a warning sign. 

Evanescent - Feb 4 2026

 

Evanescent

Feb 4 2026

In the ice hotel

artists have carved 

aspens and poplars into the walls,

sculpted free-standing trees

beneath the high arched ceiling

and glazed chandelier.

An enchanted forest

in bas relief,

at least for now.

An act of creation they know from the start

can’t last.

It’s like birthing a child

you know you’ll outlive,

but still can’t resist 

your natural urge.

Because we are makers.

Because we create

just for the sake of it.

And because beauty is all the more beautiful

knowing how ephemeral it is.

Like a fragile waif

with transparent skin

who breaks your heart,

beauty passes;

ageing as you watch

in real time.

Ice, of which there is less and less these days,

and trees

on a heating planet

susceptible to fire.

A work of art

where the medium, and what it contains

say much the same;

that time is short,

and that our birthright 

is being squandered

by short-sighted greed.

They could have worked in stone,

carving marble

casting bronze.

Could have made grave markers

or played around in abstract art,

sculpted heroic men 

on rearing horses

on granite plinths.

But they chose ice;

a vehicle that’s brittle

unforgiving

and even more short-lived

than we are.

Because even though we know 

we’re not here for long

and that our works not much longer,

we make meaning

in whatever time we have.

If nothing else

to make sense of ourselves.

I imagine the clients of the ice hotel

will marvel as they walk,

echoing down the hall

and gazing overhead.

Their misty breath

will condense on the cold hard surface,

softening it

with a dull rime of frost. 

Will they appreciate this work of art?

Will they know how privileged they are

to be first and last

to take it in?

Their presence

the beginning of the end

of its brittle beauty.

You wonder why they do it, pouring heart and soul into a work of art that will last at most 3 months. 

But then why do I write poems that will never be read?  Because the pleasure is in the process, not the result. 

And because even for a nihilist like me — who doesn’t believe life has any meaning in this cold indifferent universe beyond the first accidental cell and its primordial legacy of the basic biological drive to survive and reproduce — I’m still free to create meaning; to take advantage of this short and monumentally improbable gift of consciousness. 

Here’s the story that inspired this. If you’re unable to open the link, I’ve excerpted some photos. All credit for them goes to the artists, Dawn Detarando and Brian McArthur.

Forever Dust - Feb 2 2026

 

Forever Dust

Feb 2 2026

Dust accumulates.

It settles invisibly

and as methodically

as the passage of time.

It’s like the slow steady drip

that wears down rock

as lifetimes pass

and species go extinct.

You won’t live to see the end of it

because it never does,

materializing

out of thin air

like some cosmic sleight of hand.

The Bible says

ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

There’s a pleasing circularity to this

 — that nothing is created or destroyed

just temporarily changed.

Which means that everyone who’s ever lived

has turned to dust

as I wipe down the tabletop

and vacuum the rug.

So is my war on dust irreverent, sacrilegious

even sinful?

Or is it humbling?

That in the end, we’re all equal

no matter what,

despite privilege, ambition, and the accident of birth;

as level

as the fine layer of dust

on my clear glass tabletop.

I dust.

The noun becomes a verb

because what's the difference;

it’s still dust

just moved from here to there.

My mother kept an immaculate house,

she believed 

in keeping up appearances. 

A white glove

touching any surface

would be unsullied,

a shaft of light

slanting through the glass

shone clear.

But for just as long as she was here,

gamely holding back the dust

like an earthen dam

in a sudden flood;

eventually buckling

which, like all of us, it inexorably does. 

I wonder, if I didn’t dust

would it accumulate

layer upon layer;

the way stratified rock

becomes a geological clock

recording prehistory?

Each layer

containing its fingerprint

of war, eruption, pandemic,

climate change

and continental drift,

undisturbed 

for millennia after millennia. 

Until the world is buried in dust,

and in the fullness of time

turns to it.

As I sit here, my clear glass tabletop stares accusingly back. Its layer of fine dust demands to be cleaned. I’ve been delinquent in my housekeeping. Which, of course, is never done. Because dust keeps appearing: steadily, inexorably, as if out of thin air. 

And it’s still dusty as I end this. Apparently, writing a poem is way more fun than keeping up appearances!

Loud and Slow - Feb 1 2026

 

Loud and Slow

Feb 1 2026

Just speak loud and slow

and keep it simple,

they’ll understand. 

As if they were either stupid

or stubborn.

As if English was the universal language

and they were just out of practice.

As if their colourful patois

was a touristy thing,

like the folk dances

and changing of the guard.

You become a child

in a sea of foreigners

comfortable in their foreign tongue.

Limited

to basic wants and simple thoughts,

to a nod

a smile

the niceties.

It’s a relief, in a way;

no politics or philosophy,

no expectations

or witty repartee. 

Even beginning to feel invisible

is a welcome release from the agency

you usually feel

 —  the centre

around which everything turns,

the self-sufficient man

who needn’t stop to ask.

They say foreign travel expands;

seeing how differently others live

yet how much alike we are.

But this helplessness

may be even more enlightening;

feeling invisible,

forgetting yourself,

being politely misunderstood. 

And how even the proudest man

can!t help feeling humbled

to see little kids

speaking perfect French,

feel chastened

when they go way too fast

for his high school Spanish.

Try to learn a few words.

Apologize for your accent.

Shrug off the mixups

with a sheepish smile.

And let the humility 

of reverting to childhood

teach you that it’s not so bad

to watch and listen

and not interrupt.

That you don’t always have to be 

the smartest guy in the room.

That you’re not even the star

of your own life,

just a walk-on

without a speaking part.

Of course, now there are real time translation apps. And English almost is the universal language:  someone almost always speaks it, even if just sort of. So it’s getting harder to find yourself stranded in an incomprehensible sea of language where you can’t make yourself easily understood. 

I don’t travel. Or at least not anymore. (I do in my head, but that’s a whole other thing!) Yet I can certainly see how humbling and instructive travel can be. Not just gaining a new appreciation of your privileged 1st world life; not just being reinvigorated by novelty and unexpected challenges; but also having to be in the world stripped of the intellectual pretension and complexity language affords. What’s left of you without that carapace of words you normally hide behind? (Hmmm, am I just speaking for myself here?!)

When I shared the first draft with a friend, I prefaced it with this:

Curious how you — a world traveller of sorts — react to this. Because I do not travel, and so speak with no authority. I’m all guesswork and projection. Like all my poetry:  written from my easy chair; living in my head!

Just Not Out Loud - Jan 31 2026

 

Just Not Out Loud

Jan 31 2026

I began my letter with Dear … .

This is not a word I’d ordinarily use.

It’s what an old lady might say

asking for help,

wishing the best,

or addressing a child;

but never me.

The same with how I end it.

Not with sincerely

a breezy your friend

or a bohemian ciao,

but Love … ;

which isn’t a confession

just the standard way to close.

So while I can write that 4-letter word

I’m still too repressed

to say it out loud.

Written

where no one takes it literally,

and where I get to live a little

when it’s pen to paper

at arm’s length.

Maybe, if I’d been raised in a family

that wasn’t shy about opening up

a word like this would come more easily.

Maybe, if I was more in touch

with my softer side

it wouldn’t be such a strain

to get it out.

Of course, there’s no salutation in a text

and emails are business-like.

So I get to skate through life

on the the thin ice

of informality.

Because who even sends 

postal mail these days?

No heartfelt affection.

Nothing written by hand

on fancy paper

that some day might be evidence.

No anticipation 

waiting for a letter

from someone special,

then tearing open an envelope

with her lingering scent.

No, the closest you get

is something that at least isn’t addressed

to Resident

or Whom It May Concern. 

Dear Sir, of course, is perfectly fine.

There’s a tension in those two words

where any innuendo

is cancelled out;

the soft-pedalling Dear

the harumph of Sir.

Where Dear is a mere formality

that reveals so little

even I’m OK with it.

  … Just not out loud, of course.

Like closing with Love;

another 4-letter word

I keep to myself.

An Inconsequential Man - Jan 30 2026

 

An Inconsequential Man

Jan 30 2026

If not the end of days

then peace in our time.

If not catastrophe,

the the hinge 

on which history swings.

When has the world not been convulsed

the moment fraught

the choice consequential?

Have I lost perspective?

Did I forget

how dire things were  … whenever?

But this time it’s different

  … or so I’ve said

time after time through the years.

One day, we will look back

and things really will have changed;

most likely for the worst

I’m afraid.

That we’ve escaped every time

from the bottlenecks and crises

that have afflicted mankind

 — once, to a critical rump

of nomadic survivors —

is no assurance 

we will do so again.

So which is it this time,

the end of days

or a fresh start?

If only I had the wherewithal

to make change

or at least be heard. 

If only I were the captain

of the majestic Titanic

throwing the ship into full reverse,

massive screws

churning the water to froth

and pistons hammering their heads;

the din of steel-on-steel,

so that sweaty soot-stained men

yelling with all their strength 

can’t even hear themselves. 

Or cutting the wheel

as far as it gets

against her deadweight drift,

hull groaning 

and heeling hard over

so I’d have to lash myself to the deck. 

But I’m an inconsequential man,

can only stand

and look on;

carried along

in the swell of history,

flailing for the surface

and gasping for breath.

A lowly labourer

on the lowest deck

slipping quietly under,

swallowed up

in the dark of night

by a cold north sea.

I was tempted to go with Ship of State as the title, feeling that by foreshadowing the central metaphor it would help cinch the poem tight. But decided it was too bland for the essential purpose of a title, which is to entice the reader to actually read on. And also decided that title I did choose best represents the theme at the heart of the poem: my feeling of utter helplessness (and hopelessness!) as I passively watch the world burn (or, in this case, drown). 

For real — or so it truly seems — this time. Especially with the execrable Donald Trump manning the helm! (Not such a bad title for a poem: The Execrable Donald Trump!)

Or am I just an inveterate pessimist, Cassandra, catastrophist?  Am I guilty of losing the calm perspective on history I refer to in the poem?

Image - Jan 28 2026

 

Image

Jan 28 2026



I hold this image of you.

If I look directly, it seems to recede;

so better to glance, not dwell.

You’d think that something in your head

could only get so far away,

but the mind is capacious;

as dismissive of space

as it is of time.

So not only untouchable

no matter how much I strain

but untouched by age;

a snapshot

taken when the world was young.

And not a still image

but the moving picture you always were;

too kinetic to catch,

too gossamer to keep

at least for long.

Never kept nor caught

in the time we had together.

And now, I fear the image will fade

like a Polaroid

left too long in the light;

the blacks turning to greys

and the greys eventually lost

to a washed-out white.

So just as photographs aren’t forever

memory is flawed,

no matter how sure you are

that truth is singular. 

Like trick photography,

the dark room art

of a mind imagining

too long and too hard.