Shrunken Heads - Oct 13 2026

 

Shrunken Heads

Oct 13 2026

She walked lightly on the earth.

Her footprint was small,

and the more she minimized

the smaller she became;

a disappearing act

of self-abnegation. 

I remember the shrunken heads I once saw

in the curio shop

among the oddities for sale

 — the two-headed calf

mermaid cadaver

macabre masks.

Were they minimalists as well?

Were they as guilty for living

as my earnest friend,

as repelled by excess?

At parties, no one noticed her.

She never raised her voice

so no one heard

her rare but trenchant whispers.

Her shadow shrunk so much

it seemed that light went right through her,

and sideways, she’d disappear

unless you knew where to look.

If frugality is virtuous

then she was sanctified.

Not a life I envy

but an ethic I admire.

I watched, over the years, as she diminished

then dematerialized.

How beautiful she was, almost angelic;

as delicate 

as fine bone china,

as translucent as an Irish mist.

She had the serious face of an idealist,

the ascetic grace

of a weightless arabesque;

but also the strength 

austerity requires. 

She was minimalist to the extreme,

the single thing 

she didn’t stint on.

I only wish she’d been easier on herself;

because she was too quiet to change minds,

too small to make a difference

in a world of appetite

unbridled ambition.

But beautiful for trying.

Too bad

love was a luxury

she refused to indulge.

Like all her acts of denial,

so noble an intention

and such a futile end.

I try to be a minimalist in my life. It’s an aesthetic preference, as well as an ideal. I can’t claim I succeed.

But as soon as I thought a poem about minimalism offered lots of possibility, I thought of someone I once knew: a committed environmentalist who lived what she believed. Such a noble act; but too small to matter. 

Unfortunately , that’s the sticking point of collective action:  when a problem can only be solved by everyone doing their little bit, but no one believes the effort is worthwhile, and no one wants to go first. In the case of climate change, the first-starter problem is as much one of nations as individuals. (Not that it should be, considering the benefits of getting off fossil fuels to population health, energy security, cost savings, and — in an electrifying world — industrial competitiveness. It’s no longer a sacrifice or unaffordable.)

While writing this, the classic movie and great science fiction film The Incredible Shrinking Man (the original as well as a remake, both based on a book of the same name) kept coming to mind. I saw her incrementally shrinking down until there was little left.

I couldn’t resist the title, even though it’s just a small (although, I hope, amusing) aside in the poem. Because I don’t mind a little misdirection in a title. (The tone of the poem isn’t quite what Shrunken Heads would lead you to expect.) And I like a title that draws a reader in. Which I imagine this one would!

Bloodlust and Carnivory - Oct 12 2026

 

Bloodlust and Carnivory

Oct 12 2026

Roughhousing with the dogs.

With bared teeth and lunges for the neck

they play at being wolves.

It’s the wagging tails that give them away,

the bright eyes

that seek out mine for approval.

But, as usual, I’m not fully there.

I am stuck on the word

which makes no sense, yet perfectly captures this.

Roughhousing,

a dad word 

my father might have used

but me, never

until just now.

The pairing of h, like musical chairs

taking a break in the middle.

That unwieldy ghh

I can’t begin to pronounce;

should I squeeze the hard g out my throat

or hiss an airy breath

  — the way a kid

gurgles out an ahhh

at the check-up with his tongue depressed?

But mostly, I like how house domesticates rough;

so it’s more innocent fun

than bloodlust and carnivory.

Sensibly, the dogs have no time for such reveries

know just single syllables.

They’re too preoccupied 

rolling on the carpet

grappling, and pretending to bite,

growling like they meant it.

The wolf, bred out of them

so only play is left.

My dogs have taught me many things. But the biggest and most enviable one may be how to be fully present:  neither ruminating on the past nor anxiously anticipating the future; not constantly planning, judging, or resisting what fate has delivered. They are Zen masters of living in the now. I’m not.

Also, they are formidable animals and could be killing machines, but instead they’re as endearingly innocent as plush toys. Might I suggest that we humans aren’t nearly so well bred?

The New Yorker published an Anne Carson poem today (the Oct 19, 2026 edition) that used this word. It’s a very useful but unlikely one:  unlikely, because I don’t see how it makes logical sense. In print, especially, the awkward conflation of its two constituent words really caught my eye. 

It also struck a cord because my 2 dogs and me “roughhouse” on the carpet almost every day! They seem less enthusiastic when I’m not there. It’s as if they’re either showing off, trying to entertain me as best they know how, or seeking my approval. I say this because they occasionally catch my eye, as if checking in on me: am I  still there, still engaged? This reminds me of little kids insistingly shouting “watch me” to onlooking parents as they perform a cartwheel or some other proudly mastered feat.

Her poem is called Life. Here’s how it begins:

Bright as boatwash

we head for Montreal,

to Will’s house.

Will’s birthday.

Here’s Will!

New green sofa,

glass of Malbec,

roughhousing with the dog on the rug.

  . . . 

 

A Faint Glow - Oct 12 2026

 

A Faint Glow

Oct 12 2026

These dark mornings 

when the cold lingers

feel like an omen to me.

The sun is shining

somewhere on earth, I’m told,

as if this is encouraging.

It’s zero sum, they say;

just wait

dusk comes late

and spring won’t take long.

As if astronomy

could ease my edginess.

As if I have the patience

to do arithmetic

or wait half a year.

A hand strokes my greying stubble.

The mirror mists, shower sprays

and I stand under it,

head bent

shoulders slumped

until the hot runs out. 

A comb tussles with my hair

and loses,

the length too much for it

snags too gnarly. 

Out of towels, I use the crusty one;

but rubbing hard

feel just as damp

and only half awake.

Did I sleepwalk all night,

take too much Ambien?

Nothing to eat,

so I stumble to the car, but drop the key;

down on my knees

in the dark

sweeping blindly through the grass

I never bothered to cut.

A faint glow

has appeared in the sky

where the sun should be rising.

I glance briefly up

but am either wilfully blind 

or the light means nothing to me;

I see

but simply ignore it.

Another omen,

a solemn promise

like the rainbow after the storm?

Or an ominous sign

that I’m somehow stuck

in this twilight world of neither nor?

Dark mornings all winter. Light affects mood. Darkness can be a metaphor. 

There is talk of permanent Daylight Saving Time. Some jurisdictions have already enacted it. Good for the after-work golfers; not great for kids waiting for the bus or walking to school on fall and winter mornings. (Do they do that anymore?) 

The human brain is primed to both see patterns and infer cause and effect. Is susceptible to both a self-referential solipsism and superstition. Here, a random chain of normal events takes on a greater meaning, reflecting the mood of the writer. 

Who, I hasten to add, is hypothetical: me, but not me! I’m not the man in the poem. I’m highly nocturnal, so only up early if I haven’t been to bed! But the mood this poem evokes isn’t unfamiliar. I suspect, at times, to us all. 

The passive voice in the 4th stanza is intentional. I like the sense of being disembodied, as if his hand was on autopilot and he was either watching half asleep or too flat to care. (Probably both!) Flat and apathetic, if not clinically depressed: he’s unshaved, the laundry isn't done, fridge is empty, and grass uncut. A long shower doesn’t help; he needs drugs to sleep! (Never taken Ambien. But heard lots of horror stories!)

I’m quite pleased with the sequence of ignore, storm, and neither nor that end the last 3 stanzas. I think the rhyme cinches them together and gives a satisfying sense of completion to the poem. I came up with neither nor, then worked backwards. I thought I’d constructed a kind of couplet. Only later did I realize that ignore had been there all along!

First Man - Oct 10 2026

 

First Man

Oct 10 2026

The cul de sac

sits off a quiet street

in a leafy suburb. 

It takes stop/starting

at several rights and lefts

to get there,

from the main arterial road 

through less and less travelled ones. 

That busy central thoroughfare 

is wide and serpentine, 

winding through the housing tract 

like an asphalt spine

dividing it in two.

It’s no accident, those curves;

no one’s just passing through,

there are faster routes

than this labyrinth of streets

speed bumps

and 4-way stops.

Which is how we like it here;

our kind of people

  . . .  no surprises. 

The cul de sac

is a dead end

that backs on a wood,

a small remnant 

of the forest that once stood here,

before the earthmovers 

chainsaws

and men who roll out lawns

in long heavy strips

of industrial turf.

At night, streetlights wash-out the sky.

Trash bins, all identical

line the street like sentries

standing by the curb.

The houses are quiet 

grass lush

gardens manicured.

But the woods are dark

mysterious

alluring.

And wild, of course.

Sometimes even spooky

under a full moon

when the wind stirs the leaves

and makes the trees sway.

I walk there at night,

navigating unmarked paths

and breathing in the woodsy scent.

But instead of engineered to keep away

these paths draw me in,

step by step

as if compelled.

Is this a necromancer’s spell,

or some innate desire

I can’t resist

and follow blindly?

Where I keep careful track

of each fork, intersection

double-back and dead-end.

Or at least keep track

until I can’t.

Did I let my mind wander?

Is some metaphysical force

leading me on?

Or is that what I wanted all along?

That is, if you can be lost

but also feel you’re where you belong.

Walking on uneven ground

surrounded by trees.

As if the streetlights went dark

traffic stopped

lawns grew wild.

As if the land

was as it’s always been;

soil, teeming with life,

virgin trees

too thick to get my arms around.

As if no man

had walked this way before.

The poem was inspired by this article. 

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/10/05/property-values-joshua-specht-book-review

Although the dogs and I frequently do a walk very much like this. But unlike the poem, I know the usual route — don’t have to keep track of all the rights and lefts and forks. 

But deeper into the woods, it’s still easy to get lost; especially if you wander out of earshot of the river. 

I almost never take my phone on walks. But once when we did lose our way I was happy I had it:  the path we were near actually showed up on Apple Maps. Naturally, I was pleased it did; but still damned surprised! Unfortunately, this also shows just how delusional my sense of in wilderness is: a fond fiction I romantically cling to, despite the clear evidence.

Btw, I believe the technically correct word is maze, not labyrinth. So allow me to claim poetic license. (You can’t get lost in a labyrinth.  Look it up.) 

Scofflaw - Oct 8 2026

 

Scofflaw

Oct 8 2026

I don’t want permission,

seek the low-hanging fruit

delight in forbidden.

But insist on the rules

I arbitrarily set,

then blithely forget

when I break them myself.

Unethical!

you loudly protest;

yes, indeed I am

and thrilled to provoke.

So condemn and abhor

I couldn’t care less,

I’m immune, exempt

unfettered by norms.

I scorn statutes, commandments, and maritime law,

cheat on tests

and manipulate stock. 

Approve of adultery

skulduggery

and promises dropped,

money launder

shoplift

and freely defraud.

I park on lawns

and litter the trash,

borrow tools

I never give back.

I’m a grifter, a scammer

and tip badly at best,

tell white lies, and black lies

and dispense with the truth.

Never pick up the cheque

am uncommonly rude,

am slanderous, libellous

and simply uncouth.

Rules for the breaking

   . . . but not for you.

Just a bit of silliness in the spirit of Dr. Seuss. Think of it as doggerel for adults as written by a psychopath!

(Hmmm, I wonder if this was inspired by reading about the shameless corruption and hypocrisy in the Trump administration? Truly abominable!! And what contempt this brazen malfeasance shows toward even the dedicated followers whose loyalty Trump takes for granted. At least some of them are now waking up to what a horrible man he truly is.) 

Infernal Dark - Oct 7 2026

 

Infernal Dark

Oct 7 2026

I wanted the hall light left on

door ajar.

As if the monster under the bed

would lie there paralyzed,

confined to the shadows

of infernal dark.

We are visual creatures

who can’t help but believe 

that light purifies

darkness defiles.

Just as woodland animals 

who depend on smell

sleep more soundly in mountain air

  — above the treeline

 or an alpine glade.

Or as cave dwellers

with giant ears and vestigial eyes

let down their guard

in the silence of night.

And when we grow up 

do we shut the door and draw the shades

because we realize

the only monsters we have to fear

live within

not under the bed?

Avoiding the light

because we might be seen.

Unable to sleep

because we’re too afraid

to see ourselves.

Sleeping alone,

even when someone shares the bed.

Believe it or not, a single word seeded this poem. “Ajar”. It had some salience because it brought to mind an old and very bad joke. The first cars that issued warnings not with sounds like chimes, beeps, and buzzers, but with words (struck us as very futuristic!) would say “Your door is ajar”, and in the bad dad joke it could be heard as “ …is a jar”. Yeah, neither clever nor funny. 

Anyway, I thought of childhood bedrooms and the bedtime ritual of nightlights and open doors. From there, the poem wrote itself. The dark ending was just as surprising to me!

I have no idea what a reader might make of this poem. But if I were to offer my take, it could be summed up in 2 short lines:

They say we can never be truly known

as if we’d rather we were.

Ultimately, there are private thoughts we’d never share. Shame, guilt, self-consciousness. Perfect openness is threatening.  Perfect intimacy, of not impossible, then nearly so. 

Shallow Graves - Oct 6 2026

 

Shallow Graves

Oct 6 2026

A zombie link

takes you nowhere.

Once, it led to a website;

now, it simply tempts you,

the living dead

stumbling directionless

into the ether of the internet.

They say beware what you post

it’s all forever there.

But links degrade

memory fades

and people change.

So be thankful for forgetfulness

not to mention rotting brains.

I imagine a scary movie, perhaps a parody

  — an army of stale links

marching stiffly, arms outstretched

glassy eyes

staring dully ahead. 

An error message appears 

as I click, and click again.

The internet swarms with them,

old entries 

that exist somewhere

on bulletin boards, in black-and-white text,

embarrassing rants

in shallow graves

festering on the dark web.

Neither living nor dead

they haunt us still;

that there’s a chance

they might come back to life.

The first time I saw that expression — zombie link — I thought it so clever, and immediately wanted to have some fun with it. That was a while ago. No idea why it resurfaced today. And not that I have any dark secrets lurking on the web. 

I take that “forever” warning with a grain of salt. Because it contains some hubris:  after all, nothing is forever. Even the internet. It’s digital, yes. But also depends on actual hardware — servers, cables, power sources, and hands-on management — none of which will last forever. Just like the ruins of ancient civilizations, whose builders must also have thought were the zenith of human achievement and would stand the test of time.   . . . Also, you just not that interesting: no one really cares, and certainly won’t in the future!

And Leave Us to Ourselves - Oct 6 2026

 

And Leave Us to Ourselves 

Oct 6 2026



Spring back, fall ahead.

An hour of extra light

or less

depending on when

the powers that be determine.

Of course, it’s all léger de main

  — a trick of the hour hand,

like a coin behind the ear,

a vanished card

that reappears.

I like the dark.

I am wintry, sepulchral, tenebrous,

hunker, lurk

seek refuge.

I migrate to the sunless hour, cower in the light,

inhabit long dark nights

and estivate in summer.

The change is late this year.

Twilight softens the world

as the dregs of dusk persist,

darkness doesn’t fall

when I feel it should.

Some day, the clock will be fixed.

The spare hour will not shift,

and the arbitrary rule 

no longer be contested

by nighthawks and morning people.

As if there was such a thing as extra light.

As if the sun could be fooled

the earth paused

by a simple act of law.

It took about an hour

to write this rough draft.

Late, but long enough

to safely open the blinds;

for the light to fade

the day recede

my eyes mercifully rest.

Daylight savings time 

is like an unwanted guest 

who outstays her welcome while I force a smile,

sipping her tea

while telling the same old stories

or asking me to pick a card.

Please go, I think, while the light is good

and leave me and the night to ourselves.

Actually, although I’m as night-hawkish as they come, I’m enjoying the extra hour of evening light this fall. But it feels like it’s too late in the season for the clocks not to have changed. So I checked, and Nov 1 seems to me to be the latest ever for DST to end. No?  

This time of year, there’s a distinct quality to the evening light: it seems thin, washed-out, more transparent. And when there’s this kind of cold (our winters come early!), it seems incongruous for it to persist so late in the day.

So clock conventions, light and dark, and day/night have been on my mind. This is certainly not the first time I’ve written about my preference for darkness, night, and cold weather:  the intimacy and privacy of darkness; the energization of cold; and the bracing adversity of winter.

I usually quite consciously avoid using “big” words. I think they interrupt the reader’s flow, make her pause in order to process meaning. (Or worse, stop and look them up!) I want a poem to enter into consciousness the way music does — directly and unmediated:   visceral, not intellectual; felt, not analyzed. Words shouldn’t act as speed bumps. So I apologize for tenebrous, estivate, and sepulchral. A small indulgence. I like the sound and precision of these words here. And perhaps my reluctance underestimates my reader. Words also have a certain “mouth feel”. Ideally, poetry is recited. It’s written to be heard at the pace of human speech.  But even when you read it in your head, your mouth silently forms the words. Often, I’ll choose one word over another equally good one just for this reason. “Mouth feel” is part of the aesthetic pleasure of language.

I personified DST as a “her”. No reason. Perhaps the later light seems to have a more feminine energy. Or perhaps I prefer female company!  I’m also old school. My pronouns are binary. I find the singular “they” confusing. It would be better if we could invent a brand new word. 

A Cure for Cancer - Oct 5 2026

 

A Cure for Cancer

Oct 5 2026

Yes, cancer was finally cured,

artificial hearts

have replaced the failed ones,

and it’s been found

that an elixir

infused into old brains

rejuvenates even the balkiest.

So we all now live forever.

What then?

Eternal life

but no room on earth for newborns?

No new blood

to replace the incumbents 

who are increasingly bored

and fixed in their ways?

They don’t dodder anymore,

but there are only so many times 

you can replace a hip.

And how soon until the daily jog palls,

how long 

the wait for eternity?

I’m not saying a ripe old age is punishment,

but isn’t a life sentence

without chance of parole 

deemed cruel and unusual

even by criminal law?

Just imagine, no parenthood, no family.

No arc to life,

and with time immaterial

no urgency,

no need

not to put things off forever.

Which may be why it’s been said

that death gives life meaning.

Or at least, impels us to seek it out.

Forever is like a poem

written without constraints;

no rhyme or pacing,

line breaks wherever,

and distillation be damned.

Would it even be a poem?

Or would it be a single run-on sentence

that never ended

and no one wanted to read?

Great art, it would seem, depends on limits.

I think of all the crumpled pages

scrawled with false starts

scattered  on the floor,

the masterpieces

painted over failed tries.

I think of evolution

without life and death.

There would be no peacocking birds, lichens and trees

and no human beings;

life on earth

would be just single-celled creatures

in an airless sea.

Not to say we’re its greatest work of art,

but we’re at least a rough outline

a good first draft.

And I think of the fly

added to the portrait of the wealthy man,

a momento mori

in an unobtrusive corner

hanging on the wall.

A harbinger

to keep him humble,

a reminder

that death comes for us all.

And perhaps a reminder

that eternity is no cure.

That death doesn’t need one.

And that wishing for an end

that never comes

could be its own version of hell.

Today, in another article about AI, one of its many cheerleader once again dangles the tempting old cliche of finding a cure for cancer. (Which, btw, conveniently ignores the biological fact that cancer is not a single disease. “A cure” for cancer is a misnomer; it should be “the cures”. There will be no magic bullet. Just as there is no single antibiotic that kills every kind of bacteria.)

It strikes me that the tech bros who are championing AI are the same people (actually, the same men) who are keen on life extension; the types who would jump at eternal life,  if they could. And who think that they — above and beyond the rest of all of us non-billionaires — are uniquely entitled to live forever. Such self-regarding vanity. Such solipsistic ego. 

So what if every disease — not just cancer —  was cured? Whether by AI super-brains,  or simple human ones. What would be the sociological and anthropological ramifications of eternal life? (Not to mention the psychological ones.) Because you can’t just think about the sovereign individual; you have to consider society as a whole.

(Nevertheless, after that pious high-mindedness, I have to admit that the closer to death I become, the more attractive life extension gets to this particular sovereign individual. I understand the complexity and potential drawbacks; but given a choice, I’d take my chances!))

Yes, great art does depends on limits, and constraints are key to creativity. So I apologize for the length of this poem. Not quite a run-on sentence that never end(s), but — as usual — longer than I’d ideally like it to be. I guess I always have just too much to get off  my mind!

Mola Mola - Oct 4 2026

 

Mola Mola

Oct 4 2026



This fish looks preposterous;

ugly

   . . . in a homely sort of way.

Look it up

  —  the Mola Mola,

a giant sunfish

with a pneumatic body like a bloated disk,

one bottom fin

and one on top,

and a missing tail

that looks cut off

by a rusty pair of scissors. 

You can spy them at the surface, basking in the sun,

enticing seabirds

to peck at their parasites,

letting little cleaner fish

nibble on their skin.

Evolution

and vast amounts of time

fashion most unlikely creatures.

So who’s to say

how a fish should look?

Who’s to judge

what works    . . . and what does not?

After all, we’re all odd fish

swimming

in a sea of humanity.

But in place of fins, matching limbs

and hidden tails

instead of none

just above the rump.

While puffed-up heads

keep us afloat

with inflated self-importance.

Life is bizarre.

How cleverly

living things

find ways to solve survival

  —  the differences

will take your breath away.

So we’re  all Mola Molas, of a sort,

even you and me.

And who’s to say

we don’t belong,

who’s to say we’re wrong?

https://youtu.be/BpT5V6h42ck

For some reason, this video (click on the link ) turned up on my YouTube feed last night.  A fish that looked so preposterous, I had to check it out:  because this must surely be either some kind of joke, bizarre injury, or a singular freak of nature.

Evolution never ceases to surprise me! Biodiversity, the key to life’s survival.

Have to say, I identified with a fellow creature who would also be seen as different. But then, aren’t we all? An important understanding, in a political environment that’s increasingly suspicious of difference and seeks to demonize otherness.