A Serious Man - Nov 29 2025

 

A Serious Man

Nov 29 2025

I am a serious man. 

Seriousness in a man should be expected

even if it is less fun.

But the serious child

seems unnatural.

Who can’t lose himself.

Who bears the weight of the world.

Whose face betrays 

his relentless questioning

— the furrowed brow and bitten lip,

the vulnerable eyes

with their dark sleepless circles.

A joyless child 

without abandonment.

A child who is preternaturally old,

either too much of this world 

or who richly imagines the worst.

A fearful child

who can’t remember dreams

or would rather forget,

and who still insists 

on sleeping with the lights on.

Like brooding poets

and consumptive ones

he is thin, sallow, and restless.

He is not friendless,

but they’re too much like him

and never really get close.

His parents think he’s “special”,

but aren’t sure what to do

and have worries of their own. 

Serious children

were either born serious

or suffer for our sins;

the offspring of war, famine, and neglect.

They are overly sensitive,

in need of gentle handling

and attentive care;

but even if they get enough

it’s often gotten wrong. 

So if you run into one

take him seriously.

It gets better, you’ll say

but won’t be believed.

You’ll want to give him a hug

but he’ll likely rebuff you;

or, if he does accede

will stiffen up in your arms

then wiggle free.

If you’re a serious man, you’ll understand.

And if not, you will pity him,

look for someone to blame,

insist on fun.

But better than pity

and more than play

listening works.

Because his questions are good

and his vision pure,

not so much innocent

as disarmingly naïve.

The serious man is cynical,

but the serious child 

not yet. 

 

I was reading a criticism of the stereotypical tech-bro — Zuckerberg, in particular—which depicted them as unserious and careless. As opposed to serious men. 

Which a man should be. Not the adolescent frat-boy’s version of musclebound and predatory manliness. Not the manosphere’s cartoonish version. And not the unserious men — venal, social-climbing, oleaginous, ignorant, and unself-aware— who gravitate to Trump, and whom he appoints to high office.

Was the serious man once a serious child? Which doesn’t sound right: a serious man, sure, that’s the desirable version of masculinity; but serious child sounds oxymoronic. Childhood isn’t a time for seriousness. Which is the thought process that led to this poem.

I’d call myself a serious man. And I was a serious child. So even though my poems are decidedly not autobiographical, some of this is even true.

If You Lived That Long - Nov 28 2025

 

If You Lived That Long

Nov 28 2025

Suddenly, slowly, glacially.

Deliberately, thoughtfully, methodically.

Compulsively, impulsively

disastrously. 

Everything has its speed.

Even time,

which may be as constant as they say it is

but doesn’t feel that way.

I tend to dawdle

defer

procrastinate. 

If not exactly glacial

then at least putting off.

Have you ever watched a stream

in the first weeks of winter

beginning to freeze?

How it starts with a thin crust of ice

clinging to the shore

and in the lee of rocks,

then overnight

extends further out

then further out the next.

And while it may recede here and there

grows inexorably,

invisibly thickening

closing in.

Until one clear cold morning, you notice it’s complete;

the river bridged,

so even the fast water 

down the middle

is somehow solid with ice.

Not thick enough to walk across

but looks it.

What was once a fast-moving stream

is now perfectly still.

Add a dusting of fresh white snow

and it’s pristine.

Was it weeks,

or did it freeze instantly?

When the last molecule

of liquid water

flipped to its crystal form,

and a seamless bridge of ice

locked into place.

Slowly …methodically …suddenly.

And if another ice age is about to start

 — because really, how could you tell — 

even glacially.

But all things pass,

and even ages

eventually end.

When, if you lived that long

you could watch the glaciers thaw,

see time

moving in reverse.

Adverbs are anathema in poetry. If the cardinal rule of good poetry is to show it, not say it, then adverbs do exactly what they shouldn’t. So not only are they lazy, they disrespect the reader by patronizing her:  too much hand-holding, too obviously spelling it out. 

“Suddenly”, tempting as it often is, is probably the worst actor in this. So I challenged myself: not only by starting to poem with that forbidden word, but by starting it with 9 adverbs in a row!

Forget about the regular tick-ticking of the clock, the tinny drumbeat of the metronome. Because time isn’t constant, it’s highly subjective. Or at least the perception of it is. I’m not sure how physicists measure time; but I sure know how regular people do!

Only for the sake of this poem am I a procrastinator. Actually, the real me is the opposite. Possibly even to a fault. (Judicious waiting sometimes works better than jumping the gun.) Because I may have over-corrected. I used to defer, and got into trouble for it. (I suspect I let perfectionism paralyze me.) So, did I learn my lesson too well?

Labrador - Nov 25 2025

 

Labrador

Nov 25 2025

She curls up;

a tight ball of fur,

back to the wind

nose burrowed into her tail.

My dog in winter.

An outside dog

who is welcome in

but prefers the cold.

I open the door

and step aside invitingly;

she looks up 

with those big brown eyes,

thumps her tail a few times,

then settles back as before.

She is even named for the north;

her breed’s origin

in a bleak land of stunted trees

and the cold north Atlantic. 

Where her kind once swam,

a fisher’s companion

retrieving fish his net had lost,

her big webbed paws

and rudder-like tail

purpose-fit for the job;

a working dog

keen to start each day.

I envy her toughness

admire her all-weather design.

But still, could she survive without me?

Learn to hunt,

evade the wolves,

find a place, a pack, a mate?

Or have 20 millennia

of domestication

made us inextricable?

Man’s best friend,

dogs’ demigod.

She will come in, eventually.

And we will cuddle up in bed,

her warm body 

too hot 

for me to sleep well,

but her presence there

too comforting to resist.

           This poem is more Skookum than either Rufus or Peanut. A really tough old girl! 

           She passed a year ago, at the ripe old age of 15 1/2. 😢

Storm Watch - Nov 24 2025

 

Storm Watch

Nov 24 2025

A storm watch has popped up on my phone.

How reassuring

they are keeping watch

and looking out for me,

eagle eyes 

peering up;

that is, whoever “they” are.

Satellites circling,

computers whirring,

texts 

hurtling through space

in case of snow.

So I’ve been duly warned;

the first storm of winter,

and I can only hope to be stranded at home

  — snow stayed,

my obligations on hold.

But I remember the old days

when we were on our own.

How we sniffed the air

tested the breeze

squinted up at the sky.

Watched the birds roost

squirrels hunker down.

Felt it in our bones.

At the mercy of the weather gods

who were as ineffable

as the Almighty himself.

We were humble back then,

accepting our impotence

surrendering to whatever.

When life was full of surprises,

not watches and warnings

and red alerts.

A snow day, like an unexpected gift

one weekday morning,

before the alarm emitted

its klaxon-like blast.

Rolling over in bed

and looking out the window

as horizontal snow

battered the glass,

trees bent

leafless branches broke,

and impassable roads

made it feel even cozier

to be stranded at home.

Raindrops - Nov 23 2025

 

Raindrops

Nov 23 2025

The answer to why me

is why not?

Because the odds are against it;

there was an infinitesimal chance

it would be me,

so of course it shouldn’t have been.

And aren’t I entitled to better;

not saintly, but as good as any,

so in a just universe

I’d be spared.

And dammit, haven’t I had enough bad luck already,

or at least more than my share?

But it’s bad form

to answer a question with another.

And you realize, don’t you, that life isn’t fair?

Shit happens.

Fate’s random.

And there’s no such thing as destiny,

the universe has no intent.

The cosmic accident of birth

is really all you get;

the rest is a gift

with only so much given.

Which isn’t consolation, I know,

can’t assuage the pain

rage

and impotence you feel.

Because all you want 

is to shake you fist at the gods,

not shrug your shoulders

and nod fatalistically.

Why me

will come to all of us

eventually in life.

Trouble is, there’s a what, a when, and a how,

but there is no why.   

No reason in the world for this,

just rage

then resignation,

and after a while

recalibration

to the rest of your life;

the new normal,

at least until the next big thing

looms overhead

like a dark thundercloud. 

So shake your fist

pound the desk

shout, scream, and curse.

Even clasp your hands and pray

to whatever God or gods

might overhear,

atheist, or not.

But don’t ask the unanswerable.

Because shit happens

like raindrops

falling from the sky;

no matter how fast you walk

there’s no staying dry.

Take Care of Itself - Nov 22 2025

 

Take Care of Itself

Nov 22 2025

I can’t help but revisit the past.

I’m a barge

dredging through memory

and stirring up silt,

its big scoop

reaching to the bottom

beneath the turbid water

digging blind.

Sometimes, I’m an archeologist;

down on my knees

sifting the soil

with fine toothed instruments,

sweeping off my finds

with soft little brushes.

Exposing them

to the harsh light of day,

the corrosive air

that reduces everything

to its elements.

But more often than not

I’m up at night,

leaving a warm bed

and stumbling through the dark

over something I dropped

lost track of

forgot,

or never put in its place

from the start.

So I can search for the past, or not;

either way

it's always there.

As fossilized remains,

small bones

and broken ones

time turned to stone.

A mummified body,

like the prehistoric man

found in a bog

with a rope around his neck.

Or a decomposing one

buried alive;

in the dark of night

weighted down

and dumped over the side.

Good memories, but mostly bad.

Although it seems we are biased 

toward negativity;

human nature

trying to learning from the past

as best it can

to save us from ourselves.

The future is even harder to know.

You plan, hope, project.

Pursue the path you set.

Or simply drift,

because inertia is easiest.

And because there’s all the time in the world

until there’s not.

So really, the now is all that’s left.

Being present,

living in the moment

oblivious to the next.

And always 

forgiveness, as well.

Especially to yourself.

Despite the amends

you failed to make,

the regrets

you’ll take to your deathbed.

And never believe it

when they say they have none,

taking a last breath

and holding your hand in their 

cold and wasted one.

They’ve simply perfected

the art of forgetting;

learned too well

to let the past take care of itself.

Living in the Future - Nov 18 2025

 

Living in the Future

Nov 18 2025

It all seems so futuristic.

The gee whiz of it all,

like when I was kid

reading science fiction 

and their fanciful predictions 

seemed more magical than real;

too fantastic

to ever live to see.

Impossible, yes

    . . . but still

just imagine only if.

Magic,

the art of distraction

deception

and clever tricks,

sleight of hand

and slick skulduggery.

It only seems supernatural;

even better

the less you look.

Even though everything is magical

when it’s a black box

and you haven’t a clue how it’s done. 

Flying cars

and colonies on the moon.

Moving sidewalks

and computers on our wrists.

Robots

freeing us from drudgery

(if they don’t turn on us first),

and the sum of human knowledge

at our restless fingertips.

So it did actually happen

and almost as predicted.

Even the dystopians

who tried to warn us in their fiction

seem eerily accurate now.

So why does living in the future

not seem so futuristic?

Why do all these marvels

elicit jaded yawns,

get taken for granted

and old too fast?

And why has living like this

not made life simpler,

human beings 

better at getting along?

Happiness, it seems

is still a long way off.

It’s “complicated”, we demur,

reducing the pain 

of being alive

to a single imprecise word;

the complications

of human nature

the future hasn’t solved. 

Or never can.

Not when things changed

but we didn’t. 

Not when prehensile thumbs 

serving caveman brains 

push buttons they don’t understand.

And not when it’s in our nature

to become jaded, impatient, and bored. 

Moving sidewalks ended.

They walked on the moon

then never went back.

And computers in our pockets

went from wonders to curse;

could the brave new world

have turned out worse

for the better angels in us all?

Not when instant connection 

pushes us apart,

anonymity 

brings out the mean girl and bullyboy,

and instant gratification

leaves us impatient for more.

Abundance hasn’t satisfied

it’s just made us fat,

and access hasn’t edified

it simply distracts.

Meanwhile, the rich are getting richer

while the rest get less and less.

Don’t the computer geeks 

and tech geniuses know

that speed is over-rated

when you’re going who-knows-where?

Novelty

for its own sake

eventually palls,

the “new” no longer thrills.

Especially the older you get,

when you learn 

that what matters in life

is what always has before;

that technology

with its imperative

of sleeker, faster, more

can’t rescue us from ourselves.

We may be living in the future

but it’s really hard to tell.

This podcast inspired the poem:  https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/647-the-moving-walkway-is-ending/

The last time I remember being on a moving sidewalk was at the Toronto airport. I recall being impatient at its slowness:  not content to stand still, and passing people who were. I suspect it’s still there. But since I no longer fly I don’t know; it may very well have gone the way of the many others referred to in the pod.

Aurora - Nov 16 2025

 

Aurora

Nov 16 2025



Most nights, we head north;

the dogs, running off in all directions

while I set a brisk pace

on the empty backroad.

When it’s cold and dry

stars fill the sky

in a brilliant celestial light-show.

But while the Greeks saw stories everywhere

the Big Dipper is all I can make out,

with the Pole Star

a steady light

a short distance off;

an astronomical constant

countless generations have followed.

I scan the sky

peer at the horizon;

hopefully

but mostly disappointed. 

Am I too far south,

is my timing be off?

Has the sun’s corona

been oddly quiet?

But the other day 

the view was spectacular. 

Curtains of green and red 

ribboning

and shimmering

and strobing overhead.

They followed the curve of the sky,

and under them

beneath its immensity

I felt immeasurably small,

an insignificant man

in a vast indifferent universe

 — smallness,

the sine qua non of awe.

You’d think that science

would undermine the wonder,

knowledge demystify. 

Charged particles

from the sun’s coronal flux,

caught in the ionosphere

by earth’s magnetic field.

An invisible shield,

that deflects the solar wind

so life can exist;

improbable as it is

on this blue-and-green planet

3rd from the sun.

But knowledge never does 

rob nature of its power.

So I look up

and feel at one with the ancients,

just as small

and just as filled with awe.

Who didn’t see creation

as governed by physics

or natural law;

they saw a warning

a promise

a message from their gods.

Not that rainbows and comets didn’t foretell;

but compared to this, were underwhelming

and too easy to miss.

I think the absence of sound 

makes it that much more affecting.

Because silence is distance;

too far away 

for sound to travel,

yet big enough to fill the sky.

Like distant lightning,

when you keep straining to hear

but the thunder never comes.

Because seeing is believing

and silence focuses the mind.

We are, after all, visual creatures

who depend on light

to bring the world in.

And because who needs sound

with pyrotechnics like this?

It’s the weak who call for attention

not the powerful.

Who simply presume their status,

going about their business quietly

and wearing their power easily.

Who have no need of bluster

bragging

or false bravado.

And who

 — with the understated elegance 

of the privileged class —

know when to stop.

It was just one night

and then they were gone.

But I keep looking up,

hoping I never get so jaded

that the wonder fades,

or fancy myself too big

in a universe as vast as this;

a mortal man

humbled by my smallness

and filled with quiet awe.

Taken Nov 12 of this year by my friend Sherry-Lynn while out for a late walk: