Instead of the News - Aug 11 2026

 

Instead of the News

Aug 11 2026

My life gets smaller.

As I age,

and complacency closes in

like a belt cinching tighter

a narrowed eye.

As I begin to fully understand

my insignificance 

against the vastness of the universe

and the magnitude of time.

As the world seems more and more consumed

by endless wars

needless cruelty

and a ravaged earth.

Which may be why

I find myself retreating into daily life

domesticity

my own company.

Thinking back

instead of planning and dreaming,

reading memoir and biography

instead of the news.

Curiously, the world goes on.

Turns out I didn’t need to stay informed

cultivate opinions

or feel so upset, incensed, repelled.

Because it was all in my head.

Because being so serious

didn’t move a mind

or change a thing,

left no impression

and will leave no legacy.

Because generations succeed

only to forget

as people drop right and left

however they lived,

idols topple

temples crumble

and tectonic plates shift.

Yes, I cared, even tried

at least a little

if that’s any defence.

But either way

the sun rose and set,

leaves budded, then fell,

and year followed year

indifferent to me.

The earth went on spinning

the galaxy circled

and the universe churned

as it’s always done;

cataclysms

of creative destruction 

too vast for me to see

too big to comprehend.

A self-indulgent meditation on the futility I suspect many of us feel. 

But it's not totally negative. I think it expressed a becoming humility. And ends with a sense of wonder, even awe.

Perfect Zen - Aug 9 2026

 

Perfect Zen

Aug 9 2026



It’s true, we live in the perpetual present;

most everything has changed

but it’s still “now”

and will always be.

How paradoxical

to combine those two words,

since nothing is forever

and now

too fleeting to measure.

A perpetual present

when time stops,

the past has been lost,

and the future

is merely theoretical. 

Because isn’t it always so?

Nonexistent,

except for what you fear

or wish for.

I marvel at such stillness.

Breathe out, and forget your last breath.

Close your eyes, and let the sun stop

just where it is

earth no longer spin.

Assume the position

and hold yourself there,

an inanimate object

undistracted by thought

or rumination.

Distil down time

smaller and smaller

to the fundamental particle

you fully inhabit,

indivisible

and infinitely small.

Where no now becomes then,

no future beckons,

and there’s no reckoning

or ultimate end.

The perfect Zen

of unfettered existence. 

I saw those two words, and immediately thought that while life feels that way, it would also have to be timeless for “perpetual present” to be true. 

And don’t those two concepts contradict: “perpetual” implying something infinite, while “now” is indivisibly small?

I suppose the only true perpetual present would be one in which you completely forget the past: when it would feel as if there was only a single “now”, not a continuous string of different ones. There’s a movie about this, and for the protagonist it’s more nightmarish and trapped than sublimely content and enlightened.

While life is a succession of “now”s, it’s only in the momentary one that you’re truly present. So, in a sense, there really is a perpetual now. Except that the “now” is always different and the only constant is you:  a pearl necklace of “now”s in which you are the string. 

Anyway, I started to noodle around with the phrase, almost immediately abandoned the effort — too bloodless a poem, the phrase stopped seeming as interesting, and I’ve already written to many about the passage of time — then eventually revisited and revised until I came up with this. I’ll leave it to you to decide if this poem was worth pursuing.

You could see it as having something to do with meditation. Which is not something I do; and when I’ve briefly tried, don’t do well. They call it “mindfulness”. But “mindlessness” seems more accurate to me for the state of detachment meditation ideally achieves.

Municipal Pool - Aug 7 2026

 

Municipal Pool

Aug 7 2026

In the municipal pool

almost all is bared.

Even the one-piece with the ruffled skirt

the old lady wears

shows more of her than anyone’s seen

since her husband left

for someone younger.

Yet almost no one cares;

there’s no self-consciousness 

when everyone’s flaws

are on public display.

Of course, the adolescent boys still strut and flex

pull in their stomachs

and act like they don’t care,

despite how unsure

they really feel.

The teenaged girls

in skimpy bikinis they’re too young to wear

have no idea

this is the best they’ll ever look.

They cluster together

like gazelle on the Serengeti

as if numbers will protect them,

giggling girlishly

and flirting with the boys.

There are middle aged men

who seem perfectly content

with sagging bellies and body hair

sprouting sporadically

from pallid skin;

old geezers

with twiggy arms and veiny legs

sporting Speedos

that have seen better days;

and the aquarobics ladies

who try hard to stay fit,

but would much prefer lunch with the girls

and a second glass of wine.

And kids of all ages

who are mercifully oblivious

as to how they appear,

cannonballing giddily

and running on the deck

despite the lifeguards’ loud slow downs.

The municipal pool

is the great equalizer.

We’re all average 

or think we are,

all judging ourselves

but not very hard,

and all too preoccupied 

with having fun

to care that we aren’t body builders

or movie stars.

I slip into the pool

to a shock of cool

and too much chlorine,

goggles fogging over

and baggy suit

billowing up around my legs.

Start counting lengths

up and down the lane.

All by myself

in the welcome quiet

of this water world,

where every difference 

looks pretty much the same.

Here’s a note that accompanied the first draft when I shared it with a friend, who also happens to be a much better swimmer than me.

I was in the pool yesterday (Thursday) — fantastic weather for a lake swim, but lousy timing for a pre-booked appointment, and I had no choice but to be in town.

The same damn thing is happening: in the lake, my stroke feels powerful, fluid, and painless, as well as tireless; but then I get in a lane with the finger-breaking buoy lines and head-bashing bulkheads, and I must tense up or somehow alter my stroke so I feel slow and my shoulder immediately starts to hurt. You ever hear of anything like this in anyone else?!!

Anyway, it was busy there, with more than the usual assortment of ages and body types. (Including this “old geezer”!) So at least I got this poem out of it!   . . . No title as yet. Suggestions welcome. 

Paper Trails - Aug 5 2026

 

Paper Trails

Aug 5 2026



Just follow the money

  — the moolah, lucre, scratch

greenbacks and lolly

Grease their palm

wet their beak

slip a little sweetener.

Don’t be shy

with the baksheesh, boodle, or bung

  — the usual bribe

along with the wink of an eye

and surreptitious nod.

Because it’s all greed

and shameless shenanigans.

Sure, you can’t take it with you,

but while you can

indulge in every luxury

corruption be damned.

And if there is an afterlife 

and everlasting judgement

you’ll just talk your way out.

Because the pearly gates are a fraud

and St. Paul can be bought

like everyone else;

if not with gold or T-bills

than with silver-tongued lies

and phoney contrition.

No one is innocent

we all have our price. 

Just a quick fun one. More wordplay than serious cynical social commentary. Because I’m not quite this cynical. At least not yet!

A Cure for Death - Aug 3 2026

 

A Cure for Death

Aug 3 2026

This lab is working on a cure for death

he matter-of-factly said

as we breezed by

on our tour of the institute. 

All of us living forever?

Bad idea, you might say,

but on your deathbed

will likely want it anyway.

You can cure meat

leprosy

and even a broken heart,

but is “cure” the best word for death?

As if immortality was natural

and death the malady.

Because for most of the universe 

the normal state of being

is insentient, inert

 — dead stuff, like asteroids

and interstellar gas.

While for all living things, at least on earth

life is a fleeting blip

in an oblivion

of eternal non-existence

 — the billions of years

before you were born,

the billions after you’re gone.

Which I try imagining,

as if to imagine

could make it easier.

I think of a sleep

you don’t wake up from,

a drugged and dreamless sleep

that never ends.

Or better yet

those eons that preceded me,

the utter void of nothingness

I only know there even was

because science says so.

So I accept death,

however reluctantly

however much I fear it.

When my selfness will be expunged

and my atoms returned

to the star stuff they once were;

the natural state

of inanimate matter

from which we arose.

We lucky few

who have been privileged, in our brief unlikely lives

to witness creation,

able to feel

the surprise, wonder, and awe

of the universe.

Who get to create meaning

as if there’s a reason we were born,

even if it’s nothing more

than wishful thinking

and self-importance

instead of truly why.

Not a departure, but a return.

No afterlife

no cure.



This started off as a shot in the dark. A promising line came to me — “a cure for death” — and I immediately thought of the sociological implications of everyone living forever, the possible psychological burden, and the odd choice of “cure”: as if death wasn’t natural and life was the rule.

But I expected little, because I could see it quickly turning pretentious, tendentious, and too philosophical:  a topic more suited to prose, with its dense reasoning and linear exposition, than to poetry’s more allusive and idiosyncratic style. 

So I’m pleased I stuck with it, and with how it turned. It expresses my materialist world view — my atheism, my tendency toward a bemused nihilism, my acceptance of my insignificance — without losing the light touch that would lose all but the most committed reader.

While in the poem I say I fear death, it’s really dying that I fear. And that’s also why I put “likely” into the line “will likely want it anyway”. Because I know people can reach a state where they welcome death, even wish for it:  an escape from torture; a reprieve from pain, shortness of breath, helplessness and dependency.  

I also state there’s no afterlife. (Of course, understanding that there’s no way to definitively know!) But I do understand why people console themselves with the belief. If I was capable of faith, I would as well. Unfortunately, unplugging a brain is like unplugging a computer: it doesn’t keep running, and there is no mind — let alone a soul — separate from the squishy stuff inside your skull, that does.

Between writing the first draft of this, and now tweaking it in its 3rd (4th?) iteration, I read this article (published in the Atlantic). I was struck by how Lightman calculates the astronomical odds against one’s unique existence — one hundred thousand billion to one — as well as the potential permutations of DNA — more possible combination than there are atoms in the observable universe. Our brief unlikely lives indeed! Emphasis on the unlikely.

https://www.theatlantic.com/philosophy/2026/06/the-ordinary-miracle-of-existing/687351/?gift=7KKUTeeJruMo0n11oQFrLiR7OFhp6UGHKkiI3GtXWb

Hermetic - Aug 2 2026

Hermetic

Aug 2 2026

I guard my privacy

remain inscrutable.

I am a blank slate;

I might tempt them to project

but give nothing away.

Behind the curtain

closed door

high walls.

Behind the steely silence

that doesn't break.

But while curtains can be drawn

doors locked

and walls are impervious to light

faces give themselves away.

There's the clenched jaw

furrowed brow

haunted look in the eyes,

small beads of sweat

wiped furtively off.

Silence speaks loudly

when you carefully watch.

The door creaks shut

curtains swish

walls loom.

It's dark inside.

The silence is deafening.

Not autobiographical. There’s nothing embarrassing in my search history, no bodies buried in the backyard! 

But I glanced at an article and “behind the curtain” caught my eye. It struck me as a promising first line. (Where it didn’t end up staying.)

And after all, a lot does go on behind closed doors. That thought sometimes occurs to me walking down a quiet suburban street and looking at the succession of closed doors and darkened windows. Who knows how others live? What goes on, what secrets are kept?

Siren Song - Aug 2 2026

 

Siren Song

Aug 2 2026



My mother couldn’t resist a bargain.

I understand her frugality.

She was raised in the Great Depression,

and as a young wife with little kids

had to make do with what was left

after my father paid his men

serviced debt

and covered the overhead 

to keep his struggling business

from running into the rocks.

But sometimes, you can’t afford the savings.

I know, because I’m my mother’s son,

and the siren song of the deal

seduces me as well.

After all, only chumps pay retail,

and when life is unfair

getting an extra edge

can feel like it evens the score.

Stuff you didn’t need

in the first place.

Cheap stuff you end up replacing.

And the rush of talking the seller down

or scoring the upgrade

no charge.

As I’ve aged, instead of accumulating

I’ve come to do with less.

I’d rather travel light,

value what I have,

and walk softly on the earth

than be burdened by dust collectors

or rebuked by tchotchkes

just taking up space.

While my mother, frugal as she was

never learned to be a minimalist.

I saw what happened after she died

when all the stuff left behind

the family didn’t want

or couldn’t give away

was sent to the landfill

or left at my sister-in-law’s,

mildewed cardboard boxes

taking up room she doesn’t have.

I just hope my long departed mom 

spent those savings well.

Even knowing

that she didn’t like to spend

and didn’t do it very well.

The Day the Earth Stood Still - Aug 1 2026

 

The Day the Earth Stood Still

Aug 1 2026

In the still photograph 

the moment is caught,

the way a flashbulb 

going off in the dark

burns an afterimage into your eye.

Arresting time,

so the instant the shutter is snapped

the universe has stopped expanding,

the galaxy no longer circles,

and the planets are locked in place,

arrayed around the sun

like the paper mâché

you made in grade school.

While the earth slams to a stop; 

the spin

that all our lives we never noticed

seizing up

just like that,

as if the gods had jammed

a cosmic wrench into its gears.

And with that jolt 

we’re all abruptly ejected 

along with everything else

not tied down or bolted on,

momentum

hurling us off into space

at 1600 k.

When time is rendered meaningless

and we too

find ourselves frozen in the ether.

Just as the photo remains

exactly the same

for all posterity.

So the food stays hot

the laughs as raucous

the thoughts as nascent,

no one ages

or becomes infirm,

and the dog doesn’t die.

This is the magic

of still photography.

It rescinds the physical laws

that govern the universe

and turns us into time travellers.

Lets us see in a way

both uncanny and unnatural.

And frees us to imagine

whatever happened

before and after

and outside the frame.

So it isn’t true

that time only moves in one direction.

Turns out

you can go back again.

This is hardly my first poem about still photography. Because a snapshot has this uncanny power: the way it lets us interrogate a moment, see the world in the most unnatural way. Unlike video, it leaves room for imagination: what came before, what came after, what’s outside of the frame. We see ourselves not as a mirror image, but as others see us. And it can evoke bittersweet nostalgia, as well as embarrassment and regret. It tells the story we tell ourselves.

(1600k is, of course, a rounding. (Luckily, it both rhymes and scans!) Plus the speed depends on where you are, since the planet circles faster at the equator than it does at the poles.)

Squeamish - July 31 2026

 

Squeamish

July 31 2026

Frogs make me squeamish.

Perhaps the way their thin skin

slick with pond scum

and disfigured with warts

drapes so loosely over toothpick bones

that could snap like seasoned kindling.

Or those protruding eyes,

blinking sleepily

through a see-through membrane

with a dim-witted gaze.

How do they survive

hopping through the underbrush 

underfoot

so infernally slow?

How could a prey animal

resist making speed,

feel entitled to its place

basking lazily

in the noonday sun?

But I think it was science class

where we dissected them

that left its mark.

The long slim legs

extended slackly

I was so reluctant to handle,

twitching spastically 

with an electric charge.

Then slicing through elastic skin

of a soft pale underside,

and the tightly packed viscera

bursting out

as if it never really fit.

A life, sacrificed

for the sake of ungrateful kids

more interested in hijinks

than education.

But we were immature, irreverent, and impatient

as well as secretly repulsed,

smirking

as the class clown made faces

at the glistening amphibian

spreadeagled in death.

Or summer camp,

when the morbid kids

would gleefully torture them

while the rest reluctantly watched,

too timorous to object;

budding psychopaths, I suspect

who would next move on

to kicking dogs and beating spouses.

Today, it was a tiny frog

hopping haltingly through the grass

as hard as it could

toward a swampy patch of shore.

So easy to have stepped on, if I hadn’t looked;

the slight wet squish

underfoot,

the cellophane crackle 

of delicate bones

transmitted feebly through my sole

I would hardly have felt.

Slow frogs everywhere

like hidden landmines,

tumescent bags of blood and guts

camouflaged by underbrush

I try not to flatten

I am a circumspect Godzilla,

mincing through Tokyo

as the terrified flee,

stepping carefully

hoping no one notices me.

Believe it or not, I think I’m much better with snakes and spiders than I am with frogs. 

Actually, that tiny guy was more likely a toad. But never mind. And the dissection was actually in university; but by then we were serious, and that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun to write about!

I really have always wondered how frogs survive, because they seem so unfit at evading predation. How many times have I almost stepped on one?!

People who abuse animals raise a red flag for future criminality. You don’t have to be a full-blown psychopath to lack empathy or dehumanize others. 

(Btw, the correct term for that clear protective cover for their eyes is “nictitating” membrane. And not exclusive to frogs.)

Am I Earth or Sun? - July 31 2026

 

Am I Earth or Sun?

July 31 2026

It’s either crayon, or light.

Photons, vibrating

at their predetermined rate

striking the retina,

or pigments

suspended in wax

absorbing them. 

The spotlight, bright as day,

or inert material 

brooding darkly.

Either dull or luminous,

fuel or fire,

earth or sun.

So which am I,

bound by gravity

or the lightness of light?

Am I a photon

magically entangled

and zapping through space,

or pigment

grounded and fixed?

Do I add or subtract?

Am I light

enlivened by difference,

or earthy stuff

which must be pure?

When I enter the room,

does it brighten

do faces light up?

Or do people go to ground

avoiding my gaze?

Another try at colour.

Based on the idea that there are two ways of creating colour, either by reflection or absorption: one which works  by addition, and the other in which you subtract.  So there’s light — as in illuminating actors on a stage — where you combine different coloured lights to create a new effect; and one which uses pigment — as in crayons on foolscap, or paint on a canvas — where layering on more colours just results in a dark brown mess. 

A binary — sunny and light vs dark, grounded, and earthy; tolerant vs pure —  which struck me as a useful metaphor.

Unfortunately, I suspect one that doesn’t reflect well on me!