A Closely Held Shot - Feb 22 2026

 

A Closely Held Shot

Feb 22 2026

Even a bad actor

can cry for the camera

almost on command. 

It’s as if there is a deep well of sadness

we all carry within us

filled with salty tears.

That you can lean over a low stone wall

and peer down into the blackness,

drop a stone

and hear it splash 

too close to catch the echo.

Then those times

in a stiff wind

or when dust gets in your eye.

Or the trick of ersatz tears

as an actor’s last resort,

turning her face

and plucking a hair from her nose.

I wonder

are such tears different?

Lighter and more distilled

than tears of true distress?

When I said I don’t cry

I meant not in public.

When I said I can’t remember 

the last time I cried

you should have known it was a lie.

And unlike an actor reciting her lines 

there’s no script for this.

The tears well up, and can’t be stopped,

tears

begetting tears

until you rub your eyes raw,

the taste of salt

has turned to caustic brine.

On screen, a single tear will do,

a wetness welling up

in the corner of her eye

reflecting the light,

then running down her cheek

in a closely held shot.

Like a great poet

who has taken to heart that less is more,

a stoic

who lets a moment of self-pity show.

I was watching something on TV last night, and the beautifully measured restraint of this shot came to me:  a single tear, welling up sand running down her cheek.

I thought how hard it must be to cry on command:  reliving your greatest hurt, then being asked to go there again and again on extra takes and set-ups, especially considering that you’re surrounded by cameras, lights, and crew. Perhaps even harder than simulating sex on a cold stage with people looking on! Yet even kid actors do it.

The first few lines came out of the blue last night as I watched. When I remembered them the next day, I wrote the rest of it. 

Looking Out - Feb 20 2026

 

Looking Out

Feb 20 2026

I am not going to solve the problem of consciousness

in a few lines of a poem.

Won’t locate the voice in my head

or where he gets his ideas.

Will not peer into neurons

to see how memories are kept

and then retrieved.

Will not figure out

how my senses seamlessly meld

into one coherent whole,

or how I perceive the world

like no one else.

Because what’s the point of looking in

at how my 3 lbs of wobbly matter

conjure reality

and travel in time

when consciousness has given me the gift

of looking out?

Why not accept the fact 

unexamined

that I am who I am,

and simply be

my ineffable self?

Drinking in the universe 

until I overflow.

Immersed in the world

until my skin becomes permeable

and my boundaries dissolve.

Observing my thoughts

pass harmlessly by; 

as dispassionate

as a Zen master

who doesn’t question what or why.

Because who cares if reality

as I see it

isn’t really true?

After all, can’t an illusion be beautiful

in and of itself?

And who needs a solution

when the problem is me

and things can’t solve themselves?

Michael Pollan was interviewed by Terri Gross about his most recent book A World Appears, A Journey Into Consciousness. 

https://podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/fresh-air/id214089682?i=1000750537572

I’m also fascinated by the “hard problem” of consciousness:  where does this sense of self reside, and how does such an ineffable thing arise from something as substantive as the human brain? Does “subjective experience” adequately define consciousness? Self-awareness? Suffering? (That is, not just responding to pain as an aversive nociceptive input, but with emotional distress.) Or, as he paraphrases the philosopher Thomas Nagel when he wondered what’s it like to be a bat, “if it is like anything to be a creature, if it feels like something, then that creature is conscious.” (There’s a good word for this, one which explains why “what it’s like” is so hard for us to answer: umwelt,  the unique experience of an organism depending on its sensory bandwidth and particular exigencies of survival. After all, we don’t see in ultraviolet, hear infrasound, or sense smell as acutely as a dog.)

Fundamental questions that give rise to more. Does consciousness reside wholly in the brain? Where is the dividing line between consciousness and simple sentience? Are lower animals conscious? Plants? And will machines — that is, A.I. — ever attain consciousness? After all, what’s so special about organic matter?

But in the end, one insight he achieves is that it may not be as interesting or worthwhile pursuing the mechanisms of consciousness as its contents. We have somehow been given this astonishing gift, so why not explore it to its fullest? Which is where I take the poem: as the title emphasizes, looking out, not in.

Unfortunately, my temperament is not so attracted to consciousness expansion. I’m unadventurous,  mostly content in my restricted and conventional reality. It’s the puzzle of how — the nature and mechanism of consciousness — that intrigues me more. So contrary to my own poem, I am looking for solutions, not experience. I prefer solving, logic, and linear thought to ambiguity and transcendence. I would rather solve consciousness than explore it. Would rather take on the daunting task — to paraphrase the poem — of trying to solve myself!

Remains - Feb 20 2026

 

Remains

Feb 20 2026

The fire spared the graveyard.

But fires have no reverence.

They simply behave this way;

jumping and veering

and inexplicably sparing

a patch of unburned land,

then flaring up

from fires underground. 

  . . .  Until eventually

they consume themselves.

So our ancestors’ bones lie undisturbed,

their granite stones

unblemished by soot.

Such an irony

that while the dead have nothing to lose

we lost everything.

  . . . But mortality keeps us humble;

that born of ashes and dust

we return to them

when our brief lives are done.

The town has been razed,

the forest reduced

to bare ground and blackened stumps.

But next spring, fireweed will sprout,

and soon after 

a dense green mat

will cover the land we took for dead;

grasses, ferns, and forts

flourishing

free of shade.

Even blueberries

will come back bigger and better

on the scarred terrain,

fresh berries

like a bold proclamation 

of life defying death. 

And in the aftermath

some loving descendants will tend to the graves

despite their grief

or perhaps to allay it,

pulling weeds

cutting grass

and removing the dead bouquets

other mourners have left.

Some fresh graves have also been dug.

Covered in loose soil

they will be roped off

seeded and watered

and cleared of wind-blown brush,

until later this summer

be even greener and lusher

than the pre-existing plots.

While past the ornamental fence

you could have squatted down

on the barren ground

and seen some slender shoots poking-up

  — like wary scouts

eyeing the lay of the land

after the first good rain.

From seeds, released by heat

that flourish uncommonly well,

rooted in soil

cleansed by fire

and enriched by the burnt remains.

A Reassuring Sign - Feb 17 2026

 

A Reassuring Sign

Feb 17 2026

A random assortment of mismatched cans

plastic bins

and odd receptacles

 — some new

some vintage,

some battered, some split —

stand haphazardly by the curb

up and down the street.

Some have toppled

some lean,

and some are sinking into the snow

like tipsy drunks at closing time. 

A few are missing their tops,

lost in a move

or when they sailed off 

in that big wind last winter, 

and it wasn’t worth the trouble

to go looking after dark.

There are also some green garbage bags

slumped in the snow

the birds have got into

or neighbourhood dogs have trashed.

And someone’s old furniture

free for the taking

has also been dragged down their drive,

where it will be left behind

as the big yellow truck rattles noisily by.

Tired pieces

looking forlorn

with their cheap veneer and upholstery torn,

shivering 

in the cold winter light

like orphaned waifs

waiting for a good home.

They must be hoping some college kids

will borrow a pick-up

and harvest their treasures,

like gleaners

scouring the fields

after the grain’s been reaped

the fruit picked.

And I’ll feel gratified

to see them find a second life

instead of carted off to the dump:

clearly, my Depression era parents

who abhorred waste

taught me well.

So perhaps a broken-down sofa

with a wobbly leg

will complete the common room,

a child’s old desk

will help some freshman

do just enough to pass.

Every Thursday, regular as clockwork

the bins are dutifully placed

by the good neighbours

as well as the bad,

and at the usual time

the big yellow truck goes rumbling by,

stop/starting down the street

in a cloud of diesel exhaust. 

Even the scofflaws

who leave their bags unbinned

sort of comply.

Garbage day

with all the bins standing expectantly

like sentinels

where the driveways meet the road,

a reassuring sign

that something still works

in our small corner of a world

that seem increasingly out of control;

too big to comprehend,

too chaotic

to count on anymore. 

Who knows where the garbage goes

  — out of sight, out of mind

is good enough for me.

All I know is that every Friday it’s a clean start,

which I’ll gladly take

in a world of lapsed deadlines

and past mistakes,

  — once a week

a fresh beginnIng 

and definitive stop.

And later today,

the bins will all go back where they belong

in a dark garage or fetid box.

Waiting for another week

when a motley crew of bins and cans

in various colours and mismatched heights

will — as the schedule demands — be trundled out

in the early morning light

and left,

stacked haphazardly by the road.

Looking to me like stoner teens

skipping class.

Packs of slouching adolescents

who look like they don’t want to be there

 — or really, too worldly wise, be anywhere —

lounging by the curb

killing time.

A poem mostly about the bourgeois reassurance of municipal politics and city managers, who oversee things like potholes, snow clearing, and garbage pickup. Useful, measurable, and everyday down-to-earth stuff, so unlike national and international affairs, where high flown rhetoric, cross border tension, inefficiency, and corruption rule. Local government , where you can see your taxes at work, run into the mayor at the Walmart.

So when I see those bins dutifully put out on the appointed day and the garbage truck appear, I feel oddly reassured that things still work. 

And especially in our increasingly complex interdependent world, where disaster can so quickly cascade into apocalypse. 

Lights All Year Long - Feb 14 2026

 

Lights All Year Long

Feb 14 2026

The stubborn holdouts

and proud contrarians

have kept their Christmas lights up

for an extra few months

at least.

I’m not sure if this looks festive, neglectful, or sad.

Are they good citizens

 --  in the gloom of winter

lighting the way?

Are they hopeless nostalgics, 

clinging to a past 

they can’t let go?

Or are they inexcusably lazy;

indolent by nature,

procrastinators,

or simply overwhelmed?

 

——-

The string of dusty lights

drooping sadly

above the wedding chapel door

looks like an afterthought. 

They are the old fashioned kind —

clunky incandescents

on a scraggly black wire.

So they aren’t so much welcoming

as tired,

and unlikely to inspire faith

in the sacrament of marriage

or everlasting bliss. 

Nothing seems festive here.

The wedding march

is on an old cassette

plugged into a boombox.

The mementos are snapshots

on Polaroid.

And the officiant

is a suspicious looking character

in a shabby black robe

with an oleaginous smile.

——-

The neon lights flash, pulse, cascade.

They are blinding, frenetic, and light up the sky,

competing for attention

and, unlike our eyes

never needing any rest.

They are visual noise,

as deafening

as heavy metal,

and like any sound

there’s no turning away. 

As insidious

as tiny bits of glitter

that end up everywhere,

omnipresent

in the gambling mecca

where fortunes are made

and secrets stay

or so we’re told.

——-

It isn’t a long walk

out to desert 

on a dark and cool night.

No neon here,

just the stars

filling an ebony sky

out to the horizon.

And the longer I look

improbable as it is

even more keep appearing,

until, looking up

it seems more light than dark.

This may be the closest we get

to imagining infinity,

a notion

of no practical use

in our quotidian lives,

and that our ancestors

out on the savanna

never needed to survive

or tweaked their brains to master. 

——

Infinity

and permanence.

It’s as if Christmas was all year long,

and we always were as kind and giving

as the preachers insist.

As if marriage never ended

and we meant it when we said

until death do us part;

the constancy was expected

not just hoping for the best.

And as if there were sure things.

That you could gamble your way to success

when the vast majority lose. 

And that wealth equalled happiness,

and happily-ever-after

  — or really, any ever-after —

could actually come true.

——-

It gets cold in the desert after dark

so I reluctantly turned 

and headed back to the neon glare.

But there are still stars out there, as far as I know

filling the sky

whether I’m watching or not.

And I can’t help wondering

if I looked long and hard

could I count high enough?

Knowing

that even after the sun comes up

the stars are still there,

multiplying

beyond imagining

every minute that goes by.

I began this poem with an image of that one house on the street that still has its Christmas lights up. Seemed a promising thing to riff on.

But then this memory of a short podcast I recently listened to hovered over it. (Click on the link below.) My immediate impression of this wedding chapel in a pawn shop was of a sad place for losers. But then the genuine idealism of its proprietor and sole officiant made its unselfconscious modesty seem more legitimate than those big glitzy weddings that are all about showing off. The people who choose this odd place to get married are being totally sincere, not at all ironic.

And then another image of light came to me: a shot of the neon lights of Macau (which I initially took to be Las Vegas) from the movie Ballad of a Small Player.

So strings of lights led to more light, and the poem took shape as a rumination on both permanence and infinity:  from Christmas all year, indissoluble marriages, and supposed sure things; to stars that are always there whether we see them or not.  … And even more stars the longer we look.

The Inscrutable Muse - Feb 13 2026

 

The Inscrutable Muse

Feb 13 2026



The human brain’s default state

is not idling

like a parked car

choking on its own exhaust. 

Nor is it mindfulness;

observing the passage of thoughts

the way a good anthropologist

keeps his distance,

an impartial watcher

crouched behind a hedge

taking notes.

It’s cross-talk,

parts of the brain

that for who knows how long

haven't had a decent conversation

or even a rote exchange

of formal niceties.

This is where creativity happens

the muse resides;

in stale synapses

and under-used pathways,

the lively friction

of different points of view.

Like a long divorced couple 

running into each other

in a supermarket aisle,

who recall how love once felt

even if they don’t rekindle the spark.

Or a college roommate

from some foreign country

you can’t pronounce,

who learned English

by watching sitcoms

and believes in different gods.

Perhaps it’s a taciturn sulcus

in some quiet cortical fold

in a sleepy part of one hemisphere,

shocking the usual talkers

with some transgressive thought

or grating oddity.

When the teacher’s droning on,

you’re walking alone,

or ironing clothes,

lulled

by the hiss of steam

and steady to-and-fro.

My mind often wanders

and I’m surprised by where it goes.

But wherever

in that bracing state of drift

words come to me

and I diligently take them down.

So I’m less writer than typist,

less author than stenographer;

taking dictation

and signing my name,

but unworthy of praise

and not really to blame

if I cause offence

or happen to get it wrong.

I don’t like writing about writing. Too much “inside baseball”, and I imagine not of interest to most readers. But since most of this poem has nothing to do with me or my process, I can only hope it’s engaging and rewarding enough to keep a reader’s attention. Maybe the challenge of writing a good poem about neuroscience — of all things! — is a good enough reason not to turn the page.

Recently, wellness experts have been celebrating the idea of cultivating boredom and walling off unstructured time. The wandering mind, scattered brain, and daydreaming have been rehabilitated! This state is called the “default mode”, and appears to be fertile ground for creativity. If you recall ever being in the so-called “flow state”, you’ll get the idea:  time disappears, the mind feels agile and fluid. 

But it can also time travel to less fruitful places, ruminating on the past (which is more likely in older people) or anxious about the future (more common in the young).

Here’s one definition, brought to you by A.I.:

The brain’s default mode network (DMN) is a large-scale network of interconnected regions that is most active when you are awake but not focused on the outside world, such as during daydreaming, mind wandering, or quiet self reflection.

  … The DMN is defined functionally as regions that decrease their activity during demanding, externally focused tasks and increase activity during rest or internally focused thought.

And another, from Psychology Today:

The default mode network (DMN) is a system of connected brain areas that show increased activity when a person is not focused on what is happening around them. The DMN is especially active, research shows, when one engages in introspective activities such as daydreaming, contemplating the past or the future, or thinking about the perspective of another person. Unfettered daydreaming can often lead to creativity. The default mode network is also active when a person is awake. However, in a resting state, when a person is not engaged in any demanding, externally oriented mental task, the mind shifts into “default.”

You know the feeling of walking to the train station for your morning commute, but your mind checks out and your body operates on autopilot. Your body goes through the motions of getting you to work without taxing the brain, all of which sounds beneficial. It is indeed useful, but only up to a point. The problem: You do not remember much about that commute because your default mode network kicked in, you may start with daydreaming, but you start to ruminate over what happened the day before and what will happen in the days to come. You are anxious about past performance, and you are anxious about upcoming performance. The default mode network can hijack the mind to mull over worries.

Echo Chamber - Feb 11 2026

 

Echo Chamber

Feb 11 2026

I have spent the day alone.

No vow of silence

but no need to talk; 

the only sounds

the turning of pages,

a medley of jazz,

my random puttering.

How many people

haven’t spoken aloud

for 24 hours or more?

I suppose, for a social animal

such solitude is not just unnatural 

but impractical;

after all, we are attached

and the demands on us don’t stop.

The determined hermit, perhaps,

a congenital introvert.

And the odd reclusive oligarch

who can afford

a private island in the warm south seas

or a glass-walled penthouse above the clouds,

peering down

at a cottony white expanse

as far as he can see.

But I’m good by myself.

I don’t get bored

require company

need to be heard.

    … Or so I tell myself. 

When I do return

to the outside world

my voice will start a little rough,

like a car

that sat unplugged

through a cold winter night.

The sound will surprise me,

hearing my voice mouthing niceties

to the clerk or cashier.

And remind me how untried it is

how out of practice I am;

an old man with a young voice

used lightly,

like a vintage car

that's hardly driven

except to church and back.

But while my vocal cords

will be full, smooth, and pink

and speak with the fluency of youth,

my voice will also betray

a certain immaturity;

sounding naive,

and imbued with the urgency

of a callow young man

eager for life to start.

It sounded different in my head;

a monologue

that’s never contradicted,

a litany 

circling back on itself

in futile rumination,

and an echo

hammering against the hard bone

 of my sealed skull.

Like an inmate, unjustly imprisoned

tapping out morse code,

or rattling the bars

with a dented metal cup;

but no one there to listen

or let me out.

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.