New poem: "Attended by a Single Hound"

 

Attended by a Single Hound

 

Life is an individual journey

of self-discovery, and it doesn’t

matter how adventurous or boring

you may think it to be, it’s the only

story worth telling. Not because

it’s your story, however adventurous

or boring; but because it’s every

soul’s story. “Adventure most unto

itself, /The soul condemned to be—

Attended by a single hound/ Its

own identity,” said he mystic poet

of Amherst, Massachusetts.

 

Composed in Tiny Beaches,

Georgian Bay, Southcentral, Ontario

Sunday, October 5, 2025

New poem: "Puzzled No More"

 

Puzzled No More

 

I was at first, but I’m puzzled no more,

why the woke despise the Donald, 45^th

and 47^th President of the United States,

the man who shut down the southern

border that let illegal migrants, criminals,

and ne’er-do-wells into the country, who’s

shutting down sanctuary cities and deporting

illegals back to where they came from, who

reclaimed gender integrity and meritocracy

in the armed forces, and marketplace. So,

it’s not because he’s doing the right thing   

for the American people; it’s because

the woke refuse to see their own perfidy

and adamantly deny President Trump

the credit the deserves for MAKING

AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

 

Composed in Tiny Beaches,

Georgian Bay, Southcentral, Ontario

Friday, October 10, 2025

New poem: "Resetting History."

 

Resetting History

 

HE DID IT!

He brought the hostages

back home, free from Hamas,

the terrorist captors who waged

eternal war on the Israeli people.

Was this why he was spared

the assassin’s bullet in Butler,

Pennsylvania; this, and getting

men out of women’s sports, not

to mention choking the life out

of the Woke Beast? Was President

Donald J. Trump called by God

to reset history?

 

Composed in Tiny Beaches,

Georgian Bay, Southcentral, Ontario

Tuesday, October 14, 2025

New poem: "America's Man of Letters"

 

 America’s Man of Letters

 

He died sufficiently satisfied,

but unfulfilled; unable to answer

the crucial question of his life: “Why

am I me?” But the only way out of life

was through life, which my favorite

author tried to do by giving the mundane

its beautiful due, in poetry, short stories,

novels, and other genres; but it wasn’t

enough to see him through the darkness

of life that obscured his light. “For life’s

a shabby subterfuge, /And death is real,

and dark and huge,” he wrote in his

Endpoint poem “Requiem,” just days before

dying of inoperable stage IV lung cancer

with the song of life still longing to be

sung. RIP John Hoyer Updike.

 

Composed in Tiny Beaches,

Georgian Bay, Southcentral, Ontario

Thursday, October 9, 2025

New poem: "The Phoney Real"

  

The Phoney Real

 

There’s a type of personality that intrigued

me for years, a type that defied description;

but I knew it when I saw it, and I had to know

why they got under my skin. Then one day I

saw a movie on Netflix with an actor who came

across to me not as he wanted to be, an authentic

individual, but as an affectation of the real thing,

(Ethan Hawke, if you really want to know); and

suddenly it hit me that this type is true to what

they are not, and not true to what they are. And

all those movie stars, popular singers, politicians,

and high-profile people who affect authenticity

no longer annoy me; and I added them to a class

of people that I call the phoney real, which

is not the same as real phoney.

 

Composed in Tiny Beaches,

Georgian Bay, Southcentral, Ontario

Tuesday, September 9, 2025