10.15.2025 – sea-born Venus, when

sea-born Venus, when
rose from out her cradle shell
wind out-blows, ’tis blue

Venus in the Morning Sky over the Atlantic Coast – You will have to take it on faith that its there, but it is

That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings
And plays about its fancy, till the stings
Of human neighbourhood envenom all.
Unto what awful power shall I call?
To what high fane? — Ah! see her hovering feet,
More bluely vein’d, more soft, more whitely sweet
Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose
From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion;
’Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,
Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,

Except from Endymion: a poetic romance by John Keats, John, 1795-1821 (Taylor and Hessey, 93, Fleet Street: London, 1918).

I cannot drive to work without looking to my left and see Venus bright in the pre dawn sky and not relax.

Since the moment of Creation, Venus has been there as the morning or evening Star.

No one in history, whether they made the history books or not, has not, at some point in their lives, seen Venus in the sky.

Maybe they didn’t know it was Venus but there it was.

My Dad had a way of pointing out Venus whenever he saw it.

Or if we pointed out that bright star, he would correct us and say, “That’s Venus … It’s a planet”.

I do the same thing with my kids and now, my many grand kids.

And when I do, I think of my Dad and I think of the how long people Dads and Grandfathers have been doing this.

A quick look at history shows that not only has Venus been around a long time, the name Venus for Venus goes back a ways in recorded history.

The Greeks had two names for Venus:

Phosphoros (Φωσφόρος, “Light-Bringer”) when seen as the Morning Star.

Hesperos (Ἓσπερος, “Evening”) when seen as the Evening Star.

Eventually, Greek astronomers (like Pythagoras) realized they were the same object.

Later Greek writers used the name Aphrodite for the planet in line with mythology.

The Babylonians called Venus Ishtar, their goddess of love and war—very similar to Aphrodite/Venus.

Venus was extremely important in Babylonian astronomy and astrology.

For Egyptians, Venus was associated with goddess Isis and also sometimes Hathor.

Egyptians noted its dual role in the sky and had separate names for its morning/evening appearances.

In Chinese cosmology, Venus is called “Taibai” (太白), meaning the “Great White” star, it is associated with metal in the Five Elements (Wuxing).

Hard to see in the photo I snapped as I drove over the Cross Island Bridge this morning, but there was Venus.

As C. S. Forester writes in Hornblower and the Hotspur, ” Over there was Venus, shining out in the evening sky. This sea air was stimulating, refreshing, delightful. Surely this was a better world than his drained nervous condition allowed him to believe.”

I see Venus.

I think of my Dad.

I think of my kids and grandkids.

And I think, surely this is a better world than my drained nervous condition allows me to believe.

10.13.2025 – splish, splash, splosh, slosh, spill

splish, splash, splosh, slosh, spill
end of the morning coffee
last sip on the stairs

I had this four cup drip coffee maker in college.

The way it was built, when the coffee was done, the last bit of water in the maker would be blown in out in one big and loud cloud of steam.

‘Coffee’s Ready!’ my roommates would yell when they heard it even though no one else drank coffee.

My roommates could time there day by the sounds it made as I made a pot when I got up, an afternoon pot around lunch time if I was home or later when I got back from class and a third pot after dinner.

And I drank it all.

And maybe bought coffee when I was on campus.

3 or 4 pots of coffee and I still had that feeling of disappoint as I emptied the pot of its last drops and wondered if I should make another pot.

Coffee had to be at the top of my weekly expenses.

At the same time I remember having no problems napping or sleeping at any time (or conversely, staying up all night if I had too).

Now I am down to a pot of coffee in the morning.

It gurgles and gurgles as the timer starts it up before my alarm clock goes off.

Two cups start my day and I pour a third and sip at through the morning.

When I work from home, I work in the upstairs guest bedroom and I bring my cup along and set in front of me on my desk.

At some point I make the switch to ice water in a travel cup and I grab my half filled coffee cup and head downstairs.

Holding my cup I look fondly at the now cool brown liquid and I think of those days of 12 cups of coffee a day.

And I think one more sip.

I raise the cup to my lips and my head steady/

That I am going downstairs doesn’t enter my mind.

I take a step down, I raise my cup and maybe get a sip before the I sloash and splash coffee all over my face, shirt and the steps.

Here’s the point.

I DO THIS ALMOST EVERYDAY!

Why can’t I learn to stop on my way down?

Why can’t I learn to wait until I reach the kitchen?

Will I ever learn?

If I do, will I forget by tomorrow?

Notice my St Jude medallion – Any web developer worth his download speed keeps something handy in reference to the patron saint of lost causes.

10.8.2025 – hang it on the wall

hang it on the wall
the last thing before she sleeps
first when you waken

Chair, Pocket Knife, Guitar

The slatted folding chair you sat upon,
The scantlings and ad hoc stuff of that playroom
You screened out as you just rocked on and on
In perfect time before the television,
To-day let all that tick-tock bric-a-brac
Come like a drumstick stick-man rolling home.

The one-blade pocket knife you coveted
In a shop window that first evening in France
And I bought then on the spot in thanksgiving
For us just being there: although it’s lost
I stand like a glad Macbeth faced with its ghost
Handle towards my hand, saying, ‘Thank, thank God’.

The guitar you got the day you started school
And were photographed with, up on the picnic table,
Play it again to-day, fierce Andalucian
Serenades and country wedding songs,
Then hang it on the wall, your true love’s token,
Last thing before she sleeps, first when you waken.

Unpublished poem by Seamus Heaney to be released on October 9th.

The reviewer in the Guardian writes:

Unlike other unpublished poems, some of which had tens of pages of drafts, there seems to be just one version of Chair, Pocket Knife, Guitar in existence. Heaney may have had more focus writing the poem because it was for an occasion, said Hollis. “It seems to have arrived with confidence, with force, and with purity of heart.”

From the article: Seamus Heaney’s unpublished poems to be released — read one exclusively here by Ella Creamer.

The slatted folding chair you sat upon

The one-blade pocket knife you coveted

The guitar you got the day you started school

Your true love’s token

Then hang it on the wall

Last thing before she sleeps

First when you waken

It seems to have arrived with confidence, with force, and with purity of heart.

I still like to wear a wristwatch.

I like to wear it on the inside of my wrist instead of the outside.

A longtime ago somewhere I read that wristwatches were designed during World War 1 so officers in the trenches didn’t have to pull out a pocket watch to check the time.

It was learned to wear the watch on the inside to protect the crystal.

Years later I read that Ronald Reagan also wore his wristwatch on the inside.

When asked, he said the had worn his watch that way since the days he had been an announcer on Radio and wearing the watch on the inside allowed him to check the time while holding a script.

Standard practice for folks onair back in the day.

The one I wear now was a gift from my wife on the occasion of our 25th Wedding anniversary.

It’s one of those self winding watches that winds itself as I swing my arm.

I like to say if my watch isn’t running, I must be dead.

Of late it hasn’t been running so well.

Admittedly, working at a computer all day, I don’t get much opportunity to swing my arms.

But last Christmas my wife bought me a self winding watch winder.

It’s a little box with a spinner in it.

I set my watch in there overnight and the spinner spins every once in a while to keep it wound.

My wife also suggested it’s time for a new watch.

Something I resist vehemently.

Just needs a good cleaning, I say.

See, it was a gift from my wife on out 25th anniversary.

For me, it’s my true love’s token.

I hang it on my wrist.

Last thing before she sleeps.

First when I waken.

It seems to have arrived with confidence, with force, and with purity of heart.

7.14.2025 – anchor yourself in

anchor yourself in
the reality of time passing
is fundamental

From the article, “No, age isn’t just a number – and the sooner we realise that, the happier we will be” Moya Sarner in the Guardian.

Moya Sarner is an NHS psychotherapist who writes about the terrible things that can happen in people’s lives and how to deal with them.

Her headlines include, I do not need a £100 hairbrush. So why have I spent so long fantasising about one?, Terrible things happen in life – but it is possible to recover from them, Therapy isn’t about life hacks. The best solutions are simpler – and more complex and Life let you down again? Congratulations – you’re growing.

Kind of depressing to just read the headlines.

So why would I waste my time on the one aging?

Somehow, someway I will turn 65 on Thursday and I am kind of happily mystified to find myself here.

Nothing much will change on the next day, Friday morning.

I will continue to work as long as I can because I need to work as long as I can but I got a good job that I enjoying working at as long as I can.

But I will be 65.

So the headline, No, age isn’t just a number – and the sooner we realise that, the happier we will be caught my interest.

Ms. Sarner writes:

Sitting in a cafe recently, I saw a poster advertising a barista training course for young people interested in a career in hot beverages. Things in the NHS being what they are, I enjoyed losing myself in a fantasy future spent standing behind a sleek, shiny machine, having witty exchanges with customers and colleagues as I skilfully poured smooth, foaming milk into silky dark espresso, tipping and turning each cup to create my own unique artworks on the coffee surface.

That was until I read the small print, which included the rather brutal definition of “young people” as aged 18 to 24. I realised, with an internal gasp, that my limited ability to pour liquid without spilling it was not the only obstacle to this career choice. There was a core personal reality here from which I had become totally untethered: the passing of time.

This untethering is bad news for anyone interested in building a better life. A lot of nonsense is spoken and sung and written on plates and pencil cases about how we should all stay young and never grow old. But I’ve discovered as a therapist and as a patient in psychoanalysis that the capacity to anchor yourself in the reality of time passing is fundamental to good mental health, and to the potential for life to get better.

That old one way passage of time.

Gosh.

It made me wonder if Ms. Sarner took the time to watch the people working in the cafe?

I have no doubt I couldn’t do the job.

I also had to stop at that last line.

She points to … the potential for life to get better.

Pretty thin gruel I guess, but if that’s what you got.

Though it makes me feel good about missing Ms. Sarner’s other stories.

Maybe I have read too much history.

May I have thought about that mental game where I say to myself, 15 years before I was born, World War 2 ended.

End of World War2?

Why that was a lifetime before I was born!

For someone born in 2025, 15 years ago it would have been 2010.

2010?

Wasn’t that just yesterday?

I can’t say I embraced the passage of time, but I understood it was passing and I have happily watched the parade as it went by.

I don’t need the protentional for life to get better as life is good.

Got no complaints.

For afterwards I believe in God and the saving grace of Jesus and for the here and now I pray for guidance and I pray for acceptance.

Aside from that I am just me.

Someone once told me that they never understood how someone could ‘be born to be hung’ and then they met me.

Never quite sure what that person met but with hanging being out of favor, I felt empower to just enjoyed life.

As Mr. Twain said, “I was young and foolish then; now I am old and foolisher.”

In place of Ms. Sarner’s article I offer Big Bill and poor old Macbeth when it all starts to make sense to that feller and he says:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.

It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

As I said, nothing will change when I wake up on Friday on the other side of 65.

Well, maybe there are some small changes I can make to my life, but you better look hard to spot them.

5.19.2025 – more important to

more important to
make a good cup of coffee
and good piece of toast

Adapted from the line “It’s more important to make a very good cup of coffee and a very good piece of toast than it is to worry about Josef Stalin, because I can something about breakfast and I can’t do anything about Stalin, and I am sure he’s having a wonderful breakfast.” from WLT: A Radio Romance by Garrison Keillor (Viking Press, New York, 1991).

I have used this quote a lot but that is okay as I have written about my morning toast a lot.

Monday, like most Monday’s bring enough to start the day just being Monday without the rest of the things in life crawling out of the cupboard.

The coffee had made itself correctly and was sitting there waiting for me to pour a cup.

But what next?

I first went an opened the blinds to let in the morning but when I turned around the question of what next was still waiting to be answered.

I opened tablet to read my Bible and read, “But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness.” James 3:17-18 (New International Version).

And that made me smile which is a good way to start a day.

This was a day worth starting with toast.

I can’t do much about what is going on in this world and I certainly can’t do much about the current person in office but I know that feller is not worried about me though if he happened to read that verse, I would think he might have few things to worry about.

I am not even sure he is having a wonderful breakfast.

And I am going to make some very good toast.

I have a head start on the very good toast game as I am using bread I bake just for these moments.

Got out the bread board and my bread knife, picked a place on the loaf that I baked on Saturday (after getting home from the beach) about 1/4 inch wide and start cutting, letting the knife do the work and in seconds I have 2 perfect slices of bread.

Not your whimpy store bought plastic wrapped bread.

But bread with meaning and with heft to it and a thick crust.

Into the toaster and push down and the warm red light glows out the top of the toaster’s slots along with the wonderful smell of toasting bread.

My recipe for perfect toast is that I need to toast it twice.

Once it pops up, down it goes for another cycling of toasting.

The second time it pops up, the bread carries the heat so well, you can burn your fingers if you aren’t careful when you move to the plate.

Then I cover every surface part of the toast with butter.

Butter that melts quickly and sinks into the crust and the light brown, beautifully toasted surface.

Then I cut the slices into two halves, fill my coffee cup and start my day.

You have to respect toast made this way.

No jelly, no spreads.

Single bites and each bite chewed slowly, savoring the butter and the crunch.

Respect the toast.

Then coffee, then bite of toast, sit back and chew and think.

It is true.

It’s more important to make a very good cup of coffee and a very good piece of toast than it is to worry about Josef Stalin, because I can something about breakfast and I can’t do anything about Stalin, and I am sure he’s having a wonderful breakfast.