What they don't tell you about aging...
September 3, 2026
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Quieter Hours
Poetry
Where commentary ends and the line break begins.
Smile
September 2, 2026
By Jon Ferry
On stage or in politics,
nothing is quite as it seems.
It’s either euphoria
or a series of bad dreams.
It’s the same with the human smile.
It either lights up the room
or is tight and forced … like that
of a cold, reluctant groom.
There’s the gentle, wistful smile
with the sad look in the eyes,
and the sarcastic grin that
usually provokes a rise …
or the enigmatic smirk
of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa
that leaves viewers as conflicted
as Hawaiian pizza.
Or there's the full-on high beam
you get every once in a while
when you board a jam-packed plane
or slink down a grocery aisle.
But the smile that I like best is
when the dude in the cowboy hat
confronts the villain and says ...
smile when you call me that.
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Banishing boredom
August 22, 2026
By Jon Ferry
It’s a cloudy day today,
and I am at a loose end,
figuring out what to do
and where to go ... and the news
is driving me round the bend.
So, I dial up a new world
that’s a bit crazed, but is filled
with cool characters, colors
and captivating conflict …
though no actual blood is spilled.
You could call it high drama
or a low-brow love story.
But I would give it some rhyme,
some sass and some singsong sauce ...
and label it poetry.
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Keys
August 13, 2026
A senryu
By Jon Ferry
The keys to life are
communication, kindness,
confidence … and luck.
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Aging
August 12, 2026
By Jon Ferry
A lonely, hungry horse
pawing the evening sky
traces the fitful course
of a slow human goodbye.
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Scapegoats
August 8, 2026
A senryu
By Jon Ferry
Blaming Jews for war
and strife is convenient
witch hysteria
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Love's labors
August 2, 2026
I know a man who is hen-pecked,
but he doesn’t feel that way.
He thinks he’s the world’s luckiest
rooster, and his life is all play.
He cooks most of the day’s meals
and does all the home’s main chores,
and doesn’t care if his wife ignores him
… while she lounges around and snores.
Most of us, however, face a
dilemma we should now discuss:
Is it better to love a partner
more --- or less -- than they love us?
Or should we admit that, yes,
we made a huge mistake, and wait
patiently for someone with whom
we enjoy equal give and take?
Love tugs at the old heartstrings,
and it is hard to bring to heel.
It’s a light glowing in the dark,
a dream that doesn’t appear real.
They talk about a “labor of love”,
because it requires a lot of work.
You have to show up each morning
and commit to not being a jerk.
Love is never having to say
you’re sorry. But it doesn’t last
long if you don’t apologize
at least every other breakfast.
Love is the life pairing of geese;
it’s the way out of a dense fog.
But no one can truly understand
love who does not own a dog.
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Gathering clouds
July 28, 2026
A haiku
By Jon Ferry
The first light of dawn
the Last Post on the bugle
blow us all away
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Best of both worlds
July 27, 2026
We love what is elusive.
We chase what is far.
We spurn a steady neighbor
for some distant star.
I know a woman who grew
up beside a farm
owned by an upbeat guy with
great looks, brains and charm.
Yet, she never believed him
when he said he would
help her raise a family
filled with all things good.
She thought he was too local,
too rooted in the soil.
Life with him, she felt, would be one
of labor and toil.
She preferred a remote shot
at the sky-high life
to a lasting stint as a
grounded farmer’s wife.
Instead, she wound up hitched to
a big-city man
who said she reminded him of
an actress at Cannes …
without a shred of evidence
for his smarmy claim
that she was Tinseltown-bound
and destined for fame.
But it wasn’t long before
she twigged to his lies
and his shameless compulsion
to romanticize.
She confronted her hubby,
swallowed her remorse,
and lost half her money in
a bitter divorce.
Whether it’s dopamine or
the fantasy gene,
we’re all susceptible to
the Hollywood dream.
The farmer, though, never lost
his smile, and made his dough
working his land for a top
movie farming show.
He now lives with the neighbor
who shunned him before,
embracing the best of both worlds
... and loving both more.
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Children of the inlet
July 15, 2026
The children of the inlet
live by the sea
with eagles, gulls and herons
for company.
Thirst for crawly crabs and coins
pulls them along
the pebble-strewn beach without fear ...
or inhibition.
They splash in the blue-grey waves and
dance in the breeze,
while eying a horizon
of brilliant ease.
Sure, at times they sense the wrath of
nature’s extremes,
whether in the form of storms or
full-on jet streams.
But there are mountains to view,
boulders to leap ...
and patches of crushed, cream shells that
are ankle-deep.
Then, there is the immense, gentle
tug of the tide,
the sun and moon’s variant
of a free ride.
And rarely comes the day when
curious kids say
“the shore’s boring, I’m heading
downtown to play.”
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In praise of editors
July 6, 2026
When I listen to The Donald speak,
I'm convinced that what he needs is
not so much an active kill switch
as an editor in the know …
who can expeditiously turn
his torrent of superlatives
and relentless repetitions
into a dusting of fine snow.
I’m not saying the person needs
to be a hero who can make
him over as Churchill, Shakespeare,
Steinbeck or Jean-Jacques Rousseau …
just a worldly, workmanlike wordsmith
able to filter out Trump’s most
glaring lies, contradictions and
blows that are alarmingly low.
As a cub reporter, the folks
I used to loathe most in the world
were the editors kneading my
brash bombast into healthy dough.
But now that those stalwarts have
gone the way of the poor dodo,
I miss them … like I miss sweet reason
from those in politics’ main show.
In life, you may not be able to
make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,
but what you say or write can
always use more polish and glow.
And editors are the barbers
of prose, stylists of poetry,
tailors of well-fitted writing ...
and urologists of word flow.
For want of a horseshoe nail,
it is said, a kingdom was lost.
For want of editors, we’re at sea ...
or trapped in some farcical hollow.
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River of golden dreams
June 27, 2026
There's a watercourse on the way to paradise
that's unlike most other worldly streams.
It glints with the sheen of a million nuggets,
and it's named The River of Golden Dreams.
A mellow fellow is floating down the river
on a rudderless raft bloated with air.
He soon winds up in currents so vicious
he doesn't seem to have a hope or a prayer.
As he gets sucked into that boiling eddy,
the bubbling water begins to enter his lungs.
He's a hair's breadth away from drowning
when at long last his savior comes ...
in the form of a sleek black panther
lithely patrolling the riverside.
The cat thrusts his paw into the whirlpool,
scooping up the man before he dies.
From then on in, the floater keeps sailing
along the gold-flecked stream of life.
He's acutely aware, though, a dream without focus
is like a weekend warrior without a knife.
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Heat wave
June 24, 2026
A haiku
summer comes in a
panting dog, and goes out a
cool, back-to-school child
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Mysteries of the universe
June 23, 2026
The world is full of puzzling things:
IKEA assembly instructions,
The Laws of Cricket,
the Irish border backstop,
Trump's tariff war on American farmers,
quantitative easing,
convertible debentures,
drivers who refuse to use their indicators.
But there is a class of confusion
that's simply off the Richter scale
(which itself is rather puzzling).
I'm not referring to the colors of national flags
or the fragility of modern shopping bags.
I'm talking about women.
Yes, you, of what used to be known as the fairer sex.
Why is it you're so fixated on chocolate, flowers, shoes, boring cars, tiny dogs, dolphins, unicorns, horses with or without flowers...
and horses dressed as unicorns?
And men? What is it with your infatuation with video games,
single malt whiskey, over-powered cars... and girly-looking women?
Besides, if girls can be boyish, why can't boys be girlish?
But the biggest puzzle of all: Why are dogs so fetch-obsessed?
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Life's a gamble
June 23, 2026
You could say I'm a gamblin' man.
I make my money wherever I can.
I like to buy low and sell high,
and intend to do so until I die.
Mr. Market, he's such a hard master.
He gets you to climb aboard, then drives you faster.
He knows where you are vulnerable.
He'll bash you right under the table.
You're up one moment, then you're down.
He treats you like a stupid clown.
He's your pimp and you're his whore.
He's always got you wanting more.
Some folks they won't play the game.
They sit tight to avoid the shame.
But you can't win, if you don't take a chance
or appreciate life is one big dance.
Pull the lever, roll the dice.
Shake that pinball, slake that vice.
You won't drink from the lovin' cup
when your bones are broken and your number's up.
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Buzz
June 23, 2026
Write for the living,
not the dead.
Make it new,
as Pound said.
Strip it clean
of all pretense.
Avoid straddling
the proverbial fence.
But use your guile
to let it smile…
and maybe sit in
the sun awhile.
Give it bling;
have it sing.
Be part of the
tireless string
of those who’ve drunk
from the muses’ fountain
spilling forth from
Parnassus mountain.
You’re the fly dancing
on sparkling water…
creating buzz in
the great hereafter.
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Tight fit
June 23, 2026
If I am the saucer,
you're the cup.
And if you're the bolt,
I am the nut.
If you're the coffee,
I am the cream.
But when I'm the engine,
you're the machine.
So you're the salt,
well, I'm the pepper.
If you're the climate,
I am the weather.
Let me be the horse,
then you're the rider...
or the saddle...
or the rough cider.
Together, we are
gin and tonic,
thunder and lightning,
straight and ironic...
knife and fork,
hammer and nail,
hugs and kisses,
wind and sail...
bacon and eggs,
in and out,
bangers and mash,
flood and drought...
shoes and socks,
Jack and Jill,
down the slope,
up the hill.
Peas in the pod,
we go together
like fish and chips
or birds of a feather.
We are oven and knob,
butter and scone,
two ingrown minds
thinking as one.
Patting our backs,
finishing sentences,
we're there for each other...
with zero pretenses.
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Spirit owl
June 21, 2026
An owl flew onto our deck the other night,
giving us both a momentary fright.
The Northern Saw-Whet Owl was rather small,
but it had clearly suffered a bad fall.
My wife picked up the owl and kept it warm
to ensure there was no enduring harm.
Its densely feathered body and yellow eyes
were a fluffy little bundle of great prize.
She laid it in an upturned cowboy hat
where it soon morphed into an acrobat,
swiveling around its upright head
as if returning swiftly from the dead.
It plumped up its body, shook its tail,
then leapt onto the balcony rail,
and looked me directly in the eye ...
suggesting it had bigger fish to fry.
Some say the owl is the wisest bird;
others feel it’s an animal to be feared.
Certainly, it’s known as a fortune forecaster
alerting humans to death or disaster.
I believe owls are agents of change
in an unseen world just out of our range --
one that rarely intersects with ours,
despite wielding superhuman powers.
I hope to meet the owl again some morning
when I can learn more about its warning
that we blinkered humans see only a slice
of all that takes place in the spirit life.
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Hideout
June 21, 2026
When we have virtually no privacy,
when our every twitch is monitored
by over-staffed state functionaries
and social-media busybodies
on round-the-clock lookout for
"inappropriate" comments,
there may be a place to flee to...
not too far from the nearest city,
nor too deep into the unknown.
To get there, you'll leave your vehicle
beside a pothole-pockmarked highway
to ford a stream not too wide or narrow.
Then, you'll have to clamber up a trail
through dense, evergreen forest
en route to an elk-friendly plateau...
where sits a cabin camouflaged
like a solitary, tawny-beige cougar
or over-stressed chameleon.
Amazon will never deliver there,
nor FedEx, UPS or the U.S. Postal Service.
No tax collector will ever find this home,
nor any summons-bearing agency.
Wild animals will offer companion care
and dawn birdsong elevator music.
The picture-window view will be
of woods, mountains and grasslands.
The perfume will be fir cologne.
The log shelter will have a side entrance
and a tunnel for lightning-quick exits.
It will withstand almost anything
from nuclear attack to cancel culture,
and be perfect for COVID-19 quarantining
or drafting sweetly reasonable poetry.
But no political snoops will be allowed,
nor snotty scolds prone to virtue-signaling.
This will be a nosey-parker-free zone.
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Whiskey jack
June 21, 2026
How do I know I am aging?
Well, that's not too amazing.
There's the white hair, for one thing,
and the skin color fast fading.
Yet I hauled myself up the mountain
and right back down again
without too much intense pain
in my legs, heart... and boiling brain.
The uptight people I met on the track,
well, some could've used a good smack.
But one cheerful animal made up for that...
a super-friendly whiskey jack.
It was here, it was there,
on my foot and in the air.
There's no creature that can compare
for making you feel like a millionaire.
The tough, gray-and-white bird,
whose name's based on a native word,
is viewed as being somewhat weird
by most humans in our mundane world.
Call it camp robber or Canada jay,
the whiskey jack loves to play,
even on the coldest day,
treating every food as its prey.
Whether hanging upside down,
or hopping silently around,
this avian optimist's a trickster clown
who never ever wears a frown.
Climbing atop that tiring peak,
my weary bones had begun to creak...
until I witnessed the sheer cheek
of that fearless, feathered freak.
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Last Chance Cafe
June 11, 2026
Sign that will,
down that pill,
you're leaving today
... or tomorrow.
Gawk at the sun,
have gobs of fun,
dance a ballet,
show some bravado.
Make amends
with lovers and friends,
pick a ukulele,
do a little vibrato.
Drive a Ferrari,
go on safari,
wangle your way
up Kilimanjaro.
Take a hike,
drive the last spike,
sail to Montego Bay,
soldier like Pizarro.
Ditch that bile,
widen that smile,
the Last Chance Cafe
is your El Dorado.
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Aspen Grove
June 15, 2026
If I ever got to rewind my checkered life,
it would be back to when I was 20,
herding horses on the Teton Mountains,
high above the historic White Grass Ranch
in Wyoming’s jaw-dropping Jackson Hole.
My daily routine as a ranch wrangler
was to roll out of bed in the twilight,
grab a waiting pony from the corral
and ride out to round up other ponies
overnighting in some alpine meadow.
My mount was a slick black steed called Shilling,
and we were soon zigzagging up the trails,
our ears pricked for the bells of grazing horses
drinking in their last moments of freedom
before we wrangled them back down home.
The peaks soared thousands of dizzying feet
without foothills to interrupt the view.
The mist rose from the valley floor where
the Snake River twinkled, the moose wallowed
and the speedy pronghorn antelope roamed.
It was fall, the elk had started to bugle,
and the leaves were turning from green to gold.
We halted by an aspen grove between two worlds:
above, the wild one with cliffs thrusting skyward,
underneath, the warm one, sunny and mellow.
I had everything to look forward to --
a college degree, a promising career,
and a young woman who could overlook
my awkward stance and adolescent angst.
She didn’t care if I hit the mother lode.
But even then, I knew I’d never be richer
or sit taller than in that saddle, surveying
the waking earth steaming in the mist below.
Nor would I feel freer than by those aspens --
at one with my horse and at peace with the globe.
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Steel horseman
June 17, 2026
The trucker said that he didn't see
Sam coming in the midday sun,
as his semi-truck made the slow turn
on the road to Yellowstone.
All he heard was the savage screech
of the tires of Sam's superbike,
followed by a gurgle that sounded
like the draining of a plugged pipe.
Sam died, they said, as he had lived,
with the pedal to the metal
and the breeze in his nut-brown hair...
brimming with youth and in fine fettle.
Nobody who knew him at all
was shocked to read in the paper
how the bearded and eccentric
former corporal met his maker.
They always suspected that fate
would take him before his time
as he joked of wild women to date
and sheer rock faces to climb.
Early on, Sam took his classes
in a remote, one-room schoolhouse.
But he received his real education
at his family's outfitting business.
An expert hunter and horse rider,
he was clearly the outdoor type.
Yet, he often struggled to handle
the straitjacket of winter ranch life.
So, like his grandfather before him,
he signed up with the U.S. Marines...
until the routine there wore on him
like an oil-soaked pair of jeans.
By then, he'd sharpened his skills
as an all-round carpenter,
heavy-duty auto mechanic
and senior martial-arts instructor.
And the local cops found nothing wrong
with his motorcycle, of course.
Sam had died doing what he loved,
riding his shiny V-twin steel horse.
Raised in rugged big sky country,
he was hooked on life's extremes,
always faithful to true friends,
always pursuing big dreams.
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Unholy war
June 16, 2026
Thousands of miles from the Holy Land,
it’s all too convenient to moralize.
So all I will do is count my luck
and denounce vile warmongers’ damned lies.
War may be a necessary evil
or a way for society to advance.
Yet it's a crime against humanity,
a failure of civilization’s slow dance.
For thousands of years, historians say,
there’s been conflict in the Middle East.
But, as Thomas Mann noted, war’s just a
coward's escape from the problems of peace.
Killing a boy on his fifth birthday
or shooting a 90-year-old in the head
does little to further anyone’s cause.
All it causes is further terror and dread.
Talk all you want about the glories of war.
Ignore its maimed victims and their screams.
Don’t forget, though, one inalienable truth:
The end rarely justifies the means.
Would-be warriors find as many pretexts
for war as they do for stiffing their brother.
There’s nothing, of course, holy about it.
It's a sickness … a virus like no other.
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Shadowboxing
June 17, 2026
Perched like a stork spreading its wings,
the lithe young man with the baseball cap
performs his supple Tai Chi movements
as if unfurling an elongated map.
Some gremlin has just killed the lights
of this the sunniest of summers,
clouding over the seaside landscape
with a collage of threatening colors.
But stork man doesn’t appear to care,
publicly shedding his anxiety
on a grass ridge across the inlet
from the flare of the oil refinery.
He’s telling us what other movers
and forward thinkers have all along:
The soft and flexible will always
get to conquer the hard and strong.
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Remains
June 17, 2026
As anyone with deceased parents knows,
death is as slipshod as departing snows.
There are bills to be paid and bangles moved,
paintings appraised and taxes approved,
rugs to be shaken and silverware racked,
attics emptied and fine china packed,
as each generation’s forced to contest
with the mess that the previous one's left.
Now, we’re not talking here of pollution
or the fallout from bloody revolution,
but of the remains lodged in the bones
after the dust is cleared from our homes ...
and what we’ll pass to a daughter or son
when our own cluttered day on Earth is done.
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Crude truth
June 17, 2026
During the day, the
oil refinery by the water
puffs out steam clouds
like a Yellowstone geyser.
At night, its floodlit
pipes and metal towers
brighten the black skies
like meteor showers.
And as it powers
and pollutes this thirsty world,
it dazzles the senses...
like a double-edged sword.
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Heavy sledding
June 15, 2026
Before climate change,
before child safety,
there was a boy
racing head-first
down the hillside
on the icy snow
with a crispy hum.
Before helicopter parents,
before helmets,
the boy piloted
a homemade sled
through local woodland
as if tackling
the Cresta Run.
Before stifling fears
about damaged brains
and busted bones,
the boy embraced
the snake-like turn
like he'd not ever
had more fun.
Before the current worry
over scarves caught
in sled runners,
the boy cannoned
into a tree trunk
as if blasted from
a high-caliber gun.
Before earnest doctors
issued solemn
media warnings
about collision risks,
the boy's crimson blood
dribbled onto the snow
as if his day was done.
But the scar on his jaw
still harks back to
a cheerier era
before cellphones
and paramedics . . .
when a boy flew as freely
as a stray missile
into the setting sun.
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Stairway to Heaven
June 11, 2026
When all is well and truly over,
or as near as it'll ever be,
you, we and our family
will rise and go to the mountain
with a thermos of hot tea.
And we will hunker down there
among the stately Douglas-fir,
the reddish western red cedar,
the croaking, jet-black ravens
and coyotes howling insistently.
And we will mark out the cabin
we'd always planned to build
on this deer-grazed patch
overlooking that broad valley
beside the vast, restless sea.
And we will hug each other there,
not to tempt fate, but to retrieve
those flighty sands of humanity
that drifted away through months
of separation and anxiety.
And we will embrace this location
where the camera lens is turned
less on ourselves and more on
the mind-bending nature around us
in all its bewitching livability.
And we will remind each other,
as the sun sets and full moon rises,
that this is where we long to be,
thanks to all alongside us who
overcame terrible adversity.
And we will raise a mug to those
who battled the killing machine
known clumsily as COVID-19,
putting their lives on the line
in the name of our security.
Then, staring at the heavens,
we will toast all the gods
of the present and past
who gave us this moment
in this dazzling, star-lit territory...
this stairway to eternity.
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Garden
June 11, 2026
There's this garden that I know
where dogwoods flower like snow...
and crisp boxwood hedges
define its deer-proof edges.
It's where sunflower and zinnia
compete with fragrant lavender
for the attention of a landscaper
as picky as any trim carpenter.
It's a garden with a vegetable plot
giving the average sod a shot
at mounds of muddy potatoes,
beans, squashes and tomatoes.
There are rustic rock beds filled
with tulips, crocuses and daffodils
brightening this stone-walled home
like a mosaic from ancient Rome.
And how about the sculpted grotto
with the timeless Latin motto
of the perpetually pining lover:
amor vincit omnia?
A well-protected lily pond
prevents darting koi being bombed
by patient herons and birds of prey
immersed in their own ballet.
There's a lawn for playing croquet
or simply whiling away the day,
shaded by a weeping willow
doubling as nature's teary pillow.
Apple-cheeked children, meanwhile,
have built a makeshift pavilion
to help them ditch the adult world
and play with their youthful herd.
Gardens are life's great levelers
for lords and lowly commoners
bold enough to dig dirt, pull weeds...
and plant its most fertile seeds.
✦
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Imperfect world
June 11, 2026
Perfection may be a perfect word,
but it causes a lot of imperfect things:
a perfect storm, a perfect murder
or that hollow feeling when the bell rings.
I quit my own pursuit of perfection
long ago when it nearly cost me my life.
I was so busy trying to be flawless
I almost lost my health, my job and my wife.
My perfect mind was always a tortured one.
So was my perfect body.
Now I strive for 80 per cent of my goals
and think it a miracle if I can achieve 20.
I never carved a perfect turn
or baked a perfect cake.
And coaches who tell you to give 110 per cent,
they really need to give their heads a shake.
The ancient Greeks’ pursuit of perfection
still makes for useful university fodder.
But the Germans’ obsession with the perfect race
led millions to the slaughter.
There is no such thing as pure perfection.
All we can do is to try our best
in the best of all possible worlds,
and stop forever beating our chest.
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Skating
June 11, 2026
Don’t judge a book by its cover is what we’re always told.
Yet that’s what we always wind up doing, blowing hot or cold.
Whether candidates seeking office or movie stars chasing glory,
we always assume the best or worst about them, not their real story.
We look at their hair, assess their jawline and nose.
We size up their accent and eye the brand of their clothes.
Then, confusing their outer with their inner being,
we pigeonhole them based on the skin tone we’re seeing.
We’re drawn to movie puppets squeezed into tailored suits
or image-obsessed dictators mouthing platitudes.
We crave the packaged look and the political gobbledygook.
Plain speaking is as popular as a skunk or smelly octopus.
Honesty, modesty and rationality are all fine qualities.
But they’re foreign to those who convince us their policies
will lead to the land of milk, honey and TV reality.
We, meanwhile, continue to skate on a sea of superficiality.
✦
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