Keep trying

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, likely female, on Anise Hyssop. September 2026.

One of my new favorite plants is the anise hyssop. Anise hyssop grows to about four feet with long flower clusters at the end of each upward branch. These clusters each have what looks like about 100 flowers. The large one in the photo above has approximately 50 clusters. (I had to count them for a pollinator study I participated in.) The weight and height of the branches causes them to bend a bit, making them look like a flower arrangement to me. The flowers don’t bloom all at the same time, but over the past two seasons ours has peaked in late June through mid-July, after which some of the flowers begin to do whatever propagation chores the plant must do.

Same bee, different photo from July’s. Note more flower clusters in the background. July 2026.

The hyssop attracts many pollinators. I participated in the Great Southeastern Pollinator Count two weeks ago, choosing this plant because it had so many flowers. I counted mostly Eastern bumblebees and a little wasp about a half inch in length. Others included a very small bee, ants, another kind of insect I’ll just call a beetle, and the biggest dang wasp I’ve ever seen! I looked it up, and I’m sure I saw a Great Black Wasp. I’ve seen three different maximum lengths ranging from 1.4-2.0 inches. I swear it was about 2.0 inches in length. Absolutely huge.

Yesterday I saw our lone species of hummingbird here in the SE United States, a ruby-throated one, also checking out the hyssop. It seemed to prefer the similar-looking flowers of the obedient plant quite near me. And both yesterday and today the several hyssop plants in our yard have been caught the attention of Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterflies.

When I began the census count, I lamented to my wife that most of flowers have long past their peak. I expected to find few pollinators compared to June-July. The purple coneflowers have lost all their petals; the spiky centers remains, attracting goldfinches to the seeds, not pollinators to the pollen. Similarly, the black-eyed Susans and Indian blanket flowers have mostly disappeared.

But strangely (to me), the hyssop seems to have popped out more flowers! Over the past three days bees, most of the Eastern carpenter variety, have been madly jumping on the hyssop flower clusters. From a distance they’re visible by watching the ends of the stalks bouncing up and down in a non-existent breeze. And then there’s the apparent delight some butterflies have taken in finding yet more flowers on the hyssops.

We need to keep trying, keep putting out those flowers of attraction. It makes a difference. Perhaps “carpenter bees” aren’t your thing. Perhaps you dislike benign-but-huge “wasps”. No matter. Our purpose is to flower. Let the rest take care of itself.

Equanimity

Oregon Coast, a picture of equanimity. August 2026.
Life hits lulls where everything seems
"Okay"—
Not "Good" not "Bad" just
beautiful balance, something which
seems more normal. Those highs
match lows for extreme stress on
emotions, on health, on mental
well-being. "Give me equanimity
or give me breath!" Thank you,
Patrick. Always thought you were
too wound up, but now I see you're
just like all of us: wanting to keep
our heads down for fear of getting
whacked in some cosmic Whack-a-Mole
game without rhyme, reason.

61/100

Waiting

Old folks get “procedures”…lots and lots of ’em. Is it worse to prepare for where cameras should never go, or wait for someone else’s? (Said “someone” adding two hours to the wait because the fine print for drinking liquids addressed certain drugs which said “someone” might have been taking.)

Was this grass gone to seed when I entered the building? August 2026.
Waiting
[.....]
Never my strong suit, worse
when it's unanticipated.
Need to blame someone. Hope
we're at fault; hope we're not.
Then again...what did you
plan to do today? Nothing
Much. What ARE you doing?
See? If two roads lead
to the same place, how can
one be better? (However:
could that dude perhaps
lower that video's volume?)

59/100

man with cat

A haiku today, the second of slight illness (on top of all the parts of me which don’t seem to want to work right). It’s OK. I think it just started raining, and I know I’ll mostly be just chillin’ tomorrow when my wife has one of those procedures all of us old people get….

Benny on lap. April 2023.

man with cat on lap
pet each other—happiness.
nubbins on his pants

58/100

Found poem 25August

Different voices have defined “found” poems differently. Here, I started with the opening line of a poem I drafted over a dozen years ago, then used random web pages to suggest a few words from which would spring the next line. I let whatever revealed itself in my creative half exist without immediately squashing it, merely shaping it, translating it from my interior language-without-words to a poor imitation in English. My Editor insisted on punching meaning into it, which I allowed. At the end I decided it needed to come full circle, thus lending meaning (I hope) to the final lines. In a way, this process worked similarly to something I’m getting ready to post (non-poem) when time allows.

We wear patchwork clothes, stitched by sadness
not to have seen snow leopards through our
blizzarding genesis. Inspired by writings we
don't understand, we personalize them
to make everything obtain meaning
where none existed. Welcome to your mission:
to drive home meaning to others while
pathetically struggling to find your own,
exhibiting your confidence which betrays
your lack of understanding. "the mic is yours,
Ken," as if he thinks I'm important. Games,
games fill cracks left when motive, meaning
dried up. More valuable than playing? Being.
Staying within where we find nothingness
imbuing everything-ness. Boldly facing it
without doing, comfortable in this. Yet,
in here we wear patchwork clothes,
satisfied they're stitched by sadness.

56/100

Friendly strangers

My friend in 2019, already 18 years toward strangerhood.
People become semi-strangers over

time, distance, lack of shared

experience. Reacquaintance

brings pain, ripping some kind of

bandage from maintained relationship.

I can't pull this string-can telephone

any tighter due to Earth's curvature,

certainly not through Einstein's

space-time fabric bending thingy.

I want old things to pop from

just-opened cans, fresh, familiar,

just as tasty as before. Is that

too much for me to ask?

55/100

Schism

Schism—that beautiful word.
Listen to it! Hear it?
Ripping through what once lived
whole? Its glorious "skuh"
scissoring toward schoolish "ism".
Feel its sanctimonious
surety? How pulling
apart gives one purpose,
direction, somewhere to
stand? So much easier
than moving toward that
Other Force. Loosening
rather than tightening.
Accepting difference
without judgment. Giving
SCHISM nowhere to live.
There's a reason those
yin/yang symbols have those
oppositely colored spots.

54/100

Wanted

“Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheat’ed?”

—Johnny Rotten on “No Fun (excerpts)” from Troublemakers, an anthology album

Author’s brother (left) and author Seattle Center, September 1965
This should be my
second childhood.
I remember
childhood, or I
think I do. Days
shimmered, each one
full of promise:
unbounded time,
more valuable
than gold, silver.
Complaints only
when I heard THAT
call: "time to come
in"—"time for bed,
young man"—"c'mon
it's time for church".
I still rail, still
complain to The
Adult, but he
lives in my head
now. I want to
subcontract my
adulthood so
I can play through-
out my adult
childhood. This role
requires timely
attention to
details of my
life without one
whit of bother
to me...ah, but
then I would need
to hire someone
to watch that first
one. Where would it
end? No, better
to restrain my
adulthood to
its bare, needful
minimum, let
my child command
ev'rything else.

51/100

Penultimacy

This poem would have been way cooler posted on August 18th when it meant more. I drafted it near midnight, and couldn’t bring myself to polish it, find a photo, etc, until today.

Second to last or final voyage out?
Penultimate:
bridesmaid
celebrated faintly.
Always announcing
never announced.
John the Baptist to
Jesus the Messiah.
Loved by writers
For its erudition.
Why this focus on
opening act before
The Headliner? Who
decided this needed
a word? Why mark
the race's last mile?

Today we trot you out
to perform yet again
your ultimate function:
forty-ninth of fifty,
thus almost halfway.
Thank you, you're done.

49/100