What Poets Are For
Word choice rules the world of people.
Sunday, June 21, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
Why do it songbirds? Why rise up, wake up, and sing?
Even Nature knows we should do what we love, even The Earth makes music making mandatory first thing in the morning.
Thought I'd join in.
Sometimes everything's all right. The calm is the storm.
An idyllic New England Spring sunrise.
Blue sky, kind clouds, light breeze, cool temps.
A sparrow even landed an arms length from me as I was out walking with Abe... paused to look me in the eye, say good morning, and fly away to enjoy the sky.
Do you think The World is always in the process of starting a conversation with us?
If you ever told or wrote a story, you know Life is perpetually conversing with us.
The scenery changes as The Hero grows. The stuff of our lives is emblematic of where we are. The stories we store in the props that surround us make us who we are. The quality of our day is determined by how we choose to define our surroundings.
Our choice of words, and what we choose those words to mean, make the experience called our life.
Word choice rules the world of people.
Helping words mean more is what a poet is for.
And so I work to make more spaces for dreams to come true.
Somebody's gotta watch our language.
It's what poets are for.
Thanks for reading.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to by the emoji of the day: 🎮video_game
Archaic Slab
What's in This Journal?
I keep it free like a facemask dispenser in a public place in the time of Covid.
Saturday, June 20, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
The date. The tagline. The sunrise sentiments of a poet first thing in the morning.
I sing with songbirds for the sunrise, croon the light for your delight.
Thanks for reading.
"What's your compelling reason? Why persist?"
-Interested Reader
There's a few.
There's all the personal reasons. Plenty of words on that here.
Then, there's the practical. I believe we should do work we love everyday. So I start out each morning doing just that.
I also believe what's lacking most from the world right now is the kind of quiet introspection necessary to live a full and felt fulfilling life.
All the flash and video game vlog sensational news movie bass-thumping where's the melody moments of our modern life keep us from the peace found in words similar to what's in this journal.
I keep it free like a facemask dispenser in a public place in the time of Covid.
We help each other out to help ourselves.
Compassionate people alone in quiet rooms dreaming of a better future will always be the first place lasting positive change begins.
The evolution of the human story starts with a brave soul strong enough to sit alone and dream a new definition of better and then act on those dreams.
All acts based on quiet reflection are necessary for growth. All other actions are reactions. A life with purpose is lived on purpose.
Our dreams make our purpose.
It's not the intention of this journal to be labeled self-help. Wynn's no guru. (Though he does refer to himself in the 3rd person for dramatic effect from time to time.) I'm a poet, as in it's my job.
A corporate banker, a lawyer, an accountant, a mechanic, a farmer, a politician, news reporter, a school teacher, a doctor, a nurse; all approach life with a different outlook.
The way poets view the world is lacking. It's also medicine for our society's current condition.
I'm prolific because we need a strong dose of work like mine if we're to survive as a race, let alone a nation.
Words are for more than just information. There's more to life than adding it up; there's the joy of adding it up.
The joy business is my work.
And so I write.
It's healthcare for a nation so lost in arguing it forgot its reason for existing. All the powers that live in the word: Freedom.
Wonder Fell online will always be free like all true healthcare ought to be. My quality of life can only ever be as good as the quality of life around me. So I share words of hope and wonder to help us. We all work, that is have jobs, to further Life.
Just a poet doing his job at sunrise.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 💯100
Archaic Slab
A Masterpiece Every Morning
The Sun paints a masterpiece every morning, colors this world to be worth our wonder.
Friday, June 29, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
Early, even for this morning journal, a couple hours till sunrise.
At some point this diary at dawn became a daily letter from a poet to a world drowning in algorithmic clever.
All the stations of my work: Joy, Virtue, Beauty, and Love are buried in piles of sensational shock treatments administered online.
But The Internet is just a heap of words... and words do more than we've been using them for lately.
There's more to life than information; there's the experience of information.
Despite all the calculations wrote to get spaceships to The Moon, the best use of the written word will always be a love letter.
Because those lines best represent all it means to be human.
...
Dawn shows, songbirds announce the day. Been at sharing this journal for over a year now. Been ghostish about it for personal reasons. I keep at it and keep it free because the message found here is important in ways we don't discuss much anymore.
What happened to humanity to make it so awkward to talk about Beauty, about Joy, about Love?
We all want their experience. Why so quiet?
I focus on the sunrise because it's a universal expression of Beauty, a bringer of the possibility of Joy and Love... when we're willing to welcome it.
Like a smile needs no translation, The Sun brings dawn. In order for us to recognize the Beauty of each morning, we must have Beauty in ourselves.
We read each day's sunshine like words on a page, images on a screen. A song can never sound beautiful if some part of you isn't. Life presents itself for our assessment. Your understanding of what you witness is who you are.
Do you see each dawn as a work of Art or a reason to say 'here we go again'?
The Sun paints a masterpiece every morning, colors this world to be worth our wonder.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 🦖t-rex
Archaic Slab
How Do We Make The Internet Beautiful?
At present, The Internet is a mob of toddlers in a mosh pit.
Thursday, June 18, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
Robins sing the approaching dawn like a choir of single note synthesizers finding harmonies for an 8-bit video game soundtrack called: Today.
Lights on, rain falls, on with the show...
...
Lots of thoughts on Beauty and AI and humanity's responsibilities to language the past few mornings... got me thinking: How do we make The Internet Beautiful?
All things have the capacity for Beauty, so how about online?
At present, The Internet is a mob of toddlers in a mosh pit.
Most social media applications look like a pre-school at recess.
How do we get our screens to Beautiful?
What does The Internet growing up well look like?
It's a joy for me, a Poet, to consider because in order for the online word to mature people are going to have to recognize and respect the powers of the written word.
Our understanding of the capability of language is limited by the stories of our ancestors. The old tales lacked the materials we have available today to strengthen their metaphors.
Shakespeare wrote 'All the World's a stage,' though I'm sure he'd change stage to open-world video game if he were alive today.
Language consistently needs to be made new. It's the biggest hazard of AI: resting on our laurels.
What the heck is a laurel? It's a trophy given for victory in a time of peace.
Well... it used to be. We use medals, titles, and money for laurels these days.
But we were discussing making The Internet beautiful before the laurels descended...
"We just make it a joy forever."
-Favorite Reader Who Knows About a Deceased Co-worker of Mine
How do we make language creation and the digital sharing of it a timeless joy?
We recognize the gift that is the written word. These are just well calculated scribbles on an e-ink screen without the magical substance called reading.
Every teacher of reading is a wizard or witch with a pupil. Really.
Even Science doesn't work without the magic of reading. Seriously.
What wonder exists that makes reading possible?
Scientists try to measure it, but they need to use it to do the measuring.
Applying objective measurements to reading and writing is like trying to measure water by making it wet.
Huh?
Respect, reverence, wonder for the powers of the written word. Let's start there... let's share from there.
We'll take The Internet from a toddler's mismanaged recess to an Art School Forum during The Age of The Renaissance.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 📦package
Archaic Slab
AI Can't Do What We Do
It can only do what we did.
Wednesday, June 17, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
Sunrise. Birds and squirrels and highway mufflers negotiate the morning.
Peace arrives with the dawn. Voices around the city get ready to recite: "Nice day, today," for a weather forecast hello.
Hope your weather suits your mood.
On with our show...
...
Writers how are your words? Artists how are your pictures? AI is often a theme of these morning thoughts.
Writers, musicians, and artists, we need new language to be at peace with the video games called Large Language Models.
New language is the business of The Poet, so every morning I go to work for us by adding to this personal LLM of Wordly Art called Wonder Fell.
You see my creative friends, AI can't do what we do; it can only do what we did.
Would you buy a stolen computer?
Would you publish a story wrote only with AI?
They're the same question.
I've been writing for decades, working at it because it's work I love. No one sounds like me because no one sounds like you. We're all unique. Ask Genetics.
I've worked a long time to get my writing voice as clearly 'me' as possible. These words express me. The arrangement of each syllable is a song I shape into sentences.
It's work. Good old fashioned labor makes these lines easily understood.
If Grok writes a journal entry in my style or echoes a poem of mine, it steals my hard work.
Living artists must get recognition for the assist. Give us documented credit. If money is made using a writer, artist, or musician's ways; pay the source.
Da Vinci, Shakespeare, and Mozart are happy with written recognition. But: A living artist deserves a living wage.
So Coders and Ethical Humanity, it's on you to see to it we don't become a race of thieves.
Programmers are intelligent enough to design Artificial Intelligence; they're smart enough to see to it Artists get credit and get paid.
Artists! Keep making Life new places to live and grow through your unique witness of The World.
Someone's got to feed AI.
Enjoy your day.
And, as always, thanks for reading.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 📻radio
Archaic Slab
The New This
Am I finished the experiment?
Tuesday, June 16, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
A beautiful sunrise. Though, if you read much of Wonder Fell you know, that's redundant. Every dawn is Beautiful. What's up with that?
This poet wanted an answer. And so, I wake, I write, I notice and record.
What's up with Beauty? It's a tangible experience shared. Sure.
But what are the qualities? What is communicated when we recognize something is Beautiful?
Anyone that's sat and watched a sunrise knows there's always a beautiful aspect to it. What's up with that?
There's much talk on Beauty on the site. The past few mornings bring something new: The feeling of completion.
"I wrote about that already," comes to mind and then the idea that a hyperlink is just as good as a new sentence.
'Been there, done that, built a website for it,' is the new sentiment in the air.
Yesterday's post on The Scientific Method as a poetic form... am I finished the experiment?
No. I believe my experience the past few mornings points to something new taking shape.
"Yawn," the sunrise says. "We've discussed that enough. How about this? "
Right now, I'm quiet noticing the new this.
A good way to spend the rest of the morning.
Thanks for reading.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 🫚ginger_root
Archaic Slab
A Poet Wearing His Science Lab Coat
What about The Scientific Method as a Poetic Form?
Monday, June 15, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
A little rain taps the gutters to signal the end of the heatwave. The sunrise is a bluelight spotlight on a dimmer switch on a slow roll up to on.
What to share about the morning that hasn't already been wrote? Hundreds of sunrises poetically recorded in a row. A poet wearing his Science lab coat pens these lines.
We form a hypothesis: Each day a new living experience worth wondering about arrives with The Sun's light.
We make a constant: The same place, the same pen, the same e-ink pad, the same chair near the same window, the words of the same poet to describe the experience of the dawn.
We introduce a variable: The quality of each sunrise itself.
What's new every morning? Where does the newness of each day come from?
For the past couple years, I sat in these same conditions to recognize and record what effect a new dawn has on the poetic experience.
Poetry is all about form, a sculpture of words. Sonnets, Odes, Iambic and Trochaic feet so sweet, are classic ideas of the forms of Poetry.
But a checklist can be poetic, a blogpost, even a text message can sound a poet's music.
Language has many shapes to share itself. Arranging what fills those forms in a beautiful way is the work of The Poet.
What about The Scientific Method as a Poetic Form?
How about over two years worth of proof every morning on this site that it is.
Today's date, the tagline, the same goal: Give an honest account of the morning using sentences.
The variable is in the quality of the sunlight itself.
The Author of Wonder Fell, this Poetic Scientific Experiment of Dawn, has near three decades worth of time working on making sentences best match his witness of The World.
(In case you're new here and wondering why you never heard of me after I've worked so hard for so long, the answer is health. There simply wasn't energy enough to seek publication. Writing, the act and love of it, always came first. I wrote about it before. And more often here, too.)
AI frequently comes up as a topic here. The existence of Artificial Intelligence, that video game made of language, is the biggest supporter of the need for my craft.
AI is a poet's great friend because it depends on our necessity.
There's simply nothing for software to reproduce without creators of new language.
The act of Poetry is what feeds AI.
The software can't develop without the work I do.
But there's plenty of mornings discussing that here already.
Coders are now finding out this truth: They're limited to what language can do. Poets make language do more. It's what we're for, our job.
Sun's up, rain stopped, back to Colore for me.
Thanks for reading.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 📌pushpin
Archaic Slab
Every Sunrise is Beautiful.
What's up with that?
Sunday, June 14, 2026
Good morning, Twfw. O/
Every sunrise is Beautiful.
What's up with that?
Beauty shows in each ray of light as much as warmth.
What's up with that?
Beauty is a tangible shared experience; we measure it with words.
The duty of The Poet: To measure all of Life's experiences we have no way to number.
Love, Beauty, Joy all beg for definition. Numbers can't express the fullness of their experience. And, yet, here's the sunrise being beautiful again.
What's up with that?
To give us a way to discuss the qualities of Life that numbers can't measure: That's the work of The Poet.
A thing of Beauty couldn't be a joy forever until Keats pointed it out. A lot of pointing out has gone undone, lately.
To misunderstand and devalue the work of Poets lessens the opportunity for more joys forever to be shared.
The breakfast table is full of a feast.
There's no way you can eat it all.
The neighbors are starving.
What do you do?
The Sun rises every morning.
It's always Beautiful and worth wondering about.
There's no way to enjoy it all by yourself.
The World is starving for Beautiful moments.
And so I write.
Every morning... to remind us all: Life is worth wondering about.
~ Wynn ~
Brought to you by the emoji of the day: 🎻violin
Archaic Slab
