Mary Dale watercolor
The following are Pilgrim poems published or accepted in 2013 and 2014.
The poems can also be found in Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems.
For a time, journal and anthology titles may not be in bold, and indenting may be irregular. Also, quoted speech and material may not be in italics yet.
Photos and photo-illustrations, most of them Pilgrim’s, along with watercolors by the late Mary Dale (photographed by the late Bud Dale), are sprinkled (mostly) at random among the poems.
Poems 2014
Bellingham Caesar
Roam Holly Street, search out
wooden bowl, bamboo spoons.
Press garlic cloves, at least three,
grab lemon tight, squeeze, squeeze,
pour juice in, then add dijon —
a heaping spoon of Maille
or Grey Poupon. Pepper, black,
just a pinch, coarse, ground,
two of salt, slosh around.
Worcestershire splashed,
four anchovies mashed,
stir the golden, chunky mix
then drizzle olive oil in,
whirl, swirl, make sauce thick.
Romaine lettuce, Northwest grown,
green, washed, spun desert dry,
ripped by hand to bite-size chunks,
no pallid leaves, no bulky stems,
toss together, add grated cheese —
Parmesan, Pecorino among the best —
top with avocado if you please.
Eat this Caesar when subdued,
after meal, in peace, yes last,
as is done in southern France.
(earlier version published in Bellingham Poems)
Candle rescue
Long after rogue match spits fire,
gives slender candle light,
burning high then low,
wax somehow finds a way
to pool, drown flicker, flame,
make candle yearn to cease to glow.
Save the light — single hole knifed
in softened edge, hot wax
sent aflow down candle side
brings dying wick back to life.
(published by WWU Retirement News)
Dregs
Spread out Syrah noir wide, slide up
wine glass side, stick in patterns
to the edge, like leftover phrases, words
lining the darkened bottom
of a writing drawer. Try to read
some kind of future in the tailings,
see a story finally done,
were there light enough, or life,
or snowy woods, or hawks
finding wind to soar and dive.
Well, maybe one more glass,
no past, no looking back,
a bottle, two, alone, black sky —
hope, the only ending, no you.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Exploding mosquitos
Imagine her your lover
who cheats, repeats, lies.
Just before goodbye, offer
a bare arm. As she drills,
begins to fill, clench fist tight
then hold. Taut muscles grip
like a vice, trap proboscis.
Unable to break free, no spigot
to stop flow, her belly expands,
turning maroon as it grows.
Your heartbeat alone
will make her explode.
(published by Poetry Quarterly;
shorter version published
by Three Line Poetry)
Fab Four failure
Ruined. August concert at the city park —
outdoor music billed as Beatles night,
just Seventeen, Nowhere Man, Yesterday,
twangy blue-grass rendition of Fab Four hits
bringing dancers to a halt, any urge
to kick skyward, gone, all whirl vanished,
frozen, standing there, soaking up dew,
every wool cap drooping with disgust
while John Bob weaves, Ringo washboards,
Pauline saws stand-up bass, Geo fiddles
and only five-year-olds who know no better
boogie wildly on the damp grass
as if this were the best tribute ever,
better even than Purple Haze redux,
highlight last year by Snoose Gone Loose,
whoop-ass finale to the county fair.
(published by Poetry Quarterly;
republished in Bellingham Poems)
Fire licks the canyon rim
A vision, she arrives with power,
like desert lightning over Grand Canyon,
five miles wide, nearly as deep.
At dawn, he begs her to lie with him,
wildflowers spreading out like red clover
from her hair, bright smile.
She touches heels together,
one foot pointed away toward sage,
scrub oak, Ponderosa pine,
cliff offering pieces of shale
to the Colorado snaking silent
from the night. She points the other
toward him, permits morning sun
to highlight her green eyes,
turn them Yaqui yellow,
bring the whole plain to life,
make it throb with heat.
They dream of the coming moon,
two smoldering as one
under dappled sky. It is then
fire licks the canyon rim.
(published by Windfall)
Forced feeding
Your long hose snakes down from a vat
filled with moist corn. Hungry geese
gather like elfers around an eel
or politicians, a lobbyist feast.
Coax one close, lock her with knees,
lift head, stretch neck taut like rope
or string. Shove your hose
past puckered bill, down closed throat —
open spigot, corn blasts out
a golden stream. Giddy,
she staggers off, foie gras full,
dreaming of the next great meal.
(published by Public Republic)
Full creel at sunset
He circles the campfire, giddy,
waves a string of dead fish,
does not think to question why
currents center, then pool.
She creeps off, listens to sparks
from the darkest shadows,
watches embers go black,
sink into gray ash. After a time,
he sees her gasping, as if in a creel.
She pictures herself bleeding deep.
(published by Poetry Quarterly)
Gestapo glaciers
Like climate change,
they did not come quickly
but were relentless and ruthless,
nonetheless — with their share
of disbelievers, along with those
who saw beauty in the way
they inched over lives with ice.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Hawking holy books
They roam rundown Bronx streets,
student Christians working on the cheap,
lay out black Bibles on green felt,
plead with men slurping beer —
buy one, put us through seminary,
two, rescue children overseas,
three, save a family in Tibet,
build hospital, send kids to school —
church raffle tickets too — first prize,
New York-New York suite in Vegas,
buffet, poker chips, a show —
maybe discount Bible software,
with free dashboard savior,
head bobbing as up he goes.
(published by Hobo Pancakes)
Horses, whiskey, ropes
People back East discuss politics.
Folks here talk robberies, wrecks,
gossip about neighbors, lovers,
tell jokes. Cowboys talk
horses, whiskey, ropes.
(published by Hobo Pancakes)
Hot
If I say often it’s boiling, burning, hot —
will you not touch with fingers, lips, tongue?
Unless it is me, then, yes, you must.
(published by Three Line Poetry)
If a tree falls
in deep forest, no one around,
will any sound — whoosh, snap,
crash, thunk — be heard?
Puzzle locked in question
handed down, old man limps
past trailhead, camps,
last mountain bike busy buzz,
beyond loggers, heads bent,
saws slashing pine and fir,
leaves behind winding stream
where fishers whip sky
with line and flies, tempt
cutthroat lying deep to rise.
He finds one tamarack
standing tall in silent death,
corpse, yet wooden monument —
with ax, beavers vee deep
in tree’s downhill side,
leaves pack, retreats past stream,
logs, saws, finds camp, tent,
sleeps in night wind, dreams.
Faint path traced back at dawn,
pack, near tamarack fallen down —
on tape recorder, a crashing sound.
(published by Still Crazy)
If hope were a shriek in the night
and we heard it in spring wind,
saw it in the distance as we wheeled
from Seattle for a long weekend
with lover at Omak, smelled it
in towns we drove by, got a glimpse
amid roadside wheat desiring more sun
in sky not all that pale yet wishing
itself were a shade deeper blue,
we’d sense it oozing in veins
past clots ready to break loose,
collect in brains only yearning
for longer life, not seeking revenge
for years and years of grease
sopped up with fresh bread,
having forgotten vows never to wipe
bacon drippings from plates again —
and, maybe finally, touch it,
trace it on lover’s thigh
in desperate, periwinkle pulsing,
making us anything but shy —
last chance to be revered
under silk Omak sheets,
where, moved by relief, not lust,
we would shriek, not cry.
(published by Cirque)
Life benedict
Dawn, a bit down,
stopped by this morning,
hoping to catch a ride to night,
found us as usual running late,
in need of speed, luck, good lights
just to make noon on time.
Plus, it’s no good, codependent,
enabling patterns of friends
who find a way to intrude on life.
Maybe, listen, try to smile,
offer eggs, not a ride,
with hollandaise, sunny side up.
(published by WWU Retirement News)
Love that operates
Surgeons stroll together, poodle
prancing behind, lust after sailboats
vying for position on the windy lake,
shiver in silence on opposite ends
of a sullen bench. She texts her mom;
he yawns. They order new scalpels
from Amazon. Patients hide
amid shale, wait for wind to die.
Pompom must be about to freeze.
She agrees, tugs the leash,
rises to leave. They shuffle back
to matching SUVs, without words,
hands jammed into pockets,
his into his, hers into hers.
(published by Hobo Pancakes)
Mercy-killing marriage
Avoid a taxable event. Keep iPad,
laptop, diamond rings.
Give her Kindle, china, SUV —
silver, vintage albums,
especially Sting. Take dog, boat,
football seats. Yield lakeside home,
mountain cottage, beach retreat.
Keep condo, IRA, hidden gold.
Share children, friends — yes,
makes it equal, even neat.
You pay her health club dues;
she pays your attorney’s fee.
(published by Mad Swirl)
One-mime town
(with a nod to Dean Wright)
In Boulder, Missoula, Santa Fe —
not Shiloh, Duluth, Butte, Dubuque —
mimes blow up clear balloons,
draw back bows, take aim,
let feral boomerang arrows go,
belly-crawl out whitewashed holes,
fall three floors, mouth screams to crowd,
become carpool-tunnel-syndrome clowns
driving up imagined waterfalls, not down.
Mimes abandoned in darkened towns
pray alone in some strip-mall church
then plunge to death off a pew-side curb.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Oregon Coast rainbow birthing
Clouded dusk, sun on the go,
I look up from waves to see
an unexpected rainbow
inside another — mirrored golds
purples, forest greens
reaching up from underneath.
I cease to breathe
hope to see yet one more,
emerging tiny, mostly pink,
nuzzling for a bit of sky
before, like shrouded sun,
vanishing into hungry night.
(published by WWU Retirement News)
Orphan
(for Pete Steffens)
Mother, father, both gone, dead,
two truths emerge for any children left.
One, you are an orphan. Two, you are next.
(published by Convergence)
Out of control
He thought when he died
his lover would swoon,
believe all hope to be lost
then dutifully die too.
Photos — placed on mantel,
cat-sunning ledge, next to bed —
grayed from dust. Old Spice scent
faded from sofa, pillow, rug.
Puppy chewed his urn,
carried ashes room to room,
gnawed bits of bone,
yellowed copies of his poems.
Not all sway vanished, went away —
he’s the password on her phone.
(published by Still Crazy)
Reliving Vietnam at the Dillon,
Montana, class reunion
Are not our lives too short for that full utterance
which through all our stammerings is of course
our only and abiding intention?
— Joseph Conrad in Lord Jim
Seniors of 1965 had dreams,
professed faith in country,
some in God, but we all prayed
no draft, no war, no death.
We believed choosing
made lives lived half-right, not worthless.
I remember Gary Dumke, hulking, obese,
Piggy in our small Montana town
with flies, no Simon, no lord.
Football coaches wanted Gary on the line,
lured, cajoled, made him turn out.
I watched him practice in rain,
weep alone after Saturday games.
Gary found courage enough to say no —
walked away, retired helmet, cleats,
ignored jeers, dressed in tie and suit,
carried briefcase, joined debate.
I recall senior government class,
Mr. Claudius Ankeny, Army veteran,
paddle-toter to the core
saying, Gary, you look nice today.
Gary ripped my breath away,
responded in no-first-name taboo,
Why thank you, Claude.
Pure surprise made Claudius freeze,
spared Gary punishment, hands
grabbing ankles as hickory board
spat blisters on his three-piece behind.
Graduation past, Gary stood tall again.
Dillon’s draft board ordered him
turn out, fight in Nam.
He dressed in tuxedo, boarded train,
then hanged himself,
swinging free above dutiful draftees
sweating their way to war.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Table-side magic
Ocean view, gourmet cafe,
tiny tables, chairs back to back,
Raoul swoops in, cape aswirl,
snaps fingers — candles light.
He strokes young blonde’s hair,
coins emerge, four then five.
Teal doves fly out one sleeve,
beak some bread, peck at brie,
become small eggs on salad greens.
Locked pepper handcuffs drop
from lights. Presto — slices intertwined,
yellow, red. Volunteer brought on stage,
shut in box, drum-roll, tense scene —
Raoul saws lovely radish in half,
vanishes as she screams.
(published by Carnival)
Things are well and going good
Actually, not true.
Life has turned into a fraudulent adverb
faking its way to death,
disguised as a successful modifier,
say, an adjective or gangly participle
with a whole covey of obedient followers.
As for going good, the well is —
how to put it — also a lie,
contains nothing of substance, has dried up —
redundantly and figuratively speaking.
After all, cisterns dry downward,
water slipping stealthily away
into gray clay, seeking black cracks
at shaft bottom, every drop,
like hope, vanished —
gone, well, forever, good.
(published by Public Republic)
Toasting the city of subdued excitement
Let’s drink to Bellingham, laid-back, low-key.
Opinions never spewed, just tapped out slowly,
gentle caress of keys, written lowly,
dreamy reasoned stance Face-booked on PCs
or sent from iPhones by the meek.
Blue, placid bay, tide in two times a day,
even-tempered town spread out wide and green,
peaceful homes, snow-capped Baker rarely seen.
Where wind trades bits of sun for sullen gray,
at ease as clouded sky drips buckets of rain
while languid, peaceful lovers strive for bliss,
and say, you look so succulent today.
Bellinghamsters, so subdued, nothing amiss —
they kiss then spoon the night away.
(earlier version published in Bellingham Poems)
Too much gossamer
When they finally cleaned out
the thirty-gallon coffee urn
used years by sleepy students
streaming through the cafeteria,
they found at the bottom
five inches of insect wings —
butterflies, moths, wasps, bees —
gossamer layer upon layer
packed tightly together
resisting filtration. Learning
never again tasted
so light, so free.
(published by Cirque; shorter version
published later by Three Line Poetry)
Warning
This poem contains images
known in the State of California
to cause hope, wonder
and sometimes ability to think —
maybe even glimpse a sleek symbol
rising from metaphors to the east.
In Utah, it is known
to cause no dawn.
(published by Electric Windmill Press)
Wheelchair Warrior
Metro stop, fall morning,
mist turned cold. Lummi elder,
hair sprinkled like Baker snow,
sits silent, proud, wheelchair
his private reservation now.
Dutiful daughter, Limps in Life,
fights warrior’s chair, bus lift
waiting to swoop the old man up.
Moccasins skid on damp tread, slip,
fail to grip. Headband, green,
red, dripped with sweat,
she retreats, admits defeat.
White riders hate these scenes,
frown, stare the driver down.
Eyes demand, take control,
forget them both, leave, go.
Wheelchair Warrior spins away,
reaches down, hugs Limps in Life.
She kneels, sobs. Bus seventy-five,
call it Fading Spirit,
whooshes into waiting fog.
(published in Bellingham Poems)
Yes, yes, oh, yes
At night she walks her restless cat
on leather leash down black streets
then back, past motels, clubs, shacks,
lets it prowl nighttime sounds —
rat scratch, dog growl, piss splash,
drunk words slurred, slow drum beat,
lover’s moan, a few high screams.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Zigzag mowing
June almost gone, rain vanished too,
clover spread across the lawn,
bees swoop blooms — land, explore,
legs pollened before they go. Woeful task,
mowing grass, if one guides frantic moths
back to night, sets bathtub spiders
free outside, lets sugar ants form long lines.
How to proceed — creep, pause, weave,
zigzag mow, no chopping bees —
save each worker for the queen.
(published by WWU Retirement News;
republished in Bellingham Poems)
Poems 2013
Anemone
Rich in meaning, permit me
to spell her out for you —
flower watered by tears,
coming fully endowed into Greek,
daughter of wind
with a round, proud name.
White, tinged blue, purple,
red. Ah nem oh nee.
Only by naming can I breathe
any syllable, taste her beauty,
hope, murmur — maybe
take her home with me.
(published by Cirque)
Breathing snow
(with a nod to Pete and Christina Dale)
You can do it awhile. Air pockets remain,
locked around ice crystals. But not forever —
just long enough to replay the avalanche
rolling over life, sweeping love downhill,
leaving you flattened in white, no way
to reach for sky. If your ears still hear,
eyes are not frozen closed, hand trapped
near face can clear a bit of space,
you may have sufficient time
to listen for swish of metal probes
slicing nearby, promising beams of light.
If tempted to sleep, imagine
a new lover finds you, scoops a place
by your side, lies close. Together,
you breathe hope into deep snow.
(published by Sue Boynton Poetry Contest;
republished by Thick With Conviction;
Bellingham Poems; Poetry Walk:
The Second Five Years; Mapping water;
Poetry Pacific; Better Than Starbucks;
River Poets Journal)
Cast away at Larrabee Beach
Not father or friend, you overhear
young mother’s cell-phone confession,
sins whispered to Puget Sound surf —
absolution an afterthought
when she hurried west,
jumped a whole nation,
left lover to reclaim her baby
now sleeping shaded on the sand.
No hint how original separation came.
Pain, she murmurs, erases memories —
perhaps, someday, yours.
You wonder about her lover,
if she would re-recant,
follow him again, Florida,
Bermuda, maybe the Keys.
You guess her answer,
baby snuggled close, tiny fingers
curled around her breast,
sun-baked smile telling
precisely where love lies —
your own lover, gone astray,
offering no surf confession —
and you, no baby, double cursed,
cast away.
(published by Labyrinth;
republished in Bellingham Poems)
Centering
I’m in some black shop,
building a coffin for my lover.
Each upright must be perfect,
bubble in the level centered
between red lines — steady,
middle of storm, moon full,
exactly midnight, current gone
in deep pool, stopped at the middle,
dark, still, cool. Casket lid
must be aligned, fit tight —
able to shut out the past,
a whole stream of memories.
Painted onyx, deadline late June,
wide enough for two.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Dweeb scarfs down yellow thing
on a stick
Not corn dog skewered nor mustard shrimp,
impaled nonetheless — saffron treat
bought hot, black van, mid-block,
downtown, busy street. Not one clue
who dweeb is, his Facebook page,
where he lives. No redemption takes place,
no hate erased. Yet yellow glob gone,
dweeb too, with iPhone, poof,
head down, thumbs busy, thorny crown,
up dark alley in gold Subaru.
(published by Hobo Pancakes)
The end
is near — actually, a ways off —
but close to beginning, premonition
in its own right to coda, finis, finish.
With luck, it will be a good day —
pinnacle, climax, crescendo —
having nothing to do with aftermath.
(published by The Curious Record)
Faint memories of a beekeeper’s daughter
In good time, she said, promise
stretched out in summer days
as I mowed Montana hay.
She cooked, served lunch,
denim sky, alfalfa field.
August near end,
autumn college days ahead,
purple buds laid low in rows,
she kept her word,
hid from dad behind white hives,
rode with me into yellow sky.
I did not know bees arrived
Fresno-fresh every spring —
worked all summer,
saw hope expire, honey stolen,
death pro quo —
no queen kept, winters alone.
When she calls, I whisper,
my head buzzing
as I lie by the phone.
(published by Windfall)
Gerunds running down my leg
First, verbs began to collide,
in novels, no less. It was clear
the English Department running
the universe should assert itself.
Hope for writing no longer lay
in prepositions, slender adjectives
and strappingly comely adverbs
marching like linguists
toward a rigid master language —
erect, proud, but accidentally,
on occasion, flaccid, surely predicting
very many adverbs more. Then,
participles, multiplying like termites,
eating life out of whole sentences,
lolling about with infinitives —
themselves claiming to be verbs,
weasels trying to reject all nounhood —
brought total impotence to sonnets,
villanelles, even three-act plays.
Swaying over the blank hole of verse,
I felt gerunds running down my leg.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Grim reaper
Stuff of executioner, what
makes her tick?
Steady hand, piercing gaze —
iced lemonade in veins?
Does she dream of home,
children, relaxing run,
garden beans, morning sun?
Begin to cry
as she beheads
serial killer, former lover,
enemy of state? Or,
toss hood aside, text fate,
drive her hybrid, naked,
past graveyards at night, late?
(earlier version published by Convergence)
Higgs Boson particle
It matters — and anti-matters.
We got the universe wrong
then physicists smoked good stuff,
dreamed up boson, gave others work
playing a lifetime with colliders.
We missed the cosmic speedway
dragging particles yon, hither,
failed to see celestial molasses
sticks the universe together.
Forever, we focused on twos:
evil, good; virgin, whore;
yes, no; less, more;
win, lose; hoarded, used —
should have turned off-brains on,
gambled, thought big, in fours:
night, dawn, day, dusk;
yes, sometime, maybe, no;
head to war, greet death,
decay in meadow,
wake up to snow.
(published by Electric Windmill Press)
Hoarding
As youth begins to die, title every empty list,
List. Send what’s left of you down
for jars of pickles neat in rows,
gherkins hidden deep in the basement
past stacks of sacks of beans. Your life
may not be totally over yet,
so live on the cautious side — fill the tub
with water, along with empty jugs
that held cranberry, milk, apple, bleach.
It’s okay now to dip into those preserves;
after all, their name permitted hoarding —
pears, peaches, beans, beets,
anything but kale, good only for torture,
stretched naked on the rack, tempting you
to squeeze the goddamn life out of it.
But now is not a time to let imagined lovers
take the day off. Pray for extra help
dragging the limp extension cord
to your neighbor’s throbbing generator,
hoping she’ll let you plug it in.
(published by Electric Windmill Press)
Ken Burns effect
I’m writing by candlelight in my tent,
next one over from Odysseus,
journey going on eight years,
nearly forever. Each day
we scan the sea, look leagues east,
almost back to Troy. The men mutter
we should be home now,
complain about the weather,
want more wine, more sheep.
They fear our next adventure
will be worse than Cyclops, Sirens.
If gods were filming this voyage for PBS,
they would likely zoom out,
show campfires, beached boats,
the whole island hopeless,
gauzy mist covering all light,
pan to one side, there in darkness,
Penelope, alone, unraveling night.
(published by Poetry Quarterly; republished
in Noisy Water: Poetry from Whatcom
County, Washington; Mapping water; Harbinger Asylum; prose version, “Ken Burns Effect, the early years,” published in 2020 by Cascadia Weekly)
Martha’s Cafe
Weeds stretch high in the parking lot.
Windows are boarded, doors sealed tight,
peeled strips of white paint flutter
like flags of failure in the wind.
This is George, Washington,
halfway between Montana and the Pacific.
Truckers don’t venture off the freeway anymore,
intent on cherry pie wives deny in Glendive,
Missoula, Butte. Farmers don’t leave combines
running outside, sit, bellies on counter,
sip coffee, fib about being rich, single
to the slim waitress who calls them Hon.
Martha’s gone now, trading George
and miles of empty sky, promises,
bed behind the diner, for Mount Vernon,
new lover called Lucky, cop in control
of chance, hope arriving with each red light.
I’m driven to stop here ten times a year,
pull off I-90 at midnight, take pot-holed road
to cafe remains, let my rig idle outside,
feel decay whip mistakes into bad memories,
see dust devils circle nothing in moonlight.
Kenworth pointed west, I wish the past back,
dream of forgiveness, perform my ritual.
By dome light, I write poems on napkins
for Martha and her pie. Some trip soon,
I won’t stop, just roll by, phone for help,
at least reach out — send a firm warning,
one about obsession: If you leave by three
for Mount Vernon, drive like hell,
you still cannot hope to deliver
a truckload of sonnets by dawn.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Minoan moment
Crete, summer, sun, beach,
blondes near concession tent
ignore heat, debate bikinied
breast to breast. Hot sand
burning feet, they fidget,
shift weight, wipe away sweat
as each lays out her version
of a man-free world.
Points made shushed, not loud,
first one, then the other, turns,
pulls damp bottom loose
from cheeks burned bright,
sways slowly to her towel,
sexy stroll the important thing.
Vendor guy grins, spits,
tongs up another dog,
so red, so juicy,
so big it splits.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Not alone
(with a nod to Alexander Solzhenitsyn)
B.C. camping, two of us, one tent,
lake nested below nippled peaks,
we watch dusk-sun
play out across water rippled
by fleeing geese. They zigzag upward
in frenzied rush to join
three half-formed vees
cutting through faded light.
We scan horizon to horizon,
see geese dot the entire sky —
nine rise in the east,
five lift off west,
eight more flap out of mist,
each faint cry echoing fear
they won’t link up,
but will fly solitary into night.
On impulse, you stir our fire,
send up sparks, smoke, hope,
spiraling to guide their ragged lines.
I find a log in growing dark,
toss it on embers but fail to notice
the wood is alive
with ants. Desperate, they rush out,
scurry along the top.
We quickly roll the log on its side
so most can drop unburned
onto cool sand. Safe,
they turn, circle, circle
then climb back to their home.
They dance farewell brightly —
tiny orange torches — together,
not alone.
(published by The Curious Record)
On guard
Trouble with partners nowadays,
number two, three, seven, eight,
is suspicion, agonizing wait —
likelihood each new lover,
who clearly has no flaws,
will become the old.
We scan life for patterns:
patio stroll, text sent, shut phone;
smile, blush, gaze too long;
business trip alone, panties gone;
friend’s snicker, whisper, hiss.
Other than this vigil —
disguised with smiles, kisses —
new mates would be perfect,
not keep us awake, fearful
it is only love they fake.
(published by Hobo Pancakes)
On my gravestone
For the name, use Helvetica,
italic, seventy-two point, that’s an inch tall,
big enough mourners won’t need to squint.
Not minute like movie credits for gaffer,
best boy, stuntman, where my life was shot.
Make me fit on one line, not surname alone,
first name carved below — like life
cut in half, both parts falling empty
as happens with severed heads
and hearts. When I lived must be smaller,
say half inch, with wide space between lines
so that drivel fills the headstone.
Please do not capitalize every letter,
in effect, shouting to cemetery gardeners,
here lies an important man, show respect,
be slow to weed, water, mow.
Old lovers especially will appreciate
my life being chiseled in lower case.
(published by Electric Windmill Press;
republished in Mapping water)
Posse of angels
They gather at dusk in rain,
ready for the chase — not being saved,
apparently, out of the question —
proudly proclaim many angels
are celestial beings of color,
an appropriate number, for sure.
Plus, the whole posse, gender-balanced,
including a few who flit back
and forth. Several have only one wing,
or are known to fly a crooked line.
A number cannot hear any prayer.
Some have Tourette’s. A few are blind.
Yet they are all angels,
equally able to hunt outlaw souls.
Tracked, caught, tied, this is on
a pamphlet they nail to my chest.
They are buoyed by their success —
I am bound to be blessed.
(published by The Curious Record;
republished in Mapping water)
Quid pro quo
Wasps lie in wait, ambush fruit flies
near ripening peaches, plums, grapes.
They inject prey with eggs —
not by using stingers.
Baby wasps within, feeding on them,
the flies buzz off, woozy, beeline it
to nearest brandy snifter,
slip over the rim, crawl down in,
sip a bit, swim. They know alcohol
kills drunks, politicians, and wasps.
One whiff of good stuff will do. Some flies
hang out in a Hennessy glass for hours
on pretense of ridding themselves of wasps.
Rumor has it Iranians are training brigades
of fruit flies. To counter this threat,
wasps in formation have been seen
careening low over Los Alamos,
egg guns sewn to gossamer wings.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Six ounces late
Clock hands stand at nine miles —
no way to know how many grams pass
before my time. Yet I am optimistic,
bask Celsius in shadows of deceased,
believe kilometers, not mere feet,
tick through veins, surge down arteries,
arrive at a heart several metric tons deep.
I am prepared to vacuum ash-filled souls
into endless infinities of somethingness,
spurt happiness over a three-pint universe,
spew forth boxed sets of five-liter lives.
Hopeful, brined giddy, full of Fahrenheit,
I weigh in, time existence, measure fate.
As expected, death is six ounces late.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Smudging
Pick Bon Accord sage fresh at dawn,
still damp from dew.
Dry it flat in sun, gray spray
spreading like moth wings,
purple buds bulged, clouds above
gathering for their own ceremony.
Meditate until evening.
Focus on why your life needs smudging.
Include cruel words, lies,
lovers, friends tossed away.
Hope for no storm, enough time.
Crush each stem with both hands,
pile the mounded bits chest-high.
Put your heart into it.
Strike steel with flint; make wild sparks
skip like lightning to the gray,
bring sage alive with fire. Pray smoke
curls in swirls so thick it cleanses
even you. Close eyes, breathe deep.
Dream of redemption. As night arrives,
forgive yourself, weep.
(published by Whatcom Writes Anthology;
republished in Thick With Conviction;
Mapping water)
Stick horses
Eight-year-old do-gooders,
we rode together on wooden molding
dad hadn’t nailed to the wall —
spirited knotty-pine Appaloosas
snaking through trails of flowerbed,
garden, lawn. Leather shoelaces
as reins, toy pistols strapped on,
red bandanas around our necks,
we never got bucked off,
patrolled weed-covered lots,
caught bandits in thickets, jailed them
in the shed just before we were sent
to bed. I cried all night when my pony
became baseboard in the den.
(published by Cirque; republished
by Thick With Conviction)
Tweet from the third pew
Kneeling now
head bowed
seems to pray
hand making cross
other, low, tapping phone.
Priest’s eyes on me
hungry, intense, blue
his thumbs down too.
(published by Hobo Pancakes; different version,
“Head bowed, tweeting from the third pew,”
published later in 2013 by Three Line Poetry)