Welcome to Pilgrim’s poetry page featuring 24 accepted/published poems thus far in 2024.
Pilgrim’s latest acceptances are from Whatcom Writes, which has chosen “No red books” for its 2025 Whatcom Writes Anthology, Cirque Journal, which has accepted “Livid regret,” The Bond Street Review, which accepted “Sploot,” Mad Swirl, which published “Query,” Whatcom Watch, which used “Ending the end,” and High on Adventure, which published “Pray, Montana.”
Another Pilgrim poem, “Gutting,” has also been chosen by Toasted Cheese, but it won’t be available here until mid-2025, three months after it appears in the journal.
However, Pilgrim poems, “Ceremonial” and “Puree still air,” both accepted by Toasted Cheese in mid-2023, are now both printed below, their embargo period having ended.
In addition, Here: a poetry journal at Eastern Connecticut University has accepted “Trinity remorse,” which is under embarbo until the print version of that journal is published.
Also, “In conclusion,” was included in the September 2024 editon of Empty Bowl‘s The Madrona Project (subtitled “This Machine Is Made for Earth”). It is available at the Museum of Northwest Art in LaConner, Wash. and from the normal online sources.
A Pilgrim poem, “Salt lick,” was included in The Best of Mad Swirl: 2023 and is available from Amazon.
And, a decades-old poem, “In memory of Professor Veddar Gilbert,” has been published in 13 Miles from Cleveland. Gilbert was a professor of English in Missoula at the University of Montana when Pilgrim was a graduate student there — as was fellow graduate student, young native American poet, and later acclaimed novelist, James Welch. (Pilgrim was a graduate-student worker assigned to Welch’s wife, Prof. Lois Welch. Richard Hugo and Madeline DeFrees, professor-poets there, then, too, had adjacent offices.)
All poems here are in alphabetical order, and Pilgrim’s photos and photo-illustrations, along with watercolors by the late Mary Dale, are sprinkled among them.
Dale’s watercolors (some found more than once on this website) were photographed by the late Bud Dale.
Earlier Pilgrim poems are linked in chronological categories in the sidebar — for example, Poems published 2020-21.
A-fib
I cannot tell the doctor’s lie
from heart flutter,
vow to do more squats
so blood won’t pool
in an atrium, clot. My fake self
believes I passed all tests,
sneaks me past surgery theaters
to a movie set. We cower
on a cliff above a plywood town,
keep a sharp lookout
for the sheriff said to have catheters
in each holster. Fake me offers
a noosed rope, says belay
to the general store, bring back brie,
ice cream, chocolate, wine.
Hunger drives me to the edge.
I strap both ventricles down.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by The Bond Street Review)
Books on the way out
“My life is all I’ve got.”
–Richard Hugo, The Triggering Town
Sun on horizon, you read an ending
like Milton’s — gone to blindness,
looking for light. It’s time to flee,
drive highways west — feedlots,
cattle queued, barns, hay
freshly mown, slaughterhouse below.
Finally one runway, control tower
rising like a phoenix from fields,
promising hope, rest not far away.
You wend to town, cruise Main,
pass bars, one lonely church,
ancient stores late in rot.
A pickup rolls by, gun rack full,
pit-bull growling in back, seat-belt
painted on the driver’s shirt
to fool john law. Hotel flies
a huge flag. You stay quiet, wish
your belt would hide the iPad
tucked in your pants, deep.
Too tired to sleep, wi-fi coming
next year, you walk the street,
search for books — Hemingway,
Paradise Regained, Silko, Alexie,
Lycidas, anything in ink.
Night brings black, town cafe,
muddy coffee, charred steak,
burnt toast — wheat, not white.
The grizzled cook serves a smile,
says bookstore’s at the airport,
past security, on the right.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Ceremonial
(with a nod to Leslie Marmon Silko)
I recite an old invocation in the meadow,
summon forth you, a siren
swaying above me. The sunset yields
to forested darkness, stars wheel
across the sky but time holds tight,
unwilling to let light go. Flames rise high
from my campfire, purple night’s edge,
seem to cast your shadow
on the full moon. I begin to believe
a goddess of hope has kindled
this ritual, offered it to me, bright, new,
with the fire in your eyes becoming you.
(published by Toasted Cheese in 2023 — under embargo until 2024)
Down to embers
Cascades camp, tent, we two alone
snuggled close. New day tied to night,
stream at peace with ripple, swirl,
eddy, flow. Mist drifted off willows,
dark clouds turned lighter shades
of blue-white gray. We drank in all this,
shivered, kissed. That indelible past
gone thirty years, I watch her nap
beside me, follow rhythmic rise,
fall of the knitted throw. Each breath
brings heat from remnants of fire.
Evening shadows grow long,
creep toward black. They lead me
down to embers, finally to sleep.
I dream the dancing flames back.
(earlier version published in Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Drool
Won’t be long now — the beckon
of black. Me, prey, dusk
on the prowl. Late sun gutted,
bleeding out. Like a candle —
flame flatlined, flicker snuffed.
The wax whacked, dripped,
pooled. Wick remains turned
to ash. Rubbed out,
gone cool. Even my spit
accepts droop, hangs back,
content to be drool.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Ending the end
(with a nod to Rick Popish and Alex Vouri)
It arrives near dawn — post-dreamy ride
through quantum night, past black holes,
not to mention Dark Energy, with its mission,
destroy all time and space — she doesn’t recycle,
speaks no vegan. I try to text move in,
universe trashes my phone, strong message
to dissuade. Likely still on Twitter,
later X, thinks Facebook cool,
climate change, fake. I switch-gear dream,
bike to Boulder, hang out at Naropa,
play Karmic Twister, sop up verve
from the mother lode of modern mindfulness.
Doesn’t erase knowing I’m going down
for good in the coming end.
I drool myself awake, sponge off
all the black. Toss out thoughts of affair
with classic religion, all having one tenet
in common: life will get much better —
after I’m dead.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Fawn
Dawn, twins arrive, behind the fir,
her second year of birth. By noon
a third lies dead near spotted lumps
asleep in leaves under the dogwood tree.
She has a bit of time to feed on tulips,
columbine, laurel, choice weeds.
I sneak out, cover what’s left
of blueberry with net, leave salt,
tub of water, lock the gate.
Four hours pass, my window vigil —
are they alive — YES, first, one,
then the other totters out, begins
to nurse. Garden-pot-tall,
spindly, unsure, they stray,
nose the grass. Ears rise, turn
to each new sound, somehow
they re-find her, reach up, nuzzle,
nurse. Both wobble away, lie
amid planters warmed by sun —
begin to nap. Mom reclines, rests
in grass, chews, grooms — ears
keeping track of cat on patio,
boys-brawl next door, plus
blended sounds of skittering squirrel,
dipping jay, pressure-washer whir.
The pattern repeats three times,
dusk, dark — I fail to sleep.
Day two mirrors one — lurch
through salal, day lilies, taste peas,
return to teat. Rest three hours, nose
young leeks, cross lawn, find mom.
Third morning, she leaps the gate,
I prop it open, hours later see her go,
twins in tow. They lurch along —
to gone. I bury the dead fawn.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Toasted Cheese)
Fear of missing out
(with a nod to Lynn Rosen and Steve Giordano)
or, FOMO, as some would text,
has little to do with differences,
say, between prophet — knowing
the end is near — and profit
gained from a lottery win
just before the denouement.
It’s more a powerful form of worry —
perhaps about being cuckolded
or some less severe heart-panged slight.
Akin to extreme anxiety felt
over who may be coming first — or what.
But certainly not powerful enough
to prompt any sane person to leave
a perfectly good life at halftime.
(republished by Whatcom Watch; first published by Tipton Poetry Review)
In conclusion
Newspapers produced here left behind
scraps of lost lives, like me, not to mention
screams of fires, weddings, sales, heaps
of political lies. When presses slowed,
stopped for good, ink dripped, pooled,
slimed good-earth black. Darkroom chems
long locked tight in vats, seeped free,
found hidden paths to gutters, creeks.
Lead tossed out in bits came heavy
on soil, infamy added to dead weight
of the alphabet. Vowels seemed innocent,
even lithe, alongside coughing consonants
carried stricken on stretchers to gray piles.
Poisonous lore ignored, papers rushed
unaware toward their own end,
busy shouting robbery, coup, storm,
where my life was shot, the latest war.
(published by Empty Nest in The Madrona Project)
In memory of Professor Veddar Gilbert
Why you loved the Eighteenth Century,
literary age so dry even Blake
clamored to escape it,
eludes me. Only your silvery hair,
three-piece suit, snuffbox of grace
remotely fit the age. One time,
life gone bad, memory rekindled,
feeble heart not yet silenced,
I saw fear etched in your iron eyes,
shared for an instant uncertainty,
prayed for you as your chest heaved,
laboring for answers not found
in your stern love-of-Johnson past.
Here in this marbled forest for the dead
Goldsmith would have brooded over,
your tombstone, restrained with gray,
like the age, branded with Tyger, tyger,
burning bright, goes dull in its search
for some pastoral clue — the granite
obscured by dusk and then by night.
(published by 13 Miles from Cleveland)
Livid regret
Years stacked up, I mimosa,
repeated nips — in fact, throat
the whole thermos. Lean close,
thumb my phone, increase font size,
sigh, alone. Watch night surf
flow in with trash. Imagine I die
outlined by plastic on black sand,
in livid foam. Float out to sea
at high tide, a splenetic rift.
Drool on my screen — toothless,
spit. Vow to forgive myself
for a part in all this.
Forget.
(accepted by Cirque)
Mouth-breather
(with a nod to Rick Popish, Alex Vouri & others)
Living in a living building
turns out to be disappointment,
suffocates whoever’s good life
I’m trying to lead. It’s a given,
intermission wine will be shitty —
but the mouth-breather beside me
in yoga class makes me want to drop
a bottle of juice at Whole Food,
see if it spews back, not forth. Forget
the china in mom’s sacred hutch
or inane fear of getting undressed
in front of the dog. Reality
is really out there — not different,
depending on whose point of view.
I’ll never wish to be shaded
by banjo strings or eager to kiss a stick
of butter. My eagle pose might suck
but I exhale through my nose, follow
each breath to peace — my pronouns
floating free, escaping rusty barbs
on the roof-top garden fence.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Quibble Lit)
Napping to mayhem
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
Out of work, I am video-game-deep
in Skyrim again. She dozes
beside me, undisturbed as I draw
my sword, slay another evil knight.
Or by blacksmith’s clang as the brute
forges a new ax. I’m not a warrior
by choice — the background music
somehow lets her find sleep. A dragon
emerges from black clouds, I freeze —
not soon enough. Flames spew
from nostrils, my arrow plunges deep
into a heart vacant of goodness.
The creature screams, writhes, I slit
its throat, wipe my blade. Her breasts rise,
fall, still at peace. Dusk looms, it’s time
to knead the dough. Tonight’s meal,
fresh bread, charred meat, warm mead.
I must first explore the dark castle.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
No red books
Montana, me a teen, summer day,
studied ritual of bloodiness I hate.
In my memory — big sky, dawn,
family up, everything prepped near shed.
Roosters, hens, feet clenched, peck
a pattern, cluck a collective cluck
when shooed near the chopping block.
Dad, ax, Mom, gutting-knife, sis,
scalding-tub. My job — stretch out
the neck, hold firm with stick, deflect
each gold-eyed stare a bit.
Swift chop, head lopped off,
chicken freed to circle-prance,
dance, spray the wet grass red.
Guts gone, birds get dunked,
plucked, singed, packed to freeze.
Last gash left behind, queasy,
I bike to town, weave the streets,
rest in shade, quiet as required,
on library steps. A shaken guest,
I try to erase my blood-geysered day.
Inside, find books, books, books —
in rows, also silent, roosting on shelves.
Unblemished, at peace, entrails intact,
eager to be read.
(accepted for Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Pray, Montana
Fight river rage, ancient flow away
from geysers, bison, grizzlies, the whole park.
I’m trying to heal a life, the bit
that’s left. Pray — post office, one cafe,
ranchers lined on stools, gun-racked trucks
growling out back. Skirt town, give wide berth,
cross myself, re-cross a freshet, wander
both sides. Rethink Brautigan, his demise.
Ponder an eddy — murky swirl, circled churn
sucked under to return. Greet sunset,
Absaroka peaks bled out red. Dissect dusk,
failures, loss, lies, hope I survive
the coming night. It might absolve,
give shards of peace, even sleep. If there’s dawn,
if only clouds hang on the horizon,
like a wolf gripped tight in trap’s teeth,
I’ll chew off the leg, limp upriver,
sort of free.
(published by High on Adventure)
Pristine vaccine
Years stacked up, I tequila,
repeated nips, throat
the whole bottle. A lifetime
of long needles numbs my arms —
polio, rubella, pox. Measles,
mumps, DPT. For ancient drooler,
pneumonia, flu, covid, shingles,
RSV. Stuck full, handed more years
only to see racists murder blacks,
dimwits riot in D.C., wackos kill
from cars, vermin gun down kids
in class. I pass out, drunk — dream
a pristine vaccine given at birth
to every being. Hate withers, dies,
dark skin is in. Boys and men
never bully, waste, whack, slay.
Gone, funerals, aftermaths —
also grief, all this pain. Fascists
grow up tolerant, giving, kind.
Teen males, peaceful, sensitive,
loving, warm. I wake hung-over,
I puke away war.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Puree still air
Results in hand, I trudge outside,
watch gnats rise, a whirled cloud
claiming dusk, the remains
of day. They dance, flit en masse,
puree still air in growing damp.
Vie to grab the last bright space.
Sun fades from red, wipes
the entire swirl to gray. I hope
to sleep, dream, never decide.
Total blackness nights the way.
(published by Toasted Cheese in 2023 and under embargo until recently)
Query
Wouldn’t we all agree a texted question
of fifty words, counting contractions
and those hyphenated or in phrases —
but excluding commas, dashes
or question marks, and those
over-embellished
with alluring alliteration
or cute, crafty consonance —
should never end with umpteen emojis,
tiny yellowed faces trapped
in guffaw, grimace, snarl, scream?
(published by Mad Swirl)
Salt lick
I lie still, half-breathing
listen for steps, faint,
hesitant, deft. She glides
from the shadows, pauses,
alert, intent. Flows toward me
like a doe summoned by salt,
lying white, to lick. She lifts
nightgown, tosses it aside,
creeps to bed. Her skin,
in moonlight, shines, backlit.
(published in The Best of Mad Swirl: 2023; first published in mid-2023)
Scattered
A heron statues gold-eyed amid leaves,
water below rippled green. You say
sunlight turns its feathers blue,
like sky last year as we scattered
dad’s ashes amid the lupine.
I scan reeds on the far side, hope
for some small sign from him, a clue
of how to go. You say you felt wind
swirl them up, lift gritty gray bits
into mist. Now believe your deep grief
takes on the odor of dank logs
half-sunk near shore. You sigh, say
you taste the decay. I only hear loss
taking off low across the pond.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Sploot
Squirrels do it, so do cats.
Lie face down in extreme heat,
limbs spread wide, bellies flat.
Black holes find each other, dance,
send gravity waves through fabric
of the universe. Squirrels try to cool,
survive, revive at night, hope never
to sploot again. Black holes swirl,
collide, unite, take a few galaxies
into oblivion with them. Scientists
wait breathless at telescopes,
eager to witness the final moans.
I lie naked on my back, alone,
sweat, ignore noise next door.
Nothing rises into the black.
(accepted by The Bond Street Review)
Stacking magnets
(with a nod to Rick Popish and Carolyn Dale)
Old, alone, barely afloat, I’ve failed
at Wordle, invented a few verbs,
flushed my meds, again. Time to move
cursor to screen’s edge, and off.
Isolation is now a distress syndrome
of sorts, much like the tug
to wade across a swollen stream,
no undertow in sight. Depression
increases despair by a factor
of, say, ten. Dumps me into a river,
roar upstream and down,
compass askew, spinning
as if on stacked magnets.
Leaves little hope for rescue
from nostalgia because pain
splashes me with each departure.
Nor relief from any religion,
all having one tenet in common:
life will get much better — after
I’m dead. So, I paddle here, withered,
shiver like a soaked metaphor,
try hard to believe the falls
won’t plop me into an empty bra cup
large enough only to bathe a robin.
(published by Jeopardy Magazine)
Still glow at dawn
(with a nod to Albert Camus)
Heads down, no way to say sorry,
mistake, we drag laden canoe
to the beach, paddle choppy water,
her behind, steering.
We churn up a narrow channel,
hope current won’t take hold,
sweep everything downstream.
Camp pitched without speaking,
soup heated over anemic fire,
we swallow hot broth of remorse.
Forgiveness hangs in smoke
below sun turning cutthroat red.
We place sleeping bags far apart,
try not to shiver, lie alone,
sob as meteors trail to black.
I dream I am not lost,
the sun casts no shadows,
and somehow I escape night.
Coals still glow at dawn.
The canoe and she aren’t gone.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Harbinger Asylum)
West of Dillon, south of Butte
Montana mist drifts off willows,
caresses day. A hungover sun
blinks backlit clouds lighter shades
of blue-black gray. Moose thrash tall grass,
chipmunks hide, blue jays screech.
Doe, hollow ears up, stops mid-stride,
her new fawn a speckled clump
in heavy brush. Polaris sleeps.
I cease tented dreams, rise,
build fire, boil coffee, drink in
all this. Plenty of time for rod,
reel, bright flies, hungry fish.
(published by Cirque Journal)