Pilgrim’s poetry presented alphabetically below includes a number of poems not yet accepted by journals or reviews.
This list acquires newly created poems when ready for reader perusal — those accepted are soon moved to the currently published category.
Please check back to see where Pilgrim’s imagination is taking him.
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.
Pilgrim has many other new poems not presented here because some journals narrowly consider a poem’s presence on a personal website to constitute publication.
All spun out
Spider, a widowed virus, divides
her web. Lithe strands
sway through, some, tattered,
others, thin. Those remaining,
rigid, mimic the dead. Attracted
in the beginning by wet edge,
black center, all spun out.
Perfect trap, a gossamer net.
All the ruins on the map
are not all the ruins — broken lives,
for instance, or loves. Maybe not
this one tucked tight beside me
in Oregon beach shack, decayed,
sagging gray. Nor she before,
left behind, Utah, asleep in tent.
Let alone, sage. Idaho road,
back turned, last glimpsed,
her thumb up. Or my dream,
now some time ago, when water
dripped on cliff clay made bricks
certain to crumble one day.
Cleansing pronouns
Shower together, small stall
Pisces behind Pisces,
scrub almost every pronoun
away — the towel
stroking us dry, white
with few black stripes.
Defining mercy
She watched her lover drown,
heard his last scream,
saw water grow calm,
him, somewhere beneath,
grew angry when he failed
to give comfort for her grief.
Doppelganger
You meet yourself on a rainy street,
suspect science went on a binge.
There you are, thin, hungry look
seconded by wrinkled skin,
ditches etched grave-deep
around each eye. Class project
had been, create new life.
You put half your heart into it —
blended brie, thyme, some sheep,
beaker turned in late, weak,
fraud the prof locked away
in her grade-next-quarter file.
Nine weeks later, your clone, grown,
nearly old, dressed black,
a little white. Ex-wife likely lied,
said you loved those colors — noir
complements blond curls streaked
from age with gray, especially
on cloudy days. New-you bought in,
swaggers like guys with power,
has contempt for blues and teals
you spent his test tube life collecting.
He avoids your eyes, hazel too, won’t be
pulled aside, told arrogance, hate,
abuse of women, cannot be washed away
even in a heavy rain. You slink off,
ashamed, still thin, devising ways
to turn a makeup beaker in.
Faint hope
Graduate exam, white male prof
cuts her off — analysis not complex,
focus wanders, lacks depth. I see
Apocalyptic stench — blitzkrieg,
attack gone bad, Nazis torching houses,
barns, sheds. Hints of Auschwitz
furnaces, the dead. Of course, flame,
fire licks Alps, burns glacial ice —
lush peaks, bosoms blackened —
would make symbolic sense.
He finds breasts similar to hers
in every poem, on every page —
likes pointy similes, taut metaphors,
hopes to climb the Alps today.
Found poem — feminist lit titles
Fall, invisible man,
voyeur.
Free fall, bluest eye,
second skin,
bell jar, severed head.
Lives of girls and women
surfacing —
housekeeping, braided lives,
the color purple
final payments.
Half weigh
Headed home, almost beat. Hungry,
drifty, holding love close. Stop for fish,
scale out of whack. Real steal —
slender rainbow, her belly, white,
eyes, sea green. Back on road,
dream the feast — warm meat,
tender, pink. No worry about the bone,
perfect meal about to unfold.
Hurricane watch
Trees bend low,
branches seeking their roots.
Waves hurl toward shore
with fresh vituperativeness, eager
to rip beach sand away, torment
a frothy tide lathered
by wind. All the plants are in,
windows boarded, taped.
Hope is sealed amid
glassed candles, bottled water,
tuna tins, neatly arranged
in a ritual to prolong life.
Even kudzu writhes in futile try
to uproot itself and flee
madness of midday night. Clouds
scud across the sky,
seek a chance to fluff again.
Outside, poppies begin to close,
beg passersby, take us in.
I cared more
I swear I did — now I’ve heard
we were players in a vicious feud.
Truly, she dominated my dreams,
I couldn’t eat, got no sleep.
I felt more despair, wandered
longer, lonelier, darker streets.
I smiled fewer smiles, half, in fact.
My pouty lips, on a dour scale,
registered minus five, I deeper sighed,
soggier cried, had blacker redacts.
My entire life, I confess, became
a thief-less theft, a messier mess.
Unquestionably, incontestably, yes,
she’s been left much less bereft.
Letter from Judith Gap, Montana
(for Dan Breeden)
On impulse, I try to reclaim myself
in Harlowton, Roundup, Laurel.
Then Big Timber, Melville,
a side trip to Deadman Basin,
Hedgeville on the way back.
Not be captive by her anymore,
find my way free, maybe
Eddies Corner to begin, Geraldine,
go down the Missouri, reach Ft. Union,
surge upstream, Yellowstone,
end up here near dusk again.
A lover-turned-friend says, rent
a place near Utica, plant rows
of bad memory, wait for spring,
see if anything living grows. Better,
I move to Buffalo, sleep alone,
dream I am a poet, like Hugo,
teach at Missoula, fish rivers
headed west. I’ll breathe in dawn,
pan-fry triggering towns, stir in gray.
Write poems of forgiveness, loss,
drink nothing, on the rocks, all day.
Briefly hope the river out
isn’t headed toward a black end.
Love pitch
Put aside mundane dreams of love —
Godiva chocolate, roses, candies,
heart-shaped, purple, pink, white,
inscribed Kiss Me, Be Mine.
Forget Trader Joe, Whole Food
natural, organic love — Costco, too,
hulking packs of ten tiny loves
stashed on the shelf, way back.
Time to taste the brioche of love,
dinner-plate size, buttery, light,
with a gigantic AMORE inscribed
on top, the frosting, golden GOLD.
You, properly adored, showered
with jewelry, clothes. Whisked
to instant bliss — not by Sentra
or sad Soul — in leather-seat luxury,
to my penthouse of pleasure
by a sleek, purring Lexus of love.
Love song
She completes my life
the way a final note
closes a sweet song.
A thrush high above,
its love song at dusk.
Mexican crossing
At last, San Blas, a bit of hope,
people free, no iPads, DVDs.
Cerveza cold, tequila old,
Mama Carmen’s taco stand,
pollo tortas, pinto beans,
cilantro, limes, guacamole,
Lady Guadalupe fireworks,
church framed red, green,
prayer everywhere, believers —
church bells, mama believing
on her small TV. Free in Mexico,
Gap tops, Hilfiger Tees,
garden hoses striped black, gold,
palms, birds of paradise.
The gardens go unwatered,
Coke a Cola trucks run on time.
Missoula fishing lesson
Why weight — mom said to ask?
Question to dad by son, age eight,
first fishing trip to the Clark Fork,
pole dragged, tip down on bank.
To be in control. Baited hook
needs to sink deep before rapids,
not swirl away downstream.
Hole’s got all the action —
bait drifts slow, twirls, dances
to attract. Like being in charge
of nature — catch the beauty,
guide her to the bank, to you,
don’t let her slip free. Tell mom
you kept your pole up, son.
Not periwinkle, but close
Purple lace, purple wave,
purple haze,
purple lips,
purple kiss.
Purple hips,
purple tip,
purple mist, purple bliss.
Poem from privacy documents, mostly
(with a nod to Apple)
Applications on this device explore data
of all users, techies too. They can browse
your entire desktop and backups —
clouds, devices, drives. Beware,
some apps check your contacts, track
where you are. Apple values privacy
and won’t allow it. You control data use —
except for our ads, a unique experience
we target to you. Don’t turn off ads,
you limit our ability to sell stuff
you really need. Sadly, the same number
of ads reach you either way. Some apps
check your calendar, others peek deep
into files and capture everything
onscreen, even snooping by other apps.
Many record your library content,
videos, music. More obsessed apps
monitor and record every stroke
of keyboard, swirl of mouse. They watch
from your camera, listen to you too.
Rest assured, Apple’s on your side —
we won’t let cookies wreck your whole life.
Promise
If I let slip where to find riches
more valuable than diamonds,
rubies, gold-dipped kisses,
would you vow to resist,
give your word, pledge —
in short, promise, not to loot it?
Or, if it is my heart,
yes, do?
Putting doves to sleep
Single mom across the street,
birthday party, balloons, cake,
her son turning five.
drop by with wand, red cape.
Chance to move beyond chats
of lawns, roof repair, recipes
for quiche. Kids giggle, wait,
you introduce Paloma, gray dove
of peace. Open cage, she hops free,
eyes bright, feathers sleek.
Tuck tiny head under a wing,
cut off light, ferris wheel her round —
dramatic circles — set her down.
Paloma thinks it’s night, goes to sleeps.
Her wing relaxes, in comes dawn,
she wakes, fluffs, flies away.
Kids clap, you bow, mom smiles.
Your magic lasts all night somehow.
Seeding hope
Sharon — a name intimating give,
you say take me, stay to each
who comes, loves a time, goes.
You, farm, again alone, drought
gone on. Let loss go, breathe deep, weep
a storm of tears, fill washes, draws,
bury barren fields in snow. Drown lies
lovers whispered to delay
the parting day. Like a kernel be strong,
hold on. Rain will arrive, sprout hope,
crops, real love. Imagine the dawn,
him asleep, spooned behind, dry past
passed, green spread out for miles,
moist, you awake, breathe in the damp.
Snapshot of University life with no Vietnam to steer by
Rip 1970s protest photo into fourths,
toss it into wind. Each piece blows away,
finds lone hiding place, sags there
limp against another rain. One bit drifts
to Fraternity Row — Audis, Volvos,
Greeks martinied house to house,
pledges sent to save all seats
for the Husky football game.
Another whirls to Montlake —
stadium bleachers facing off,
two ducks quacking about the team.
It settles on some unread playbook,
cover doodle, a Rose Bowl ring.
A third finds home, prof’s condo sill,
thick pile of essays, pages yellowed,
grayed, not yet read. One final bit
touches down, dorm abuzz, final hope
in purple dusk— students, angry,
chanting, surreal tear-gas scene,
full-blown protest over removal
of the chocolate milk machine.
Softened core
Like bread
place a cold heart
into warm oven,
close the door. Wait.
After a time
pry through crust.
Its softened core
will steam in the night.
So much depends
Sun in retreat, time to eat,
cafe parking lot, pickup trucks,
American flags landing in flocks.
Hunger trumps fear,
park import on the street,
walk by star-spangled signs,
proof profits, not colors, run
for patrioticyardsigns dot com.
Waitress, flags sewn on jeans,
both hip pockets, also sleeves,
says no arugula, no mint tea,
no glass of pino gris —
one menu combo today,
Marine burger, American fries,
French’s Mustard scratched off list —
choose between Hunts or Heinz.
So much depends on patriots
demanding silent lives.
Sorry, but we’ll have to pass
New Yorker rejection
no worry, no doubt
nor any need
to wash metaphors out.
Star-spangled banner on a grain of rice
My hideaway, finally. No patriotic tides,
no four-wheelers covered by stripes.
No huge flags screaming red, white
and true, no God bless America or you die.
Simple stretch of Mexico beach, a bit of peace,
only interruption, vendors, trinket-laden,
searching for pesos, not bin Laden.
Life, here, on sale, not exploded,
I choose blankets; tacos; tequila, gold;
earrings, silver; cerveza, cold. Later, add
pottery; bracelets; marguaritas, iced;
write my name on a grain of rice.
Away from war fever, I relax in shade,
no military tribunals, hasty graves,
no brown-skinned Americans, terrorists all,
shipped to Guantanamo, wasting away.
Surviving until Monday
First we’re not here
Then we are
Then we’re not
Rick Fields in “For a Radiant star”
I believe Fridays I miss her most.
Week spun, done, wish her close,
glass of wine, lips on neck,
kiss on throat.
How was your day? Whisper, fine.
Sundown comes, glistens gold.
Headless weekend, drooped, alone.
Thousand ways to die in Utah
Canyons, spires, red desert, cliffs.
Ski out of control, bounds, bike race,
salt-flats wreck. Party in Moab,
tequila, smack, coke, sheer edge.
Zip-line, sky dive, frayed rope —
text to ex-lover’s phone.
Sage, scorpion, hang in shadows,
midnight, her place. Naked selfies,
pack no pistol, fail to escape.
Upside of forgetting
Power of retention, I vaguely recall,
puts the re-collector center stage —
past-facts retrieval star, minutiae winner
of trivial games. Also conjured, though,
moments of intense pain, loss, cuckold —
hurt to feel all over again. A plethora
of evidence underpins why forgetting
deserves praise. It’s best to let go
loud bowel gaffes in church,
first-date mistakes (hand moving high
by accident on thigh). Not to mention,
profanity gone wildly astray,
binge-drinking headache caused
by keck, hurl, regurgitate.
Dementia, the czar of forgetting,
piles on a mound of other reason
why old memories should be let lie.
Given time, I can recite a dozen.
Wishing the loose canoe home
(with a nod to Bob Dylan)
World, so cold, so old,
no obligation
for your soul. If we say
we are worth nothing
often enough, would we begin
to believe, maybe give up
rhythmic dip of paddle
splitting Lake Lorraine in half,
drift toward
a different shore? Or would we lean
into each stoke, hope
of coming home
before the purple storm
could close?
Working both sides of the candle
It won’t be long now
at least for her,
blown-out hope
melted, gone,
street extinguished
just at dawn,
end of shift, last drip,
bottomed wick.