Pilgrim’s poetry presented alphabetically below includes a number of poems not yet accepted by journals or reviews.
However, Pilgrim’s newest poems are not presented here because some journals narrowly consider a poem’s presence on a personal website to constitute publication. To see a newer Pilgrim, read the published poetry from the last few years — or explore poems chosen thus far this year at Poems published lately.
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.
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.
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
create new life. You almost tried,
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. Devising ways
to turn a makeup-beaker in, you slink off,
blamed, ashamed, still thin.
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.
Grain of rice
Hideaway, finally — no ugly hats
no four-wheelers, huge flags on back.
No red, white, blue, love it, I hate you.
Simple sand, Mexico beach
vendors, trinket-laden, small slice of peace
no lives hunted, jailed, sent here too.
Only tacos, tequila gold, Corona
not so cold. Pottery, bracelets
margarita, iced, write my name
on a grain of rice. No problemo, life
without hate, skin, brown, not white.
Half weigh
Headed home, almost beat. Hungry
drifty, love held tight. Stop for fish
scale out of whack — real deal
slender rainbow, eyes sea-green
belly, white. Back on road, dream
the feast — meat, tender, pink.
No worry about the bones
perfect meal about to unfold.
Hurricane watch
Trees bend low,
branches seek 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, flee madness
of midday gone night. Clouds
scud across the sky,
seek a chance to fluff again.
Outside, poppies begin to close,
beg passersby, take us in.
Imperial love pitch
Trash mundane dreams of love —
Godiva chocolate, candies,
hear-shaped, purple, pink, white,
inscribed Kiss Me, I’m yours, Be Mine.
Forget Trader Joe, Whole Food
natural, organic love, Costco, too,
big packs of ten tiny loves
stashed on the shelf, way back.
Time to taste brioche of love,
dinner-plate size, buttery, light,
with AMORE inscribed HUGE
on top, the frosting, golden GOLD.
Presidentially adored, showered
with jewelry, clothes. Whisked
to instant bliss — not in Sentra
or sad Soul. Ecstatic journey
to my all-so-white penthouse
in a purring Lexus of love.
Love promise
If I whisper secret news —
a treasure, worth more than diamonds
rubies, gold, even more
than iPhone, Tesla, your ashes
buried on the moon, would you swear,
vow, pledge, give your word —
in short, promise not to find it, take it,
hold it, keep it for your own
Or if it is my heart,
yes, do?
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?
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.
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.
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.