The following are Pilgrim poems published or accepted during the 1990s.
They are alphabetized for the entire decade.
The poems can also be found in Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems.
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.
At Nez Perce camp with Spirit Woman
Tipi lodge poles point to sky,
random clouds laid on blue like their camp
dotting meadow grass, not as green
though as your eyes. We two see
where Rainbow Warrior fell,
suspect blood brother Five Wounds died
later that day laying siege
to soldiers huddled in hollows so deep
only more Nez Perce blood
could make them rise to fight.
We wander together reviewing death,
see where Wahlitits and wife
lay in final embrace, her birthing day
denied by this battle Chief Joseph
could not defer. You sense her spirit still,
see it bend meadow grass turned gold,
quickly gather red clover
for power before evening sky gone gray.
As for me, I scan the horizon,
wondering why she had no name.
(published by Trestle Creek Review; republished by Poetrymagazine.com; Labyrinth)
Belly up
(for Omar Castaneda)
I ask him if the sky is more blue and the sun more yellow because those are the colors we all become when we die.
— Sherman Alexie in The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven
We must lie white
in sun
hoping to turn tawny
like brothers, sisters
we steal birch, streams
and salmon from.
We must lie without hope
hoping
we will become golden,
cloak shame, feel
genuine sorrow,
bronze our souls.
Being white
we must lie.
(published by Jeopardy; republished in Mapping water)
Burning to no
You’ve chosen cremation, phoned home,
even faxed your broker,
cc’d those who care and some
who don’t. This choice embodies
Pascal’s Gamble the sequel —
calculated risk, final effort
to outflank the grim reaper.
Your decision — burn here on Earth,
make hell redundant —
is a chance worth taking,
eclipses coffin wait,
takes the breath away.
But it’s no bed of coals out there —
red, or white — no wannabe pyre,
no box seat under night sky.
Of all people, who’d believe
you’d have fierce faith, vision to choose,
certainty the sun will burn out too?
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Day after reading Raymond Carver’s “Late Fragment”
When poets ask,
did you get enough from life,
I too say
yes.
Say my days were filled
watching you patter about the kitchen
up to your cheeks in flour,
Russian teacakes
beginning to form neat rows
on the cookie tray.
It was enough
to sip coffee, watch you
wipe flour on your hip pockets,
sun sweeping the room,
black jeans transformed
amid fine haze
sifting to the floor
where you slid,
making designs,
not rows, but some new dance
I could emulate
if I had time, flour and faith
enough. The cakes took shape,
mounded
like Jupiterean moons
in some galactic oven.
Becoming full, radiating heat
from their whiteness.
It was then
I sensed warmth in the haze.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Death by chocolate
Once feeders at brie licks,
now over the edge,
they camp out
near Fudge Kitchen, kill time
baking brownies, eat
the whole panful, watch
Wee Willie Wonka replays,
pray for Valentine’s Day year-round.
For kicks they beat each other
with chocolate chip nightsticks.
The more fanatic bite
lenses off malted cameras, gulp down
devil’s food subpoenas,
throw Hershey’s Kisses to the crowd.
Their mouths gaping, tongues and uvulas
coated dark brown,
they become chocolate undertakers
licensed to mousse.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Goodbye to Dad
(with a nod to Gretel Erlich)
Now it is time
for you to fish again. Our breath
catches at each thought of you,
becomes a spring breeze
pushing aside winter, timidly re-greeting
tumbling creek and sun. Can we too
cast furiously, arc tears
and dreams across this blue stream,
tempt you to rise,
whirl skyward, spiral
toward Montana mountains in ragged wind?
Someday we will toast the end
of loneliness, won’t really believe then
it can come true.
Nothing has prepared us
for a connection gone so deep
into rainbowed loss. Still, it seems
a premonition of something more
to come — maybe the final calm
we too will feel
after we put our creels in order.
(published in Ned Pilgrim’s funeral program; different version, “Creels in order,” published in 2016 in Mapping water)
If I should blow out
this candle
tenuous as it is
provide assistance in fading
from flame
to pungent smoke—
if I should
in one whispered breath
create passage
from heat
to coolness, glow
to night
I ask
you not assign
guilt
or blame. Know
I could not bear
to see, to feel
the flame
die
on its own.
It was after all
my only source of light.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Instrument of surrender: Breaking it off
at the Little Bighorn Battlefield
Sioux warriors stopped
Yellow Hair here,
cut off
retreat to the river,
forced him back
to the breaks
and death.
We walk, not touching,
past a quiver of graves.
Bailey, the others, here.
Custer alone
there. They made a stand
on high ground.
Not high enough really.
You examine surrounding hills,
point out alabaster clusters,
tombstones huddled together
white
amid grass turned brown
by August sun.
You wander off,
distracted,
examine a grave.
I follow, decide not
to recount Sioux tactics,
futile victory
won over a century ago.
Was it last night
under Montana stars plentiful
as sparks from Sioux fires
we decided love
had floated into the night,
drifted
with smoke toward the stars?
By such a fire
Crazy Horse knew
Sioux had a chance,
believed
the next day would be filled
with scalps, most
more gold than red
in the setting sun.
Bleached headstones you admire
reflect the light.
I scan far riverbank,
hope to see
the dead
reclaiming life in the trees.
(accepted by Seattle Review)
In which he blames her infidelity
on a throw-away society
My heart drops
down
when I see the crescent moon
unhook herself
from a covey of clouds,
pause in false fullness,
then glide blithely
after others
flitting by
on the far side of the night.
You are the moon.
You move
brightly — lover to lover
then another,
eager
to spend your lifetime
using up
the entire sky.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Poem not without sound bites
I knew the end
was near, saw a thousand points
of light, stood alone at break
of day, radical dude,
lost soul,
vituperative poet
realizing the fat lady had sung —
or hadn’t, but at least had gone down
in a blaze of glory.
I suspected at long last
my love of corporate headquarters or language
was not unblemished, pure as driven snow,
true. I broke the mold, dared to stop
drug abuse, took a fork in the road,
went my own way, finally abandoned
stock options, poetry,
said where’s the beef,
don’t call me,
I’ll call you.
I sobbed, yes, uncontrollably,
lacked the right stuff, couldn’t pledge
allegiance to flag, Founding Fathers,
CDs, failed to screw you
and the horse you rode in on,
was no Jack Kennedy,
didn’t inhale, in fact, sang polly wolly doodle
all the live-long day.
My hope of hopes,
rap music, was on the wane
so I got a life, took a mistress
to write home about —
greeting cards —
final shot at salvation, last chance
for a wonderful life.
Yes, I finally bit my bullet,
turned flushed cheeks to the light.
(published by Critical Perspectives on Accounting)
Poet grants absolution to novelist
It is ok to dream
your balls are big. Huge
in fact. Swinging from side
to side. Pealing so wildly
church steeples cannot support them.
They crash down on the chapel,
crush sinners acting meek
in prayer. You must burn bright candles
in your navel. Cleanse
any sign of guilt. May your prose
smolder from the ordeal.
(published by Jeopardy; accepted under a different title by Trestle Creek Review)
Seduced by metaphor
She was with him again, a heartbeat unbroken, where time subsided into dawn, and the sunset gave way to the stars, wheeling across the night.
— Leslie Marmon Silko in Ceremony
Ceremony has a way of taking hold.
I should have closed my eyes
one more time, imagined
your story arriving, ember arcing
across evening sky —
siren moving above me,
melodic chant making stars unwhirl.
Maybe recited an old invocation,
brought back ancient night,
campfire purple at dusk
again casting your shadow
on the full moon.
I should have told of a goddess of hope,
accepted all her rituals,
kindled, new.
Ceremony has a way of taking hold.
I should have created a tale
with fire in your eyes becoming you.
(published by Jeopardy; republished by Thick With Conviction; Poetrymagazine.com; Bellingham Herald; in Mapping water)
Supposing he had been invited
to the Donner Party
Not exactly ocean cruise
or get-away flight. No destination resort.
More like a progressive dinner.
Bring prairie schooner,
food. RSVP by late June.
Another California bash, no doubt.
Wagon train en masse mountains to coast,
Big Dipper tipped back so far
all night runs out,
all hope too.
Scoop deep in the main course,
broth, soup, stew.
Near dawn, stars gone,
eat your friend last.
She is delicious.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
To Exxon a year later
You brought new meaning
to robber baron.
Taught us how to stare
cold as breath on Tundra,
pump frozen sod primed with promises
even Arctic fox knew
were lies. Your sleek mukluks
gave you away. Told us
pipeline, tankers,
attorneys slapping our backs in bars,
buying free drinks,
all would bring
sadness
even dutiful glaciers couldn’t scrub
away. We followed
your flowing tracks — our backs
to the rising sun, itself giving way
to night — tromped black ice,
piled oily otters, seals,
terns, cheek-high, set them ablaze,
watched the pyre outshine frosty dusk.
Our breath froze white
on the darkened beach. That night
we burned ice to stay warm.
(published by Trestle Creek Review; republished by Canary; Mapping water; segments of this poem appear in “To Exxon 30 years later,” and “Slick: To Exxon then and BP now)