The following are Pilgrim poems published or accepted in 2010, 2011 and 2012.
These poems can 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.
Poems 2012
300 streams of memory
I dream about time
and the distance between us,
how age settles like silt
in a Montana stream,
replay wounds of cutthroat
laid side by side for gutting,
out of the wicker creel,
where they gasped in unison,
each hoping to see water again,
feel comforting coolness,
dart down to a pool, deep,
lie healing, until time to feed.
(published by Cirque; republished in Bellingham Poems; Thick With
Conviction; Mapping water)
Airport security
Checked in, on the way back,
mazed, lined, ready to screen,
guard grabs pack, digs deep
for weed, bombs, illegal snacks.
Hum a tune as uniformed dudes,
latex-gloved, red wands alert,
give young blonde a private search.
Feet planted on rubber pads,
legs spread, like waving wheat
she sways golden behind plexiglass.
Arms out, eyes shut tight —
wand glides past ankles, knees,
traces breasts, tummy, hips,
thighs. Guards grin, wands fold,
crumpled pack arrives,
airport security, satisfied.
(published by Urban Resistance)
Breathing lesson
Summer night, cabin, fishing stream,
storm coming, candlelight,
again Father’s demons rise,
force him back in time —
World War II, Philippines,
Leyte battles, Ormoc, Kilay Ridge,
Japan resolve, sniper stealth,
suicide attacks at night.
I ask for the story I know —
am a patient listener,
echo casualty tolls:
forty thousand rising sons die,
fifteen thousand American sons too.
I also recall Mom’s whispered tales —
war over, dad home, shouting scenes,
nightmares, screams.
He closes eyes, begins:
Hate finds a way to day,
brings along a friend in rage.
Details pound down like rain —
another surprise attack rebuffed,
GIs bring two Jap captives in,
undo silence, use cigar tip
to trace noses, eyelashes, eyelids.
They strip off helmets, shirts,
shoes, pants, shorts,
sharpen bamboo sticks,
jab points up Japanese butts,
rip through guts, lungs, into heads,
lift the impaled — chant,
dance, with skewered dead
parade the camp.
Frenzy past, shamed soldiers
remove sticks, rake bloody clumps,
in haste, erase the mess —
before sunup, bury what’s left.
I am sick — Dad finds brief peace,
listens to me breathe. At dawn,
he whispers, the stream, the fish —
we’ll catch them, then release.
(earlier version published by The Curious Record)
Choosing a nickname for Jesus
We believed it a pious thing
to do. Began with middle initials —
no one knew his full name,
or if the middle actually began with H.
A few said G for God was nice.
Believers lobbied dutifully
for Savior, but the vote went
against them. Logic says don’t name
a meat cutter, Meat Cutter.
Butcher, maybe, then only for a laugh.
Cross got some votes, died
a lingering death — lack of taste.
Those who questioned H
dismissed Junior — asked why
it wasn’t God Junior
in the beginning. And on it went.
Lord, too British. Messiah, archaic.
J.C., corporate. Prince or Magic,
too secular, already used. Consensus
would not arrive. Desperate,
we put the task aside, chose another,
one to worship — nickname Father Time.
Clock Watcher raised our spirits.
Bum Ticker got us high.
(earlier version published by Electric Windmill Press)
Choppy water
Impulsive trip to suture life,
you seek Fishtown, Seventies art colony,
decade-long experiment in bog,
cattail-squatting by painters, poets,
everybody high in marsh-bound shacks,
inspiration delivered twice a day
by Puget Sound tide. Hitch from I-5,
slump colorless in a truck of tulips,
hop down outside this quaint town.
It’s been a long year of deaths —
relationship, neighbor, friends —
only not yours, not yet.
La Conner may be a good start,
point you toward Fishtown remains,
provide new direction, maybe north
by redemption. You walk past stacked art,
pallets of it casting long shadows
over First Street, Swinomish Channel
and the gray Sound. Two wrong turns
put you face to face with a church
where one Methodist sits cross-legged,
peers across at Tom Robbins’ place,
prays in broken English for a sighting,
like you hopes for hope. Her gaze
says you may be saved by chance
if you bring yourself to believe
poetic fever constitutes fine art,
salt water tastes like good river,
eccentricity cortizones the soul.
She invites you in, whispers low
Robbins never took to Fishtown,
ignored its claim — deliberate simplicity —
tromped trails there only in sun.
His house here defies the color wheel,
mocks seclusion with plastic palm tree
clacking out front in the breeze.
Twin Jaguars idle in the driveway,
purr dual temptations — beeline it south,
to Seattle, seek soggy culture,
go to a gallery, take in a chic show.
Sun begins to squat on the horizon,
retreat hinting the answer is flight —
leave Robbins, La Conner, behind,
abandon silly Fishtown quests,
let good life etched in gray go.
Find your own way, steal a black boat,
without holes, paddle northwest
in choppy water, make for Hope Island.
You’ll sleep without any tonight,
dream it alive at first light.
(published by Cirque)
Congratulations on your breast implants
No tongue piercing, tattoo be damned —
impulsive trip, personal gift,
you stand naked to the navel,
nipples sticking out, like lipstick, red,
guinea pig eyes, wild,
bulging with fright. Doctors
with clipboards line up three deep,
jostle like deer at salt lick,
sketch out big breasts,
same as their wives’ — perfect oceans,
private tides — saline, not silicone,
proving your choice wise.
Finally the creator, you also puff lips,
make derrière firm, round, high.
Friends praise you, admire your look,
I paint huge murals of redemption,
sometimes regret — suppress any wish
to sail your new chest.
(published by Urban Resistance)
Dashboard savior
(with a nod to Pete Steffens)
Just a glimpse — quick flash really,
swishing past next to a hula girl,
grass skirt swirling, gold, green.
Downtown Bellingham street,
Cornwall, road running out
by Assumption Catholic Church,
near that purple place
where all the peaceniks meet.
Wondered briefly if Second Coming
is capitalized — likely, yes,
because it would be important.
In a ’69 Camaro, I think,
something you wouldn’t drive
to reach a mountain lake.
Anyway, saw him fly by, upright,
hands in prayer, eyes blue, bright,
glued tight to the dashboard,
not about to go anywhere.
(published by Mad Swirl; republished
in Bellingham Poems; Mapping water)
Exhalation
(for Mother)
I saw mother take on death,
sink from cancer to emptiness
the way a balloon, tired
of tugging and squeaking,
breathes long sigh out, turns flat
then hollow, gray, concave —
wrinkled rainbow deflated
at end of day. You vanished too,
exhaled from my life
loveless on your way out.
Deep breath over, my heart
sagged under the shriveled sky.
(published by Mastodon Dentist)
Expect no rescue from a Cyclops with delicate hand
(apologies to Nietzsche)
Say life has become a hundred compasses
lying under a magnet
attached to a string. The magnet sways
with each faint breeze. Your needles whirl.
Finding the way north
emerges as your primary problem.
You scan each horizon, search
for ice ax, or engineer-turned-surgeon,
wonder if your health plan will cover
an operation to stop the twirling —
precisely — so your path is clear.
But north may not be the way to go,
what with snow, frostbite, no iPad,
real chance of frozen death —
and glaciers may not offset hell’s heat.
Plus, with only one eye, could you focus
once all spinning stopped,
resist temptation, the shapely magnet,
her undulation — block out
every siren’s song — regain sanity, vision,
bits of hope? In some circles,
it is said, sculpting angels of snow
brings redemption if you don’t know
which way to go.
(published by Shadow Road Quarterly)
Going south
Turns out, the entire universe
is headed that direction.
Some scientist who broke the news
got a prize — as if we didn’t know it
all along, given our intimacy
with fall, slide, decline, gone bad.
Think of those politicians, bankers —
riffraff who have gone south,
thieves, on the run, with stolen cars,
diamonds in jars, wives, our hearts.
Pointed not east or west, but down,
away from snow — filching sun,
beach, tequila, rum. We are left
to wonder if light coming from behind
has any hope of catching up.
Or, if rogue galaxies racing north,
suddenly, in their lane, a universe,
no chance to alter speed, swerve —
cosmic crash, splat, the middle,
Earth. Any universe going south
has big trouble — likely pursued
by another, jealous universe,
hurling planets, comets, suns,
cursing, firing black-hole guns.
(published by Electric Windmill Press)
Hope
I built a tiny cross of birch
on the ocean shore
where she took all her lovers.
Lit a lantern there at dusk,
told myself I could go on
if it still shone at dawn.
It did.
I said a second night
would bring another day.
At sunset, marauders burned
the cross, blew out my lantern,
carried it off.
I felt warm sand
open herself to moonlight.
She moaned softly in the night.
(published by Mastodon Dentist)
Invisible
Bouncing past, skirt aswirl, length,
mid-thigh, she looks through me,
gives her smile to a guy behind.
I’m fifty-two, style hair, shop J Crew,
whiten teeth, text other dudes,
wear ragged shirts, stylish shades,
check my look in windows,
wink, pose, flirt. But, it’s futile.
Something in her genes zaps me —
another man too old, vaporized,
gone in fading light. Babe, I exist!
She hears a shadow passing by.
(published by Still Crazy)
The leaving
Too fat to hang at White House Ruins,
doing crank, seduced by metaphor,
pondering divorce number two,
God walks out of math proficiency exam
six ounces early – all the while reciting night sky.
This being America, there were patriots present.
(published by Convergence)
Left for dead
We starve
in war,
ration gas, grow victory gardens,
go without sugar, pretend
chicory is real coffee, deny ourselves
chocolate. We hope to survive
lack of hope to draw
any breath at all. We lie silent,
still as deer after a twig snaps,
in grave-like wait for death
to stop its feeding.
We gorge
in peace,
buy an SUV — vote for those
who rape the Gulf, love BP,
dine out every week, expect ease
in some pink retirement home,
plan to keep our teeth. We believe
our children will visit,
share oily broth. We will be still
as geckos on the wall if asked
did we do anything at all.
(published by Urban Resistance)
Painting the soul
Artists learn early:
use shadow to create the face,
body too. Make darkened line a thigh —
swooping smudge, a derrière outlined black
against fading sky.
Purple daub ties highlight to shadow,
a grave awaiting its final filling in.
You departed, lithe,
hips curving down an evening path,
finally obscured by oaks cloaked in gray —
loss erasing any hope to paint the soul.
Charcoal turned to black,
no touch of red, hint of light —
gone, my futile watercolored try
to bring what’s dead to life.
(published by Cirque)
Pee hate
I sleep cold at low tide,
back to a naked beach
opening herself to the Pacific.
I own no Nook, cell phone, boat,
wear old jeans, rag coat,
sift trash, eat moldy cheese,
ketchup packs from burger sacks,
fallen fruit off condo trees.
I text my name in water, on sand,
under a moonless sky, pee hate
through the graveyard gate
when headstones tug at my thighs.
(published by Bat Terrier; republished by Carcinogenic Poetry)
Plotting romance
Fresh out of charm, ambush love —
use the element of surprise
to foster her affection. Hide behind
maroon curtains, step out
with gifts — fish gills, folded,
black widow tequila, elfers on ice.
Or, text a prize — dogsled trek,
remote hot springs, camping overnight,
with you, alone, chance to unwind.
Send photos of scorpions mating —
subtle proof males suffer, bleed, die.
Keep it pure — no games, no lies.
Never permit her a long look
into your molten red eyes.
(published by Kumquat Poety Challenge)
Red sky at night
I carry sea shells three at a time
to safety across beach sprinkled
with fragments of their kind.
Some purple. A few pink.
Beyond reach, evening surf
swirls more than I can rescue
into a rainbow of shards, grinds
perfectly shaped scallops, whelks,
even hawk-wing conchs fine,
then tosses them ashore
to join sand lying white in death
beside yesterday’s salt.
You wade, oblivious. My footprints
pool in high tide.
I see wounds, not delight,
slicing red across the sky.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Reprise for hope
And he drew forth from her breath the stars.
— Leslie Marmon Silko in Ceremony
I summon a melody from memory,
fear I might not recapture it,
instead, find myself alone,
paralyzed, beached, salty,
unable to imagine you — humming softly —
above me — rocking.
Did we remain that way all night,
incoming tide an accompaniment
outlining us in brine, swirling in time
to our duet, black on white sand,
shadows in motion?
We harmonized until dawn — voices
finally gone, created a ceremony, reprise,
together brought hope alive.
It seemed so easy then —
to sing, to love, to breathe.
(published in Tribute to Orpheus II; republished in Mapping water)
Rescue mission
December morning inside my window
I catch orange reflection — ladybugs
piled on more ladybugs, all asleep.
I study markings — black circles
darkened by frost — think I see
what causes them to clump like this.
They must know group warmth
means survival and, so, will starve
all winter — shudder collectively
as snow mounds high outside.
Glass shuts out a bit of cold,
brightens hope, permits belief
they might endure. I tug one loose,
scoop her to a houseplant leaf,
return, rescue more — finally breathe.
At sundown, only tiny shadows freeze.
(published by Whatcom Magazine; republished in Bellingham Poems)
SWAG
(with a nod to Lynn Rosen)
It isn’t stuff we ain’t getting,
like rich, or a Lexus —
or no more stinking war.
Or redemption. Folks born pure,
not being sufficiently fecal,
often confuse the end of receiving
with the receiving end.
They have solid faith in tomorrow
always being Christmas,
their birthday, big lottery win —
anyway the day some gaga gift,
wonderful, shining, already given
to politicians, generals, the elite,
most certainly is headed for them —
like silver spit wads to a velvet ceiling,
golden lint to their best wool sweater.
Clearly they dream too much,
don’t feel hopeless enough,
need to spend more time
waiting for the really deep stuff.
(published by Urban Resistance)
Too fat to hang
The relationship must die.
His thighs have become pillows
wallowing in brie,
hips, strudeled reminders
of Vesuvius choked
not with dust, but cream.
No way to fake it,
breathe deep before nightfall,
ease yourself from underneath
a beefy day, slip off, freshen up,
later creep back lithely, ready
to be on top, talk communication,
quell unease clinging like chunks
of tallow to your soul.
Support groups gone,
friendships growing mold,
vow now to lick back
with hunger, face this foe
head on, swan dive
into hollandaise, swallow hard,
then hold. It’s the end —
no good to pretend
nooses are chocolate, gallows
have dessert bars, not stairs.
(published by Convergence)
Two dogs, one stick
Patriot, red neck, lake, beer, chips,
two pit bulls, a single stick.
Toss it far out, dogs splash in,
furious swim, each grab an end,
yank, growl, turn, churn home.
Their likely treat — one chicken bone.
On the lake,
white wake of foam.
(published by The Curious Record)
Unknown clichés
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
Page filled with blurred words,
I recall vibrant lines, try to forget
each bright place promised,
where death peers over a landscape
of still lifes frozen in primary colors.
I imagine a Yaqui warrior —
not with flute, haunting melodies
moaning through Western movies —
but one who warns old age lays
the final ambush and vanishes,
hinting it may not be enough
to spear setting sun to a place
low in the sky, let it bleed
into dusk, limp by half-light
up a steep draw, or down —
path there less about journey,
more, about redemption,
and forgiveness, which is said
to clear the way. Suns, deer,
stick men with bows, repeated
in paint on canyon walls,
faded reds, golds, greens,
live on, motifs, revered,
not unknown clichés who claim
half-respect only because
they have not yet died.
I rise early each last day,
sit alone, retell my stories,
eyes open, hope dawn bleeds,
remember, try not to sleep.
(published by Carnival)
Verbal agreement
To be, to see,
time of missed connection,
your arriving too late
to join me — on purpose —
drifting off to sleep, reading
to drowsiness, awakening,
finding you turned away,
reaching to click off your light,
tracing your hips, fingers tempted
to stray, but desire brushed aside.
Dreams not inclined to unite,
tomorrow’s departure knotted solid
in your sleep, in my chest. Tonight,
late autumn turns to winter,
snow geese flee frozen pond,
wings white, locked in vee,
frost settles thick on love
not to be.
(published by The Curious Record)
Water birthing
I.
We camp at Snake River,
ice crusted on the Tetons,
canoe, peak of our tent.
Fire out, we wait in dim light,
newly together, for the thaw.
You hope I make it come.
I believe your heat
provides necessary melt.
It’s a ways, winding, to the end.
At dusk, I call you my moist savior,
worship at your knees,
beg you to bend, absolve me.
All night you try.
We are both half right,
only predicted a beginning,
canoe dropped in swift current
swirling along — hopeful journey
down to Jackson Lake,
Buhl, Ontario,
Clarkston, Pasco, the sea.
II.
We wake to spring snow
heavy as Wyoming saloon dancers,
wet like fresh pain. I stand behind you,
wrap arms like morning glory
around your shoulders, your breasts.
A red blanket drapes us
against the flakes. Rainbow rise groggy
for flies. Jays glide gray sky,
take long drinks from the Snake
deep enough for water birthing.
They squawk for bread, salvation,
life for their young. We are safe,
together, for now canoe upright,
old lovers cleansed from mind.
Snow changes to rain, soaks us,
helps bring a new day. We wait,
you pressed back against me.
Our shadow creeps to moss,
to the river, in mist. Still,
behind you, I drink in all this.
(published by Windfall; republished in Mapping water)
Poems 2011
Accidental dawn
I fall asleep in some old barn,
drift away on heaps of straw.
A lone rooster awakens me,
crows, rise, open eyes.
It is curious how things,
like cocks, can be so familiar:
combs red, feathers shine,
eyes beady, yet intent.
Settled back in golden nest,
I urge the rooster to complete
its song — join in, sing along,
face another accidental dawn.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Aftermath
(for Sheila and Pete)
Sheer unluck let her father find her —
search a snowy road, follow tracks
gone faint beneath powder piling deep,
pine branches suffocating under the load.
Father tramped alone. It was a hunch
to look there, wooded hideout,
daughter’s secret place for pondering,
a cul de sac scooped by moonlight
out of frozen night. The car still moaned,
fed fumes to a hose
snaking to the driver’s side.
The hose exchanged warmth for death.
It was a night all stars spun away,
when nobody breathed right:
father gasping at the discovery,
daughter still in darkened light,
mother at home, breathless too,
rocking vigil gone quiet.
The aftermath: no future, no hope to sleep,
eyes closed, throats dry,
screams muffled in the night.
(published by Labyrinth)
Anemic epiphany
Swirls above tinged gold,
whirl red, purple, green,
color it obvious to Dali, high again,
Perpignan’s train station must be
center to the universe —
as if all epiphanies were equal.
In truth some are epiphysis,
spur of dense tissue separated
from mother bone by cartilage,
destined to spend time close,
not attached, alone.
Or, epiphyte, undiscovered orchid
living entire life in crook of tree,
given one small hollow to grow,
denied other source of food,
left in solitude to bloom.
So tromp gloomy mountain paths,
step fast past puddles,
dodge silver rain, examine clouds
for soggy insight, sudden revelation,
rainbowed flash of light,
unbearable, art lost, unseen,
you, epiphytic, on the trail
of anemic epiphanies.
(published by The Meadowland Review)
At the Aryan Nations cross burning
When they broke open her chest,
her esophagus was so full of holes.
Finally in one bower under her diaphragm
they found a nest of young rats.
— Gottfried Benn in “Beautiful youth”
You called it a lighting,
said white sparks jumping against night sky
would one day ignite a Christian pyre so fierce
all those on Earth catch fire
except for the believers —
who happen not to be black.
Part of a great design —
and those around me, not reporters
who slipped in, amened and amened
as the children tore in circles around the blaze,
shouted, devil slaves, burn in hell,
begged blonde moms
for marshmallows and sharpened sticks.
At dawn I smelled charred sugar
hanging in the Idaho breeze.
(earlier version published by Poetrymagazine.com; different version,
“At the White Supremacist Cross Burning,” published by Heavy Hands Ink)
At the Kootenai High School homecoming
Lines of hay bales point the way
to gridiron brown on green,
October sky blue, homecoming game —
fifty students, two cheerleaders, eight players,
yes, even an Idahomecoming queen.
Every farmer turns out, stands amazed
as you gather footballs in, create
a scoring harvest, touchdowns piled
higher on this meadow than anyone
can recall. Even when trees here stood tall,
fought fathers’ fathers efforts to break sod,
no story matches memories you plant.
Twenty harvests from now, football seasons
a blur, boys still trying to reap victories,
farmers scratching out a living will retell
this tale — gangly senior rookie receiver,
running over defenders again, again like rows
of mown hay, seven scores, eight, then nine.
But they won’t recall your father, wild dancer
across the meadow shouting love to Idaho sky,
won’t recount tears welling up his eyes.
(published by Burnt Bridge)
At White House Ruins
I hike into Canyon de Chelly,
dream of Pueblo Bonito, place beyond
the horizon, find pictographs —
blue duck, white duck, green feathers,
red heads, gold beaks. They wait to swim
should Chinle Wash flow wide again.
Etched in sandstone cliffs,
the drawings sleep beneath jimsonweed,
salt cedar, Russian olive trees. I wish
for wind to change direction, breathe down
the canyon, with hope. The old Navajo
herding goats by the dry stream
says it happens every thousand moons —
with luck, maybe today. Below ruins
reflected dark in afternoon sun,
only she sees Kokopelli dance past,
golden flute raised in slanted light.
The real ruin is my life. No sacred ducks
swim back and I cannot conjure
ancient ones powerful enough
to erase my soul. Streams of sand
will never flow east to Santa Clara Pueblo,
where, rumor says, hope vibrates within you
and pottery is blacker than black.
(published by Poetrymagazine.com;
republished in Mapping water)
Bain Marie
You called it Mary’s Bath, dessert,
baptism of alabaster flan — a forgiveness
of sorts — concocted by your black hands.
We watched you skim white coating off milk
brought almost to boil, add lemon, secret sweets,
then fled the room and giggled as you nested
three frothed cups in a glass baking dish.
You winked, poured hot water over a spoon
set on dish bottom so sudden heat did not crack
the glass, filled it half way, then lifted the dish —
slow, slow, no water slosh on hands or flan —
bent low, slid bathers into oven, closed door.
We three nannied, all white, hissed in delight
when the gas burner clicked on.
(published by Blinking Cursor)
Brush with godliness
Outback. Walkabout. So far out
Aborigines and I share hope —
enough water in one day. No more
thirst. No throat cracked like desert clay.
Enough to bathe, to lie back
in water so deep we can drift away,
dream before we wake. Until then,
heat blocks sweat, clogs skin with salty dust,
blisters any tongue daring to whisper
words like drink. Or rain. We scan
vacant horizon, finally give in, wish
for a funnel cloud of flies.
They come willingly. We bow before them
as they swarm us, blue wings buzzing
in sticky sun. We stand silent,
dream of waterfalls — all the while
caressed by these imbibers of crusted dirt.
They creep into our noses. We breathe them
as they wash us. But mostly we dream
this is our brush with godliness —
until another swarm licks us clean.
(published by The Curious Record)
Can you kill a priest with a 1-iron
if you keep your head down?
Some poets won’t believe,
choose lives not lived from day
to day. Shame has something
to do with it. Maybe out of the blue
a jumbo-jet. A tall building. And all
that blood. Paper’s headline reads,
Poet charged with priest’s murder
or Priest found beheaded near St. Pete’s.
No matter. The father’s gone — lost —
shoved from plane, pushed off
building, tossed into flames,
hacked to death while praying. And all
that blood. Fate has something to do
with it. The poet may golf. Parishioners,
meekaholics en masse, saw him
behind his church — hitting irons mostly,
slicing balls into graves
across the street. Thought it normal,
said he had a natural swing.
Suddenly this homicide thing.
And all that blood as no choir sings.
Faith has something to do with it.
(published by Candidum)
Count ravens
Together, we maneuver a steep hill
then a loop. I drop you off,
head three streets down,
turn into a cul de sac, mine,
crawl up the walk, through door,
go blind, die. Later, I count ravens
mourning out back. They form
a long line over my grave, caw out
in unison, weep. I kneel, pray,
rise, drive away, intent.
We tend to make death
more important than it really is.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Dark migration
Pants slung low, belt cinched noose tight,
teeth clenched, handle bars gripped,
another autumn has arrived —
hint of snow, leaves dying, some dead —
time to heed instincts, leave the city.
Alone, no link up, no vee, flee south,
fly past Brooklyn, Jersey, D.C.,
annual effort to shake off dread.
Eyes closed, ride top speed,
stop at green lights, go on the red.
(published by Everyday Other Things)
Day of beckoning
Love tends to circle us —
a soaring osprey poised to strike
even though we don’t expect to die
of bliss, let alone be eaten.
Like a summer storm, it can blow in,
rock us, knock us, knot our stomach,
nonchalantly lodge romantic grit
in our throat as it makes joy
an indelible part of life. Worrying
that loneliness may be about to end
is of little use — yet we must be watchful.
The constant threat of happiness
sways over us like a translucent noose.
(published by Kumquat Poetry Challenge; republished in Mapping water)
Doing nothing wrong and still losing
(for Lois and Jim Welch)
You leave, like father departed,
floating off paralyzed,
carried away by a bevy of good men,
me five at the time,
back joyful from bending down
a young pear tree,
fruit not yet ready,
certainly not safe from my raid
on its coming ripeness.
My hands busy in the leaves,
I watched him wave,
paw wild at me, at dying sky.
I dream a bear, poet’s orchard,
ignoring Missoula’s wrath
to rake in fruit it smelled,
regardless of Blackfeet claim
on land, prayers offered,
ceremonies of hope. Apples
left on trees had no reason to fear,
expected to be spared.
I didn’t know emptiness then,
tender-skinned Bartletts,
more vulnerable to bears
and me — permitting sweetness
to waft skyward, be caught
by wind, not cloaked by skin
so thick black bears,
noses lifted, missed the scent,
left too, rumbled off,
intent on Native fruit again.
(earlier version published by Cirque)
Gravity of the situation
Low tide, bright day, late June,
I recline in shade, eyes closed.
Two cats flank me, white one
feigning sleep at my feet —
farther off, le chat noir, on guard,
ears back, listening to us breathe.
I am attuned to my lover, inside,
sighing, rolling out dough
across her sun-streaked stone.
Dusk will arrive after a time.
(published by The Curious Record; republished in Mapping water)
Ice caving
Rainier snow blows in low,
collapses crackling in fire.
Twigs, blackened, snap,
become broken arrows of frost,
quivering in cold. They lie pale,
still, hope sparks drift
toward the shared quilt.
He dreams a frantic snowbird
beaks ice. Not once,
but twice. The wind rises,
again unties night,
ropes them together.
They pelt mountain snow
with high-strung fury.
(earlier version published by Farthermost Dream)
I eat bitter hearts
Another night plummets on me
from dim stars, like black rope
intent on becoming fat nooses
for hanging good memories of lovers
I’ve roasted black over an open fire.
Flames dance naked, burn the nooses.
I am moved to stir my artichoke soup
before it becomes so bitter
I cannot eat. What if, in daylight,
life were soup? Would I reach for it
off the high shelf, not care
about price, or pick the store brand,
low down, grab a few cheap saltines
to rub in wounds inflicted
by all the oncoming happiness
and certainty of hunger gone?
I bank my dying fire, lie back,
use a fork to prolong the meal,
slurp away in empty darkness.
I eat bitter hearts last.
(published by thenumberfive)
Imposing intelligence
I use double psychology on my cat,
acting as if I am locking her out
so she will dart in.
She cannot miss my line
of dead rats on the porch.
(published by Mad Swirl)
In my dream
we stand together,
naked, on our bed.
The fire licks red.
I reach around, make you
excited. We bounce upward
together, heads slap ceiling
until mattress and frame break.
I reach out, grab the headboard,
try to steady us
so we can stay together.
You push the wood stove over,
it falls into pieces, no coals glow.
I throw one fire brick
at the lamp, break its glass.
Shade still on, it lands upright.
The yellow bulb burns bright.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Knives in ice
Inuits bury them, handles down,
blades up, add water,
let each freeze solid,
daub the tips with blood.
Lust lopes in before dawn —
wolves believe they’ve found
seals asleep, streams full of salmon,
caribou laid out end to end.
They lap up the offering,
ignore it is their own blood
they drink to fullness,
to weakness, to sleep.
Curled frozen on red ice,
frosted furs offer Inuits hope,
life with color, warmth at night.
Arctic wind retains howling rights.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Late call from Plato’s cave
Father, I say we’re not chained in.
Hope grows here like mushrooms.
No shackles chafe, our eyes
don’t blur red. Shadows
and cavern walls show no signs of hate.
Greeks called these sights illusions.
We’ve heard it before. Stories of sky,
sun above — only babbling,
not truth we can chisel our initials in.
Proof comes daily like refried air.
Screens stretch silver, stalagmite
to tite, ninety channels of beaches,
blondes glowing in the sun,
surviving crime at night.
Tell those who peddle some other life
the votes are in. Only cop and doctor shows
were elected. Walls they call fake
we call walls full of drama,
making distant quakes, wars, coups
so vivid even assassinated dictators
live again, parade-proud, their tanks
triumphant on the six o’clock news.
Yes, Dad, forget tales of mountains, trees,
ocean breeze. We refuse your stance
even if you dissect an entire TV station,
hold out bloody tumors as evidence
in your living-color hands.
(published by Blinking Cursor)
Missed connections
Diving gull,
crust of bread you tossed.
Sudden swerve,
passing truck. No escape
with both life
and bread intact.
I found her in high grass
hurling herself at the sky
with one good wing,
gave her healing box
covered up with dampened cloth,
set her aside to mend.
A second gull circled for days.
You only said
All the bread is gone.
(published by Mastodon Dentist)
No more desert
No more desert, love grows
as you make deep grooves
with your sharp hooves.
(published by Three Line Poetry)
Noose
Joy hovers above us,
a condor poised to strike
when we are not ready
to die of bliss, let alone
be eaten. It shadows us
for months, goes without water,
catches us still dour,
sucking on belief in no love,
praying for a life of hopelessness,
bits of cynical grit clogging throats.
We think our loneliness will last,
believe it possible to feed
at the trough of depression forever —
but we must be on guard.
Happiness sways over us
like a hangman’s noose.
(published by Candidum)
Painting lesson
Onyx spider drawn to spin
from frond on fern to fence,
and back again, lost control
as I thrashed by, let silk out fast,
spiraled wide, around, splashed down
near brush dipped deep
in white paint tin. My ruthless youth,
Genghis Tim to arachnid kin
dunked like this — some forced to swim,
others stroked latex on window trim —
this time, I grabbed a twig,
dipped it in, scooped coated spider
to cupped palm of withered hand.
Garden hose set on drip, I rinsed
her whiteness black again.
(published by Sue Boynton Poetry Contest; republished in Poetry Walk:
The Second Five Years; Mapping water)
Picture please
She goes, like if you don’t mind
so I go, I would be happy to,
and dip deep, stir the very bottom,
aware of pleasure I am about to serve,
and as I slowly draw up,
I go, are you sure you want
even more, she goes, yes,
yes, sir, like Oliver, more,
I go, then, for you, happiness,
this huge cup of soup. I pour.
(published by Everyday Other Things)
Poem to name perfume after
He could have awakened dead
but didn’t — instead, clipped her poems,
stories, carried them crumpled,
reread each over tea,
hung her picture beside Van Gogh’s,
then moved it to Matisse.
He tried to catch glimpses
in flushed daze,
her rushing for a train,
swinging in the park,
closing nighttime blinds,
pelted down by rain —
once, eased close behind
in crowd, breathed deep,
inhaled her scent,
touched sleeve by accident —
in sideways glance, hoped to see
her eyes change, gray
to green. He believed each day a test —
name perfume lingering when she left.
Obsession.
(published by Thick With Conviction)
Poem to scrape pelts by
Mixed memories of father, mink,
high school crush on Brie.
I should have known decades later
Lycra look-alikes passing by
would bring her to mind
so fine at thirty-five
I’d wash bedding six times a week,
hang sheets out each day
rather than let her memory fade.
Word had it she was great in bed,
as fine as mink, or so
the saying went. Who really knew
mink screwed so well,
if they walked Brie’s road,
spent summer nights
outside picket fence, wished
for glimpse, her shape on shade,
lusty memory for the coming days.
In truth, caged mink gave up life
in poison fumes as Dad slid stone
to skinning knife. He denied them sex,
stripped skins white as Brie’s shade,
pelts soon tacked to tanning slates.
They dried flat in lines,
formed nightmares, dreams
for me to own — Dad, Brie, mink,
jumbled together — not alone —
pencil on paper, sullen poem.
Not skinning knife,
not sharpening stone.
(published by Candidum)
Post-cuckold stress syndrome
I wake wet, slick,
throat clogged, try to breathe,
renew effort to escape nightmares,
you choking me again.
I wish sleep back —
life lived in reverse,
caramel Jesus smiling, our pleasure —
believe two hours will suffice
but face unholy flashbacks
until dawn lays down
a new layer of salted dew.
I pray for more.
Hail today — or snow.
Something not painful.
Tales with happy endings
told by a savior. Just no repeat,
no shower together,
no fake love in dark,
you on top of me,
of him later.
I watch and drown,
dragged down by these replays
ripping me awake
to dampness and hope
I find a strong rope today.
(published by Heavy Hands Ink)
Primary love, complementary colors
End of day, I cook with you.
Sunset, orange — sky fades gray
from blue. We light candles,
mostly red. Flames turn green
at night’s black edge.
An oval moon rises yellow-gold,
gives clouds beneath a purple hue.
We lie entwined, two chefs, hot food —
famished lovers, cordon bleu.
(published by Bellingham Herald)
Publishing in The New Yorker
Manhattan black, laptop tipped back,
whiskey fifth too, dim the lights,
summon your muse.
Recall New England, streams flaccid,
leaves in decay,
you up from the city,
lover cast away, your ongoing curse —
brilliance, wit, rage.
Reflect on drugs, depression,
suicide tries, abuse at home,
prison-camp torture,
suffering alone.
Friends come, go — all, shallow,
obtuse, vain — none seeing truth,
the midnight again. So, unbutton
lithe images, make metaphors moan.
Somehow pour out
another self-obsessed poem.
(published by Candidum)
Rafting with Fitzgerald
(with a nod to Dan Breeden,
Tom Husby, and Steve Fitzgerald)
You recall that trip — Idaho,
rapids, righteous Salmon River,
three boats, twelve of us, and Fitz?
Bodacious bounce at low water,
Zelda dancing in panties,
kicking high below the falls,
tempting most of us, jump in,
jump in? You were there —
downed all our whiskey in two nights,
feared we’d die of thirst.
Remember, day six— salvation —
we floated by a raft of diabetics,
Fitz walked across the water,
traded diet soda pop for beer.
(published by Candidum)
Sponges
How can we —
home, garden, shade,
morning after rain,
chives, thyme, grapes,
black cat at our feet –
soak in all this peace?
(published by NitTwitts: A Collection of Twitter-Length Poems)
Too much hope
Waves always waist-high,
fifty miles of white beach,
sun never clouded, Dylan on CD.
Model’s body for you, big pecs for me,
teeter-totter perfectly balanced,
no teet, no tot,
Odysseus without Cyclops,
Sisyphus on top. Climaxing for hours,
sad tears never dropped,
love always beginning,
mate faithful each night,
death not coming until 105.
We’ll have skylights in our coffins,
designer sunglasses for dead eyes.
(published by The Curious Record)
Trek
Fingers trace smooth grooves,
furrows between your ribs,
from backbone near spine —
guide meridian of the soul —
to front. The path is steady,
slow. Each slopes south,
rounds your side, points toward
the desert, abdomen,
brown, flat — and beyond.
I know I should climb ridges,
cross one valley, then another,
head north to explore,
meld minds, blurt out ideas,
say something profound.
But, magnetic south
draws me down.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Use two pillows, sleep fast
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
Dreams swirl in like snow,
drift in piles — lovers, loved.
I wrap each in burlap,
lash openings against the cold.
Some vanish by dawn —
frozen, quiet, quick to go.
Others — warmed, stroked,
unbind themselves — return, hot,
mute my muffled screams.
Candles I disrobe you by
drip waxy fire, memories wafting
across each fold and pleat.
Slow to know love from heat,
I warm myself in steam
rising from the open seams.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Web mutiny
These flat screens tie off dreams,
pirate eyes while pixeled derrières
float by, round ghosts awash
in curvy seas of slender light.
Nightmares should wake us,
promise morning, hope, rum in vats,
not more bottoms bobbing past.
To break free, we must mutiny,
seize Web Mistress, take control,
gauge wind, starboard tack —
then, bound for home, torture night,
use her thong to cleat hitch dawn.
We will expect no thanks
as she sways to the plank.
(published by Farthermost Dream)
Poems 2010
All quiet on the Iraqi front
TV reporters, embedded, blurt praise
of heroes, ours, with guns, run tape
not showing blood-bought freedom,
democracy, oil — mostly oil.
Smoke and soot, both black,
roll across the plain.
A snake, charcoal vined,
slides in search of any green,
S-path drifted over by grime.
Not to be outdone, daffodils
poke through blackened earth,
sway briefly, see blooms die
half-yellow, half-hearted.
Children flirt with hope,
ignore extra layers of dirt,
play tag in willow grove, boughs
bent and broke. Parents rock
on mud-brick porch, recall rumors
of war not waged, bombs not dropped,
future not gray.
They try to remember how
a normal day presents itself: blue sky,
dipping sun, clouds hinting rain.
Again, tonight’s storm
will form puddles of red —
at dawn, another search
for handprints, child-size,
although the hands are gone.
(published by Apathy is Easy)
Bats at the hummingbird feeder
(with a nod to Penny Brown)
Fast, greedy, known to swoop in,
sneak drinks from hummingbird feeders,
wings all the while flapping.
You know — like politicians.
I read it somewhere, but also hear
their flutter on summer nights.
Bats must not be allowed to drink
all the nectar. Hummers need it
to keep them going: Rufus, white spots
on tail; Annas, similar to Allens,
heads, violet, females, green.
They’re on the wing somewhere,
probably for food. In winter they fight over
remaining bugs. Bats look on,
ask winners for their vote. Sad. Look it up
on Wikipedia. And, change nectar every week
so hummers don’t get rabies
creeping up their slender beaks.
(published by The Curious Record)
Chicken
(found poem, Town Tavern bathroom, Port Townsend, Wash.)
Just when I thought
it couldn’t get any better
she brought out the chicken
and, boy,
could she serve
chicken.
(published by Caper Literary Journal; republished by Bellingham Herald)
Deserted advice
Believe — now is the best time
to hope. Forget loneliness. Suspend
all gathering doubt, bind your wounds.
Embrace change in its run to shore.
At dusk, gaze into a tidepool.
Find the resolve to search for purple.
Give yourself your word. Kindle seaweed
on the beach at midnight. Without warning,
send this note in a bottle to your lover.
(published by Kumquat Poetry Challenge; republished by Thick With Conviction;
Mapping water)
Editing your life
Today’s chore — weed the photo album,
purge snaps with hints of ragged times,
condense images of all those years
with husband number five. If pressed,
recall his name and flaws, not his eyes.
Perhaps another marriage,
you once again a blushing bride.
Or a child given up at birth
has found you, wants to see your past,
know the mom she missed — your tiny lie.
Or simply, a life with him you want to forget.
Toss out snapshots — forest hikes,
hot spring nude romp in mist, campfires,
tents, untangling fishing lines. Throw
wedding photos — vows, kiss, cutting cake,
honeymoon escape. Excise wrapping
Christmas gifts, family trips, your children
asleep in his arms. Keep one photo, New Year,
him in back among siblings posed,
smiling faces, crooked rows.
(earlier version published by Labyrinth)
Eternal life
Scientists, lacking hobbies, family, wives,
have found molecules
making up our bodies
to be four billion years old.
The good news from this:
we have eternal life.
The bad news is
we’ve been drift nets, oil spills, coffin lids.
(published by Poets for Living Waters)
Fencing in darkness
To begin, make a list. One, sword,
pointed, thin. Two, mask
with mesh, dark, tight. Three,
wire, barbed strands twisted sharp.
Four, a counselor or priest,
confessor, friend. Someone
to deal with tears, sins,
lift spirits up again.
Five, light, probing, bright,
letting nothing hide.
To stay alive, survive,
make backup plans of plans.
Then re-read Frost, Jung,
recite “Mending Wall” by moon
or sun. Know what
must die, let live again.
Learn to feign, sway,
drive point in, first at dusk,
then in day. Practice blindfolded,
eyes shut. Dream at night,
knees curled to chin.
Shun mirrors, learn to fence well,
others out, yourself in.
Know enough to suffocate
before dueling death again.
(published by 13 Miles from Cleveland)
Fragile X parent
(with a nod to Chuck Luckmann)
Again he paces at our bed, restless,
but happy as eighteen previous years,
now six feet tall, at six a.m. —
he needs a shave, his diaper, full.
He roams her side, then mine,
gives the comforter a tug.
Today, dentist. Dentist, he says.
Today. Dentist. Dentist.
We had been seizing pre-dawn quiet,
hoping again, just sex,
the two of us, alone,
but Clonidine worn off, he is early,
not understanding chromosome weakened,
passed down mother to son — hope diluted —
instead, intent on the dentist,
and, yes — clean me, wipe,
cereal in the deep bowl, white,
not the blue, the white.
Like yesterday, and the day before,
he will wear the black pants, blue shirt
with stripes, watch the same cartoons,
eat Special K again, not fully know
custody, ward of state, guardian,
emancipation, judge, group home —
only care she or I awake, rise,
turn on Scooby Doo, find clean diapers,
fill the deep bowl, pure white.
(published by Convergence)
Gourmet
Radio ads tantalize — catfish nuggets
stuffed with dates, diced imitation
loon fillets, simmered beaver tie-dyed ribs,
deep-fried raccoon, sauteed squid,
Atlantic ranch-raised dolphin cakes,
crusted eel, gecko chunks, malt-ball stuffed
elephant trunk, wine-infused escargot,
albino skunk flown in from Greece,
broasted owl eyes, gorgonzola leeks.
Quite by accident my python exudes
spicy rhino hollandaise cream
on seal-skin seats in my SUV.
(published by The Momo Reader)
Headboard
(with a nod to Malinda Finney Briggs)
Packing mainly blame with me,
I begin my retreat — Canada,
mineral springs, posh resort,
steam rising to melt new snow,
forgiveness cloaked beneath fuzzy robes.
But guards believe I hide much more —
won’t hop pool to pool, then cool,
need no massage, instead will wake
wet from dreams, guilty screams,
rip innocent headboard off the bed.
They search my van, my pants
for weed, for crack, for blow,
for hidden gun coaxed to explode
by parted lips just hours ago.
(published by Heavy Hands Ink)
The heaped wheelbarrow
So many depends
heaped
in your wheelbarrow
stained
autumn-brown, and me,
afraid again,
beside buckets
filled
with golden rain.
(published by The Momo Reader)
If
my late father could open
a small window,
say one that slides,
not even much bigger than phones
teens carry around —
a window not screened
or double-paned — if he would
and could stick out
one hand, toss down
brief note, better yet
press lips to outside,
shout he had planned
to phone the day he died,
let me know finally
he loved me, missed me,
be certain
I was ok,
if he could, it would
give courage, at least enough
to e-mail my son,
tell him I’m sad,
lack excuses for not being
in touch, miss him,
relay bits of news,
say I’m putting in
bigger windows, his old room,
ones that open,
open wide,
confide my heart
has been acting up again.
(published by The Tipton Poetry Journal)
I herded flies, Buzz, when I dyed
(with a nod to Emily Dickinson)
It was lack of color. Poetry without hue.
Like your name before Buzz —
also without cadence — something like Bruce.
Suffice it to say
my cloth was not vivid.
So I turned to black — purple gone bad —
hoped for morning fog,
faint blush in summer sky
providing a bit of tint to life.
Then they arrived, dark cloud, en masse,
normal for flies; they’re not geese,
after all. No vee,
no leader, gaggle a distant speck
in their minds, they circled without cease —
buzz repeat and repeat —
inspired something from nothing,
creative irritation, poetry that sings.
That night, still high, without light,
I colored them all violet,
right down to their iambic wings.
(published by The Curious Record)
Ironing my face
Guilt leads on to inferno, hell.
I am feverish, bloated, pale,
think dogs buried bones in my cheeks.
I need immediate redemption
but no Nordic savior can cool
my heart, ice storm my pores,
whisper frozen chants to save me.
Ironing works for sheets, also white,
straightens their bleached lives,
unwrinkles sleeplessness awhile.
Perhaps set the iron on high,
use steam around each eye,
crease my lips, chin, nose. Purgatory
should smooth my wadded soul.
(published by The Momo Reader)
John two sixteen
I forgot the first line to this poem —
words probably round, hard, firm.
Drooping, no doubt, it will return,
faith of the Second Coming
being the important thing.
I do recall the poem’s main thrust:
somehow convince my son John
he cannot give his god
a multiple-choice exam and then
expect to grade it. Ah, the story.
John believes he can test God
by setting up a predicament
clearly one-sided, so loaded
the Big Guy will be forced
to send a clear sign —
lightning bolt down a choice.
John says put your home for sale,
price it so high only a fool
would buy. Then, if someone
does drive past, turn, swoop in
bearing a satchel of cash,
you’d be rich and God’s intent, clear:
John, sell your home, move family
to a cave. But this is not Pascal’s Gamble,
four choices based on logic —
instead, a complicated mess
of faith placing God
on the real estate escrow seat.
I forgot the last line
to this poem too; it’s probably phallic,
missile headed toward a strike
but returning to its silo site.
(published by The Momo Reader)
Late warning
If my lovely vulture swoops by,
dark wings spread eight feet,
blood caked on gold beak,
last prey, me, old meat,
if she demands your heart,
please sigh, sob, cry,
whine, fret, lie,
sidle toward her after awhile,
kneel, cling to her feet,
beg her to stay until she leaves.
Never, never offer up
your love, red wine, a little brie.
(published by Caper Literary Journal & Luna Luna Magazine)
Letter found on a flash drive
near the B.C. border
Linda, your memory steeps,
gets me up at dawn.
I hang on — Birch Bay, U.S.A.,
far northwest corner
of Washington state. My life
floats in Puget Sound
toward the border. If only you
could save me now.
How did we ever fall out
of touch — your hand, mine
brushing by, 1973? We got on
so well — you with Johnny, me,
all three singing, Bye bye
Miss American Pie, hating Nixon,
getting high, loving silent on my boat,
Johnny, drunk, snoring
as our mingled breath
brought moistness to purple slits
of dawn, the dappled sky.
How did such drift not grab and hold?
Please phone, e-mail, risk a note.
Let’s sing Brautigan, Lennon,
to life again, drink red wine,
make love all night — this time, moan,
reverse the bloody flow —
determine for ourselves
which way not to go.
(published by Cirque)
Note on my windshield
Apartment complex, lot full of cars,
black Hondas all around mine,
I feared paper under wiper
some neighbor’s threat —
no parking on the line.
Here is all your stuff, I think.
Your words have been lies —
poems, notes, cards, everything.
All lies. Also, the inkwell you wanted.
Take care of it, please.
I will always love you
no matter how you treated me.
Good luck. I hope you get
what you want. God’s grace
and mercy as well. I tossed
the note, combed lot for sack,
package, taped-shut box,
hoped for pants, belt, stylish hat.
I searched for the inkwell
until darkness fell.
(published by The Curious Record)
Richter Scale
I’d better go – love slides away,
your lover says, letting you know
hers has become O point O,
but yours – trembling, fear,
being abandoned again —
registers over 8 point 8.
You recall first high school lust,
that sudden tremor, how the Ford
shook under moonlight
as she rubbed against you,
bringing meaning to quake.
Rank such love, 2 point 5.
And, marriage, frequent sex, finally,
a decade nesting, not alone,
definitely 4 point 3 —
later point 6, or point 5,
affection capsized. Then,
this major quake, long, rolling love,
sudden, deep, recurring,
at times 9 point 3, now everything
down, serious seismic heartbreak,
no way to rebuild,
rubble the end of mountains,
daylight, seasons, tides —
even chance in the ruin,
entire coasts broken free,
out of sight in a choppy sea.
(published by The Momo Reader)
Screw the pretentious poets
Late evening, I was reading
a lame poem in The Sun
and it was getting to me.
Before dusk, before I saw
the dark magazine, before art left,
I had been writing about Exxon
escaping penalty for its spill,
or was it how a lover
who pureed my guts,
by leaving became a metaphor
for consumers, a society in love
with throwing everything away,
people too, or how patriots push zeal
on the rest of us,
how a friend of mine on a raft trip
traded diet sodas to diabetics
for beer when he ran out of whiskey,
how breathing insulation
you’re installing in a church attic
is like doing crack, how God
would walk out of a math proficiency exam,
about how to choose a nickname
for Jesus — or how a geek
invited to the Donner Party would eat
his girlfriend last because she was delicious —
or maybe facing cancer decades after
you dismantle nuclear bombs,
certainly about sleep not coming
for a lifetime after you’ve buried heads
of Japanese soldiers our World War II Army
paid natives two dollars for — and, by the way,
about hope. Anyway, so screw poets who write
of New England, those pastoral places
where they find insight and deep meaning,
not real life below them in the city,
they who run off to the MLA convention
with their tight little couplets.
Screw them as thanks for all poets
who are free enough to write
about what writhes — not about
what some English prof at Columbia
says poetry should be. Screw those poets
and the critics with their Ph.D.s
who haven’t really lived, write crap,
boring, pedantic, all about me.
(published by Apathy is Easy)
Slick — to Exxon then and BP now
I.
Number of 23 species seriously depleted by the 1989 Exxon Valdez
oil spill that have recovered — 1
— Harper’s Index, Sept. 1997
The current worst-case estimate of what’s spewing
into the Gulf (of Mexico by BP’s Deepwater Horizon
oil well) is 2.5 million gallons a day.
— AP, June 24, 2010
You brought new meaning to robber baron,
taught us to know black snow on tundra,
scrape frozen sod primed with promises
even Arctic fox knew to be lies.
Your lawyers slapping backs in bars,
buying free drinks — all these brought sadness
even dutiful glaciers couldn’t scrub away.
We tromped black sand, piled oily birds,
seals, cheek-high, set them ablaze,
watched the pyre outshine frosty dusk.
Our breath froze white on darkened beach.
That night we burned ice to stay warm.
II.
This was a tragic and terrible event, and one for
which the company has paid dearly. …
— Exxon lawyer Dellinger arguing before the U.S. Supreme Court,
Feb. 2008
The rocky shore lay bare, helicopters,
skimmers, hoses, booms, all gone,
seabird washers, beach workers,
dead sea otters, harbor seals,
even the Valdez, gone too.
No more hot salt spray
spreading the goo around.
A lone mallard struggled in, staggered
up the beach, tried to preen,
gave up, too many green feathers
matted down. He turned, wobbled
to the Sound, where he drowned.
III.
The U.S. Supreme Court gutted punitive damages
awarded to victims of the Exxon Valdez … from $2.5 billion to $500 million
— The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, June 26, 2008
BP CEO Tony Hayward … took a break from his oil
spill duties in the Gulf of Mexico to attend a yacht
race … in the English Channel.
— Politics Daily, June 1, 2010
We buried another fisher today, dropped
a handful of greasy sod, a few black rocks
in the grave — at dusk kindled his boat,
its hold empty twenty-one years
until BP killed the Gulf. We set our tribute
adrift, watched the whole bay catch fire,
flames race to shore, climb sand,
burn a row of skiffs. No terns turned high,
no eagles swooped low. Out on the Sound
another of your tankers droned.
In its wake, nine sleek crows
escorted another bloated walrus home.
(published by Poets for Living Waters; accepted by British composer James Wood
for a composition on the Apocalypse)
This being America,
there were patriots present
In the desert
I saw creatures,
warlike, obsessed,
running about with swords,
each cutting open another’s head.
Won’t you miss
your brains? I asked.
What? they replied,
and skipped off together,
free.
(published by The Curious Record;
republished by Poetry Pacific)