The following are Pilgrim poems published or accepted in 2015 and 2016.
They are presented by year in alphabetical order.
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.
Poems 2016
Afghanistan misery index
After piling dead babies
high enough
to reach the flashing traffic light,
we climb slowly up,
being careful not to fall,
then turn
the suffering bastard
off.
(published by Red River Review)
After the falls
comes, of course, winter —
not that demise leads inevitably so,
nor seasons wending circular paths
one to the other, spring
to summer, but winter in the sense
that falls mean sudden departures
from state of privilege, deceptions,
unseen cliffs, sudden stairs,
financial setbacks so severe
your Porsche is gone,
along with the women you primed
with wine and fast talk,
you remember, the Radisson bar
near Niagara, where you promised
a happy life forever, together,
after the honeymoon, after the falls.
(published by Prole Press, United Kingdom)
Always speaking truth to power
even when the powerful
are only serving coffee
labels you as outcast,
geek, unbearable know-it-all.
Just an asshole, really. Mimes,
watchful, still, seemingly meek,
shun the pricks unless they grind
dark roast into the street.
(published by The Curious Record, Australia)
The bitter end
When she becomes remote,
draws black curtains over green eyes,
keeps you, your touch, at bay,
know no way exists
to foster hope. You see, she’s folded
your memory — creased it really,
really creased it — placed it
at the end of the scrapbook she calls
her life. All bits tossed away for good —
for you, for bad. She’s whirled off
in dirty wind, gone coffin gray.
Time for you to fade, decay.
(published by Convergence)
Card from Montana, only snow
on the cover
(with a nod to Lola Reidelbach)
Well, I’m getting older, another year gone.
Weather only knows how to blizzard,
nothing goes on. Can’t get out much.
Town has casinos now, play them
sometimes, don’t win though —
they are rigged. Kids still live around.
Oldest cleans at the rest home,
youngest just retired, so nothing.
Middle one drives snow plow,
got a foster kid, he’s on crack.
I dread winter, my cousin died —
it was a stroke. That’s about all.
Hope this finds you happy and well,
with the snow all gone by fall.
(published by Trestle Creek Review;
different version, “Card from Idaho, only snow
on the cover,” published in 2016 by Cirque)
Claiming, not owning
Forest trail vanished in pine,
we hike, neither one following,
find spongy moss winds
by a faint spring coaxed up
to half-light. Its water tests
boundaries, breaks free, forms
small pools below. They fill,
spill into others — each finger
escaping any intention to hold.
The tiny rivulets trickle alone
until a second sliver, a third,
then one more, join. Together,
they stream private paths down,
each resisting being owned.
We choose separate ways
across their defiant flows.
(published by Otoliths)
Diagramming love
I dream myself next to you
on a thin, penciled line.
I am a predicate — the action —
separated from you, subject
of my love. I hope to awaken,
find I am really a linking verb
and this sentence,
not in passive voice.
(published by Bellingham Herald)
Dreaming on key
Learn young to hoard, suck in air,
don’t breathe — lock, no release,
midnight dreams conjured
on cue, sleepless master of control.
Not simple, like Kegel, ten-second hold,
gone from gold, in reverse, now clear,
pee upstream, never mind Jung,
Ganges, any leper’s scream.
Truth be told, hope’s gone bad,
turned fantasy — fake belief we foresee,
dream on key, spot death, the cheat,
card hidden up her lacy sleeve.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Drying tear, sullen sky
In your own desert, paint
a lone birch, no other green
being seen. Brush dipped
in white, stroke extra wide
for trunk, main branches up —
use mint for leaves, ash-gray,
bark sheets, life peeling away.
If no ladder to reach top,
paint a tall one of those.
Colors, water all packed,
climb, paint the high limbs.
Reach far out, daub sun,
sky too. Dream of rain,
swirl in a gathering storm.
Make each drop oblong
like a tear drying in sullen sky.
Use a slim brush, tip so fine
your still-life stands out.
(published by Otoliths;
accepted by Spindrift)
Fake dreams
In them, you are fit, witty,
great in bed, have some friends.
Lottery winner, no job to hate,
you wear designer clothes,
collect fine art, give trips to sibs.
You buy beggars burgers,
chocolate, gin — gun down raiders
breaking in your place, suck back
angry words, out-pun cuckolds
lurking around your mate.
You bask in children’s praise,
bring mom alive again,
have clear streams to fish.
Your heart beats on its own.
You get back to sleep
when you wish.
(published in Mapping water)
Family of widows
All things relative, the earth turns,
permits off-sprung rays to spangle,
children of the ocean to retreat.
By comparison, nouns, concrete,
verbs, taut with action, lie squirming,
babies of the pen. A few will live,
stories deserving of an ending.
Not about happiness, salvation,
even so much about love.
More, narrative of stars, moon —
light heaviness, a family of widows
asleep, weighted down by the sun.
(published by Cirque)
Final say
Religious youth sneaks Glock
to school, prevents murder spree,
kills weird dude before he shoots.
Students flee, hands over heads —
boy with Glock accidentally shot,
blown away by a Swat-team cop.
Father come to save his only son
snuffs sniper with a backup gun.
Passing priest takes revenge,
pulls out Uzi, blasts the dad —
gets popped too, shot from above
out of love, the final say.
(published by Convergence)
Finally talking to a guru in India
In the beginning, phone-tree,
long branch, press one for savior.
Time on hold to ponder,
do we cease to exist or exist
to cease. Me, out of it, off
a bit, high on tea, so much so
need to call for help, not visit
spiritualist, where folks queue,
air kiss, woo-woo session
with lost wives, lovers, of whom
I have not any left. Guru hisses,
low-pitched, complete the reversal,
fetch redemption, undo each wrong.
Be less bad than old me, better
than the new. Silence does not mean
no answer. He hangs up on me too.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Half lithe
Season of absolution in full sway,
late spring, coarse snow gone
from white to gray. Most piles
shallow, a few still deep.
You, on occasion, able to smile,
get good sleep, play outside,
make angels in vacant drifts.
Sometimes, remember to forget,
forgive. Her memories brushed aside,
heaviness melting, soon half lithe.
(published by Prole Press)
Homage
Steep climb to peak along icy creek,
I round a bend, glimpse through trees
line of women, ridge overhead,
sweaters, jeans, panties off.
They face the summit, arms spread,
heads back, eyes closed, breasts taut,
pointed up-slope. In wan sun,
bitter wind, we sisters bare ourselves,
pay homage to you, Mother Earth.
Give us inspiration, hope.
Face red, eyes kept low,
I creep downstream, fully clothed.
(published by Carnival)
If God searches your room
it goes without saying
she will find Legos and games
stuffed into closet, dirty socks
tucked under bed, candy wrappers
shoved far back in the second drawer.
What cannot be discussed
is how faith was lost,
hidden away so deep,
out of the blue comes this lack
of trust, sudden need to sift
your stuff. Better not bring up
betrayal, question why she
freaks out, intrudes. Head down,
keep busy with the broom.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Light found to have weight
Fly rod in hand, sun nearly set,
I’ve seen how burdened brightness
affects the cast, slows line
looping through red sky
to tease some riffle on the dark,
far side. Heavy light brings on
a ribboned splash, scatters rainbows
before my Black Ghost drifts in.
At dawn, light rises, groggy,
barely able to clear meadow grass,
staggers from carrying all that dew
layered on by summer night.
Later, laden by midday heat,
it quits skim of lake, gives in,
lies deep with bass,
shifting shadow under lily pads.
Weighed down, too, like light,
the dying cease to resist,
succumb, sink to blackness,
having finally reached their limit.
(published by Carcinogenic Poetry)
Limerick 1
Subdued city people were keen
to copy St. Pat’s party scene —
a wild bingo night
brought yawns by first light,
giddy giving way to serene
(published by Bellingham Herald)
Limerick 2
Food a pale lime, beer half-green too,
laid-back city bash misconstrued
as wild Irish gig
with drink, song and jig —
innocence unjustly subdued
(published by Bellingham Herald)
Lit exam
A sonnet is to salvation
as Milton, to squid, confess,
bind, climbing a steep ridge.
Sestina, to redemption
as Keats to grieve, resign,
whale, falling off cliffs.
Villanelle, to remembrance
as Bishop, to church, prayer,
veil, gutting fresh fish. Canto,
to hatred as Rich, to loss,
failure, God, filleting black cod.
Epitaph, to hope as Alexie,
to smudge, forgiveness, sole,
burning a white cross.
(published by Switched-on Gutenberg;
accepted by Spindrift)
The lord’s tweet
our dad up hi
U r super
yer wayz cool all over
give us bred 2day
4giv r breakins
we do & WTF no luring
Fedx evil away
u r very great
rule on
amen
(published by Mad Swirl)
Missoula migration
Geese vee north into half-light,
slip through Montana sky.
We tromp damp riverbank,
follow the Clark Fork flow, peer
into coming night as the gaggle
sweeps by. I believe I see
a female veer off, gain speed,
slice past stragglers, take her turn
at the lead. I step in your tracks
while the setting sun bleeds.
(published by Third Wednesday)
Missoula possums
(with a nod to Chuck Luckmann)
Mother bled out on rainy blacktop,
I rescue a dozen newborn
from cooling pouch, nestle them
deep in long hair behind my ears.
Their pink hands cling to my finger
as I feed them droppers of milk.
I sneak them to school, sit way back
in class, wool cap, off, on again
for warmth. My hair rustles.
Miss Prudence ignores, believes me
a child of hippies, with lice.
The possums grow, fill mouths
with teeth. Mom mashes dead flies,
carrots, peas. Possums trail behind
as I gather firewood, rake fall leaves.
Dad builds a shelter behind the yurt.
They return home to it each autumn,
vanish again early in the spring.
(published by Windfall; different
version published later by Third Wednesday as “Possum rescue”)
My last professor
(with a nod to Robert Browning)
There, see his portrait on the wall.
I believe him to be the exception,
not the rule. He lasted fall, winter,
almost till spring — persevered, gave,
shall I say, not just light,
but hope — inspired a bit of love
to begin. Then new semester —
classes in lit, stats, chem,
attraction ebbing, new interest,
same pattern — learning, powerful men.
Notice this photo, though, coup d’état,
prize-winning biology prof
making dissected frogs
jump high again.
(published by Carcinogenic Poetry)
No mending love
Sun frayed by a million clouds,
zenith torn, tossed away,
her eyes suddenly gone
from green to ultramarine,
back to black, or so it seems.
Slipped away, her lithe sway,
whisper, smile, invitation
to stay awhile. Nirvana,
worn through, in need of mercy,
repair, a stitch or two.
Like leopard leap, kestrel dive,
my hushed heart gashed deep,
the wound so ragged, wide,
any seamstress mending love
would cease to sew, shove
needle aside, give up hope.
(published by Kumquat Poetry Challenge)
Not still water
Somewhere beyond darkness
it must be chiseled in porcelain
redemption sits just around
the corner, forgiveness there
not still water, but bubbling up,
spring gushing clean, like hope,
break of day, pristine,
a bright artesian bidet.
(published by The Curious Record)
Past tents
(for Carolyn)
I dream back Montana, how I waded
Grasshopper Creek, at each bend arced
Brown-Bear-Blacks toward the far bank.
Until dusk. Until cold crept in.
Fire reflected red on meadow grass
when I returned to camp. Rainbow,
alive a few hours ago, sizzled in the skillet,
speckles and stripes still bright on their sides.
Out-fished again, I stood behind, devoured
your lithe form layered by shadows
as you crouched, spatula in hand. Mint
along the creek sent sweet scent
into gathering night. Nearby willows
waved themselves into dark pickets
sheltering our tent. Fulfilled,
the day spent, I was happy
to press tight against your back
as the moon rose high and you slept.
(earlier version published by Third Wednesday)
Real man howls
Armpit hair with darkened curl
announces a soulful,
acoustic woman. Organic.
Escapee from brotherhood
of jockstrap. I sense hope
within black growth, believe
she might, indeed, be free —
doesn’t love beauty contests,
riding horses, can make
a decent quiche — will teach me
how to knit, read Munro aloud,
show me how a real man howls.
(published by Toasted Cheese)
Revolutions
Go for it, run in. Believe
they won’t inch back, hold
rope too high — prevent whisk
on brick, force leaps,
not skips, whirled snake
biting ankle, shin, thigh.
Free will has a bit
to do with it. Judge height,
time right, not something
only the lucky achieve —
tripped up by hot peppers,
revolutions pelting toes, feet,
knees. Finally inside, hopping,
hoping, beginning to breathe,
rope gone slow, end coming —
the powerful changing speed.
(published by Clover, A Literary Rag)
Second person
You’re not the first to say,
someday I’ll go to sleep
and not wake up.
Secretly hope you’re wrong.
Merely sick, depressed a bit,
death-talking to yourself —
down a black path,
admired, coffined, tan.
Staring back handsome,
kissed, missed, gone. Wonder
if you had friends, listened,
cared, shared, cried —
a second chance, smooth ride
downhill, loved ones waving
goodbye, you, still inside.
(published by Aberration Labyrinth)
She-devil
Horoscopes torn out, read,
shared, but not with me.
Separate lives, serrated nights.
I’m in a tunnel, running,
the train surely coming —
not your breasts, not you.
I inhale fear, chest wide open,
heart cut half out, you,
the ripper. Or, so I feel.
Destined to lick sooty walls
re-painted black, I cannot
eat myself, puke life back.
Tonight, without light,
I lie flat on bleak track.
(published by Otoliths)
Silenced night
(with a nod to Albert Camus)
I dream I reach out in darkness,
make a timid offering. Great joy
rises within me from knowing
I am desired. Pressed firmly
to cool canvas on the bottom
of a black tent, she strains upward
into fleeing night, trembles
as the stream goes quiet nearby,
later tries to calm her heart
though heat still overflows
in wave after wave. At dawn,
even the faintest stars slide lower
on the horizon and become still.
(published by Clover, A Literary Rag;
republished by Windsor Review)
Swallow
I pop a chocolate chunk
into my mouth, bite through,
move it left, drain center goo.
I swallow the cherry brandy
sugar sweet, suck my cheeks.
Send what’s left to roof, tongue
underneath. I savor the cocoa,
both eyes closed. Guilt dictates
this to be plain yogurt, fat-free,
not a seventy-percent evil treat.
(published by WWU Retirement News)
Taut too
Wake at dawn, still high,
sheets a mess. Eyes closed,
lips pressed, roll over,
sigh — whirl toward sun, dream
black clouds, legs spread wide,
toes taut too. Pause mid-sky,
come down hard — splits doomed —
among cosmos, anemone,
hyacinth, lilies in bloom.
(published by Convergence)
Texting the savior
U R pissd I C but revenge
can B served way 2 cold.
Was it the 30 coins thing
or becuz U were naild
2 the X? I no that hurts
Y now? They R ded
U got out, remember?
And Y the I’ll B bak?
WTF, U shouldn’t
cum bak just 2 get me.
(published by Aberration Labyrinth)
Upgrading to poutine
at the Radium, B.C. bar & grill
A buck fifty extra to let salad slide,
have the french fries drenched in gravy —
white cheese curds layered tasteless
on its top. I’d order the evil treat
if crowned with ahi, not served alongside
a charred slab of Spam. Full, fingers
licked, I would also tip much better
if not expected to love hockey,
ice dancing, get excited about snow
or were not seated by a family
with crying babies — all of us far away
from the window with a great view
of the river, where Big Horn sheep
have heard of the dish, graze
in the meadow, put up tents,
sleep, dream of finding globs of it
by the restaurant’s yawning dumpster
after they put on blush at dawn.
(published by Windfall)
Vacuuming around the dead
Dirt finds a way to lie with remains —
casket open, deceased propped up,
lips purple, fine-lined, sewn tight,
eyes gray, dust layered on face.
Lights go bright, vacuum whines,
bristled brush swish, grime erased
like life. Chapel dim again, hose
stowed, lid closed, the cleansed,
sealed in. Filth, final ride, outside,
dumpster gaping on a moonless night.
(published by Dual Coast Magazine)
War memorial
No names are etched here.
The bomb-scarred wall
runs scared over the rise
then dives for cover.
Village ruins lie tangled
in vines — charred thatch,
broken bowls, human bones.
Stench no longer drifts in
from napalm spread on jungle
like bad jam. High in kapok trees,
pintail snipes sing of a child
who ran naked from flames
toward her white saviors.
They still hover over her
like fans on a hot night.
(published by War, Literature & the Arts)
Wrong a lot
Lake’s plenty deep, dive off the cliff.
She’s crazy about me. Those jeans
will fit. I’ll be there for her
if the going gets tough. No chance
it will rain, I know when to shut up.
I don’t need directions,
they adore me at work. I’ve studied
enough, no doubt I’ll get rich.
We’ve got plenty of gas,
she doesn’t want gifts. Our love
will survive, we don’t need cash,
I’m sober, can drive. It’s fine
to speed. I will never get caught.
I know she’ll call, she wouldn’t leave.
I won’t miss her at all.
(published by Sue Boynton Poetry Contest;
republished by Whatcom Watch)
Yellowstone recital
(in memory of Sara Hulphers)
The dream, swim with friends,
Firehole River flowing black
as Old Faithful spews white geysers
toward stars somewhere east.
Maybe strip to panties, dive deep,
shiver together towel-wrapped
on the bank. No way to know
ribbon you leap in darkness
wraps a boiling pool, thin-crusted
for your landing. Splash, plunge.
Someone grabs scalded hair,
yanks you out. Steaming, you see
flesh ooze off arms, hands, know
you stand there dead. Before tingles
turn to bright pain, sobs
to screams, you recite goodbyes
to mother, brother, dad.
Hot tears cool when they land.
(published in Mapping water)
Poems 2015
Another Bellingham Valentine’s Day
Opposite ends, Boulevard Park bench,
lovers shiver, speak no words.
She texts mom; he orders chocolates
from Amazon. Hands jammed in pockets —
his into his, hers, hers — they blow kisses
then leave, driving scarlet SUVs.
Another park, across the bay, a surgeon mime
gives his quivering heart away.
(published by Bellingham Herald)
Attuned to home
A rabbit lies flattened
on the highway side —
paws crossed, whiskers erect,
rear legs frozen in mid-stride.
Cottonwood fluff outlines
the rigid body fuzzy white.
Her dead eyes, glazed
brown as bark, search
for more big rigs headed west.
Ears point behind, intent,
no doubt listening for small cries
coming from her nest.
(earlier version published
by WWU Retirement News)
Bellingham limerick
She planned only green for the day,
even dyed her hair lime as a way
to show Irish sass
yet not be too crass —
subdued excitement on display.
(published by Bellingham Herald)
Bituminous nightmare
Some horrors fade to black,
carry fear of ribboned trains away —
coal cars winding along the coast,
bituminous nightmare shoveled aside,
fiery crashes put out of mind.
Certainly, no dust settles by tracks,
on cedar, maple, alder, ash —
fine film on berries, children, grass.
No train snakes border to B.C. pier,
spews ebony lumps into cargo ships.
No silica blows down Salish Sea,
coats docks, boats, sails, masts.
No dust blankets bay, sinks deep,
turns sockeye red to charcoal gray.
No Lummi fisher paddles strait,
cremates empty, blackened net
on sable beach. In grimy sky,
no ragged vees of inky geese.
(published by Windfall; republished by
Whatcom Watch; Mapping water)
Capital love
She apologized for her affair,
confessed need to see
new men every year
or two or three,
asked tearfully for a metaphor.
He said love is a purple orchid
arcing down in morning sun
from high planter in solarium.
A wilted orchid.
Hanging at daybreak.
(published by Convergence)
Fluke
We sleep molded, spooned in peace,
me behind, arm draped over side,
hand by breast, no longer locked,
damp, intense, sheets mussed,
lips pressed. Now, eyes closed,
each breath’s easy flow, dream —
fortuitous love, happenstance,
magic, luck, fluke, like lying
amid jasmine, a whole field
swaying gold, then by chance, you,
lithe guide opening a slim path
for me to slip through.
(published by Poetry Quarterly)
I cannot do the splits
the way blonde cheerleaders
in mini-skirts land hard,
slap thighs at mid-court —
one leg out front, straight,
the other stretched back,
toes pointed, everything taut —
bounce back to their feet,
cartwheel around, five times
or four. Hope, however,
does leap up, seek bright sky,
gain height, write a love poem
on damp parchment, in Greek,
before coming down, janitor
once more, still dreamy,
to mop the gym floor.
(published by Mad Swirl)
It’s not nothing
No, it isn’t,
never was not nothing,
not now, anyhow,
not anymore —
nor anyone important.
Anyway, never in life
has so much
not meant so little.
(published by The Curious Record)
Letter from the Wolong Reserve
Panda mouths pink in China dusk
cast shadows on bamboo shoots
crushed to softness like fallen monks.
Savage Qionglai winds shake me awake
before I dream. It is rumored
panda males oppress. I don’t believe it,
know females prefer to be alone
except when mating, black and white lives
spent curled in snow on winter nights.
At dawn, Wolong cold flails savage
at your memory, tests my love,
your choice — Seattle, damp, gray,
not Chengdu, outpost, me. Pandas
love bamboo, succumb to arrow sprouts
as bait, get trapped, hauled away, caged.
In rage, they mangle feeding bowls,
frantic, sniff despair in wind.
Someone must dream them home again.
(published by The Curious Record)
Lie at a slow pace
Coffins mired in mud,
we recline here, stuck,
unable to find traction,
churn along deep ruts,
get to where the road ends.
We hope someone comes
with a rope, hooks on,
drags us to higher ground,
does not see we have
one leg draped over the edge.
(published by Poetry Quarterly)
Lilac moon
Lily blossoms sleep alone,
droop in pre-dawn dark,
touch briefly, then rise violet.
Each begins to open,
stretches in morning dew,
traces sun turning red to gold
making some brighter way
across a periwinkle day.
By dusk, like them,
we come together, bloom,
casting one lavender shadow
under a lilac moon.
(published by WWU Retirement News)
Little adobe something-or-other
in Santa Fe
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
If it does not work out, that dream
each time a lover leaves — buy
a fleet of taco trucks, nubile teens
working Seattle streets, then kick back
since you don’t have a goddamn thing
to worry about — one option would be
hitchhike southwest, roll out your bag
in dark desert, lie face up,
inhale moon, the whole Milky Way,
actually wake at sunrise,
explore arroyos, red cliffs, ruins
more important than your life,
inhale smoke from burning sage,
breathe deep, get a meaningful job,
save your pay, buy a little adobe
something-or-other in Santa Fe.
(published by Cirque)
Lucky
I awake listless each day, rise
but don’t smile, never kick sky, play —
pretend it is fine no one sleeps
by my side. I say I deserve nothing,
live miserly on surprise. I lie.
When I trudge dark passages, ignore
every full moon, hear dour chords,
stomp roses in full bloom, I actually fan
the flame of love by not having any.
Nobody knows of this hope to get lucky —
a soulmate arrives with smoldering eyes.
I weep from relief, sing — and, yes, sigh.
(published by The Kumquat Poetry Challenge)
Mapping water
Call it Salish Sea, river,
stream. Leaves float side
by side, touch briefly
in some ripple, drift off,
too often face down.
Absent leaves are called
lost, deceased, the dead —
names unable to capture
fading of green to brown,
ensuing brittleness, struggle
not to go under, lose sight
of day, slide to the bottom,
lie motionless there, decay.
We hope all the leaves
have not vanished, buds
are on the way, more water
waits for mapping.
Faith rises from the belief
we still have enough time
to cast about for a new spring.
(published by Third Wednesday;
republished in Mapping water)
Mourning becomes eclectic
Call it the spawning of grief.
Brother, enemy, mother, niece,
dad, sister, cousin, friend —
deceased, all but memories gone.
Lover too on the run, vanished, lost,
no longer fondled, kissed.
Spouse of abuse, absent — bruises,
weirdly, also missed. All the beloved
mourned like unsung hymn, lost limb,
stolen gun, burned-out sun.
(published by Carcinogenic Poetry)
Night-blooming cereus
This flower wafts memory back to me
as I dream another for you.
Paired in darkness, blossoms droop,
rise separately, petals tinged violet,
filled with midnight dew,
never trace red sun turned gold
nor explore day’s full bloom.
Alone, together, dampened by night,
they open, spread wide briefly,
cast a single lilac shadow — then
exude sweet fragrance and die
under a billowing moon.
(published by WWU Retirement News)
No giving up
So what if he melts wedding ring,
removes tattoos, culls photo album —
as if she remains the indelible center
of existence, cause for end of day,
dour reason to text the savior,
gut all hope, breathe snow,
unsmell her scent, make bucket list,
smudge life, not do the splits.
It could be he plans redemption —
gain enough grace to repaint souls,
eat bitter hearts, force-feed geese,
put gray doves of peace to sleep —
with luck, make each day a blessing,
joyful chance to explode mosquitos,
count ravens, zigzag mow,
herd flies, do gravestone math,
vacuum cats, circle ruins on a map —
at sunset, six nightmares late,
fence in darkness, recite night sky,
dream all the blackness
back to light.
(published in Whatcom Writes Anthology;
republished in Mapping water)
Out of Missoula
The fear is always there. If you return home
you risk madness.
— Richard Hugo, The Real West Marginal Way
I drive away lost, again —
parents dead, lover gone —
follow the Clark Fork down,
wend my way west, Montana
to coast, Puget Sound hook of sand
where chum salmon begin,
later end Dungeness River run.
Unlike me, they learn early to breathe,
filter hope from salt, avoid hook,
barb, net. I suck sea air in,
exhale Missoula, gray snow, ice.
I wade angry surf, empty my mind,
face into fierce wind, feel its sting
rip ribs even as it picks
beach logs clean. Everything here
needs to be punished. Cleansed white,
redeemed. Reason enough
to trade gray for gray, tithe life —
lie face up in foam, madness
busy stripping human bones.
(published by San Pedro River Review;
republished in Mapping water)
Packing tattoos
Nudes sprawl in the second drawer
way back behind sheets,
roses, in boxes on closet shelf,
dragons, swirled red, purple, green,
in black tub under bed, lid on tight.
Mother lies in the high cupboard, alone.
Moon, stars are tucked below, locked
with skulls, hearts, lethal snakes.
No resting place exists for your name,
seven letters being an awkward size —
no easy fit for ordinary containers —
taking up too much or too little space.
I plan to wear it home with me
after filling in my grave.
(published by Convergence)
Reciting night sky
Name one of the stars in Orion’s belt.
Clever responses to lover’s test
lodge in throat, no way to whisper wrongly,
Penelope, Andromeda, Cassiopeia —
even Mintaka, correct guess, stuck,
proof of being no good at sky,
only dippers, big, little, both holding nothing,
empty as a midnight street,
or a Sunday morning boast — finished,
week’s most difficult crossword puzzle,
again, with a bad hangover, in pen —
both dippers tipped back so hope runs out,
flows along the curb toward dawn.
Time to cross blacktop alone, count stars
on the other side, faintest ones first,
maybe find peace at eight hundred and five.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Salt over the left shoulder
Fleur de sel — to set the bar —
not so much for show,
more, belief the good stuff
will provide flavored certainty
of luck. Avoid tossing over right,
in case holy investigations
bring superstitious truth
to light. It’s a matter
of taste, karma, free will —
another day to live, to spill.
(published by Hobo Pancakes)
Scattering ashes at Squalicum Beach
(in memory of Anne Andreasen)
Friends drift in on wind,
recall her independence,
imagine her smile returning,
surging with high tide. They know
even now she won’t be owned,
believe she will rise to greet them
so they hum a song of hope.
Sisters carry shrouded ash —
charred end after a long battle —
endure dawn chill, begin the goodbye.
Their collective breath dives deep,
pauses vacant, still, but not lost.
Tossed aloft, she dances again,
a small gray cloud spiraling in mist.
Butterflies, purple, gold, white,
sweep by, flit upward into clearing sky.
(published by Labyrinth)
Second Coming expert
So you died at the wheel,
drifted to side of road,
Porsche coming to a halt
because your heart had stopped.
A homeless man walking by
gave you mouth to mouth,
thumped chest, brought back life.
Some are not so sure
this rescue was a good thing,
given the tendency now to preach,
your repeated reminder
of rising from the dead —
no fish or loaves handed out,
but saying which gluten-free bread
to eat. And cut down on red meat
and cheese. Also, stay away
from fries, chips, cake, pie —
at tunnel end, there may not be
a passerby, lolling hooded,
lonely, heeding every cry.
(published by Electric Windmill Press)
Summer maid
Sommelier, one who tastes,
likely from old French,
a pack animal driver.
Imagine Provence, late July,
lavender field, lovers, picnic,
checked sheet spread out,
morbier cheese, red wine,
baguette, not a soul nearby,
nibble, sip, dip, sleep.
Sommelier, proud noun,
not sommelied, some verb,
dreary, listless way to eat.
(published by Carnival; republished
in Carnival Poetry Anthology)
Tent not taken
Salish Sea inked black below,
teated mountains, staggered rows,
summits frozen, dolloped white,
raw wind wild down ragged slopes,
backdropped stars put out by night.
Campfire cold, hunched alone,
love charred, memory iced, tent
cloaked in snow. Time to creep inside,
breathe out the light, dream of sleep
or try to try.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Traitor Joe
Be assured, not an easy task, even aided
by fine wine, a Côtes du Rhône —
in fact, I did not actually plant the wheat,
grind flour, sift it, grow greens,
force-feed geese, take their livers,
make foie gras from scratch,
hors d’oeuvre served with cornichons
prior to our main course, coq au vin,
for which I had hunted mushrooms,
slaughtered a hog, killed my cock.
I did, however, drive the Porsche
to a trendy market, spend much time,
find these delicacies, endure checkout,
pass it all off to you as mine.
(published by Carcinogenic Poetry)