The following are Pilgrim poems published or accepted from 2017 through 2019.
They are presented by year in alphabetical order.
The poems can also be found in Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems.
For a time, journal and anthology titles may not be in bold, and indenting may be irregular. Also, quoted speech and material may not be in italics yet.
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 2019
America, 2019
Hiking Mexico, northern desert, I saw a wall.
Huge. Tall. Stretching horizon to horizon.
I grabbed a rope ladder from my backpack,
crouched, flung it high — it caught the edge.
I climbed up, perched on top, looked down.
Human-like creatures ran about, rifles
strapped to backs, pistols holstered below
fat bellies. Heads shaved, they wore sweats
with flag patterns, carried long, serrated knives.
Each was busy cutting open
another’s head. They saw me peering
down, stopped, looked up. Won’t you miss
your brains? I asked. What? they shouted,
then skipped off together, free.
(published by Cascadia Weekly; adapted from Pilgrim’s poem, “This being America, there were patriots present,” The Curious Record)
Bible tweet
To begin
God made it all
U no — Eve snake
Moses laws Ark
manger Jesus preach
teach Judas
cross up he goes
to clean mansions
he’ll be back
(published by Mad Swirl)
Brautigan breakfast
Cabin, deep mountain woods,
dawn squatting, dripping dew,
I rise, light fire, blow coals
red. You put on coffee, grease
the pan, creep, lithe, a doe
salt-licked, back to bed.
Skillet sizzles fried spuds —
famished, so does love.
(published by Cascadia Rising Review)
Déjà-vu tridundancy
Look back — at you, silent,
quiet on path, peering behind
as sun lights forest — trees,
groved, rooted, branched.
Meadow before, open expanse,
grassy, wide, vast. Stream, still,
wending, twisted brook, placid.
Creek, glassy, sinuous, flat.
Banks, all spongy, soft, dank.
Listen closely, strain to hear
where you’re going, headed, bound.
Déjà-vu etiquette forbids reply,
response, re-ask. Amid pine, cedar,
tamarack, be still, looking back.
(earlier version published by Adelaide Independent Monthly Literary Magazine)
Dream back
(for Cheryl)
Cheeks red from the hives,
alone in bed, she knows
she’s fucked, turns away,
cries. She can only hope
they will not drain a liter
of fluid from her lung today,
she won’t swallow six drugs
meant to fight ten tumors
taking over what’s left
of the rest of her brain. Finally
have strength to go outside,
enjoy sun, breathe deep, leave
pain. Hike the Cascades, camp,
ride lover by moonlight,
dream back paintbrush, lupine,
rose. Wake tearless to lightning,
run naked in dark forest,
face raw wind dead on,
embrace the coming storm.
(published by Panoplyzine)
Fake nudes
Cuckold, empty, luckless, lost,
I fear the worst — curse lack
of courage, moxie, verve.
Skirt museum, opt for thrift store
two doors down. Pass clothes,
pots, armoires, lamps, find
statues way in back — naked man,
ancient, nothing hanging low to note.
Phone tight in hand, scowl etched
on face, jowls, belly spewing fat.
Lady, undraped too, doughy breasts,
sutured, huge. Butt, evidence
of the coming droop. Venus, David
behind, sculpted plastic marble,
smooth. Blow-up Santa, beardless,
nude, plus, a window mannequin,
or two. Perfect place — fake friends,
stained bed. I undress, tuck me in.
(published by Spindrift)
Holstered
Lord of tunnels, I am free,
outside. A new man,
no longer in my dark period
of burning stalactites.
I fall in step beside her,
briefly desire to be back
inside, maybe after dinner.
Tonight, rain could mean
moist embers. Of course,
following good cognac
and a buttery dessert.
The black-leather love
she points at me excites
a deep urge to unholster
my shovel filled with volition.
(published by Mad Swirl)
The hum
Secrets lie at the heart of it —
knowledge nestled inside,
not to be let loose, at least
not soon. Humming signals
the secret — musical clue,
elusive, hint to exude,
never a murmur, whisper, song.
Glaciers hum, Antarctica hums.
Wind whips across ice shelf,
disturbs snow, causes movement,
produces a faint hum. Mist
shrouds mountain peaks, fog
bellies along streams, crawls
into valleys, obscures fir,
tamarack, spring. Wind scuds
across scree, past boulders,
over cairns. If we hold breath,
listen, intent, the hum is clear.
Scientists have found all nature
is humming — in F Major,
the secret likely a lesson on how
to keep Earth alive. Our secret —
a report card, hidden, for shame.
Grade in humming — F minus.
(published by Harbinger Asylum)
Intensely dead
Meadowed, willowed, snaking wide,
I fish a mountain stream,
loop fly through fading sky.
Test riffles on the far, dark side.
No blurred cutthroat splash,
hopeful offering left afloat,
I yield, find tent, snuff light. Dream
life’s centered edge won’t hold —
lightning strikes my lover,
sleeping spent beside another.
Smoldered, seared, she survives.
Death, no longer a final dip,
the end. Now, afterlife with depth,
degree. Possibility beyond cuckold.
Intensely dead, diving deeper,
fathoms past passed away.
Endless time to fish ebony streams,
re-kindle dying dreams. Rise,
build a morning fire, heap it
high with blackened tears.
(published by Harbinger Asylum; republished, Cirque)
It is what it was
Trite after a while, the phrase,
it is what it is. Means no choice,
frozen, stuck. Allows no way
to act on where we’ve been,
improve the future, give it sense,
spruce it up. Even caged geese,
by accident, beak latch,
open gate, give grass a scratch,
learn to re-beak, escape,
swim, splash. More wise to glance
behind, let the past teach.
It is what it WAS — a mirror beyond
the black. Green light reflected,
ahead, down the road a bit.
(published by Otoliths)
Laminated
Crowded beach, she stretches, yawns,
squirms belly deep into soft sand,
dreams she casts off stifling bikini,
sets breasts free, swims with turtles,
warms the sea. Slug of a guy
leers for a time, bends, whispers,
Wow, outstanding ass — round, firm,
so fine it should be laminated.
She smiles, motions him near,
I totally agree. Imagine — just me,
brown belly, nice tits, great butt,
thick acrylic keeping assholes away.
(published by Spindrift)
La Push
Wend away from Kalaloch, leave miles
of beached cedar logs behind, pass
Ruby Beach, sand there, a gritty cradle
for imagined jewels glittering
in morning sun. Ignore haystack rocks
stretching for sky from Pacific waves
still trying to grind them into powder
after five million years. You have life left,
enough to let such memories fade.
Pass by Hoh River, soggy rainforest
gone moss-insane — two hundred inches
of drizzle tricking huckleberry bushes
into taking root in crook of cedar,
new life fifty feet toward gray sky.
Refuse to be fooled — head north
for Forks. Turn west, make for La Push,
mystic beach, where winds blow through
like a mistral on speed, the pines
bowing down broken in rows of prayer.
Quileute still carve traditional canoes,
totem poles stand here and there
as sentinels waiting for whale-filled boats.
Old canoes decay on the sand,
no tent can remain long, each kited
skyward. Your best bet, the lodge,
no line, check in. Find stairs
to Fifties room half-rotten,
walls, slime green. The curtains,
shredded, each rip a black space
between bony remains of your life.
Sit by the dirty window. Stare
at endless gray before what passes
as anemic sun floats belly up into night.
(published by Windfall)
Love advice
Now is the time to mingle,
just the two of you. Don’t let
a minute go by, an hour pass.
Seek the opening, be keen
about entry — intent on it, even.
Yearn for her. Act euphoric,
ardent, blithe. Promise roses,
candy, wine. Shimmer, hover,
make a fuss. Offer a ride.
If she remains distant, aloof, cool,
bring out the big gifts — iPhone,
smart TV, necklace of gold.
Jet ski, Lexus, gossamer drone.
As a last resort, draw and quarter
your heart. Gift-wrap the pieces,
add bows, blue, white —
four throbbing loves, passion
pumped into her gaping life.
(published by The Kumquat Poetry Challenge as “Last-ditch love plan”)
My mama’s waltz
(with a nod to Theodore Roethke)
The perfume on your dress
could drive a young boy crazy —
dark lust, secret untold since —
our nightly ritual, flow and bend.
We whirled from room to room,
circled smooth and tight,
each turn, our pas de deux,
much spinning out of sight.
Our dance from dark to light,
my face against your dress,
dizzy with each pass at dusk,
clinging, waiting to be blessed.
Shadows softened at the edge,
his absence not undone,
you waltzed me off to bed,
lonely mother, love-torn son.
(earlier version published by Adelaide Independent Monthly Literary Magazine)
Never wrong
Let’s canoe to the island,
more stable than a raft.
I’m certain my girlfriend
hates to dance. Text me
from work, your boss
won’t mind. Cut down
the tree, it won’t hit
your home. I date
her friend, she’ll never know.
I’m really sober, plenty good
to drive. No texts for days,
she must want me back.
It’s best to eat steak, salmon
puts on fat. These jeans
are clean, my breath
smells great. Still no text,
she must be depressed.
No need for a coat,
I’ll never catch cold.
I prefer to be alone,
am happy she left.
(published by Otoliths)
Out of Montana, for good
Condos rented on the Blackfoot, cabins
up the Swan, outsiders stomp grass
along the wrong river, seldom see
cutthroat glow red, take on brilliance,
flash past a Black Ghost, dive deep,
wait, not feed. They invade taverns,
belly up to bar, drink with locals,
buy good bourbon, beer, boast of SUVs,
past raft trips, their gear. They lie
to pry secrets — how, when, where
to fish. We don’t say, the Bitterroot,
Lolo, Rock Creek, all of them great —
it’s not price of rod, line, which fly.
You must think like a fish, creep
silent through tall grass, stay
way back. Fish narrow water, cast fly
to lupine on the far bank. Tug,
make it fall helpless, struggle,
float to the riffle — easy prey
for trout undulating in shade.
We drink their booze, tell them,
Take the bad fork, follow wide path
through pine. Wear orange, bright red,
lime. Stay near the road, fish
wide, shallow water, stand close.
Best to arrive at noon, day after
full moon. We hope they do,
whip blue sky, snap off flies, no fish
strike. Lines tangle in brush,
they give up, return to their rigs,
drink, sleep. Dream of Wyoming,
the rainbow there huge, eager to bite.
Montana, forget it, not worth
the time — rivers, all fishless, water,
clear, cold, running too deep.
(published by Cascadia Rising Review)
Powdered water
Dream a quenched love,
gambit akin to chess,
poured into a narrow hallway
from some tall glass — a gauntlet,
say. Not gantlet, two lines,
men with sticks beating cuckolds,
lechers, liars running by. Also,
gimlet nearby — tool to glide
inside a pretty package, bore
the hole deep as gimlet eyes
stare back, fuel lust with a luring,
penetrating look. No need really
for lime-laced drink, gimlet,
nothing powdered in it. Yes, gimbal,
keep everything on course,
even, level. Inspire gamut,
range of thirst so complete
no gauntlet, or any rapid-gulp dare,
makes the thirsty beauty weak,
lethargic, miss why granules
can lure a doe to the damp edge,
inspire thirst — strong desire
to lie back, dream a liquid gift,
wetness not powdered stirred in.
(published by Santa Ana River Review)
Python
In another Coleridge dream,
my lithe python, eager
to please, slithers off
down the carpool lane.
Glides slow, pays the toll,
takes the proper exit,
finds the store. She buys
chips, cheap beer, dip,
splurges on a Lycra skin.
Hemmed in at rush-hour,
she threads traffic, somehow
arrives home, brew still cold.
We toke, drink, eat all the treats.
I squeeze her tight again.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Reprise, of a sort
Savage wind slaps screen, sash,
glass again. Her memory blows in,
black slash of night,
like slicing open a fish belly,
finding darkened clumps,
once a spleen or bad liver
in some rainbow’s life.
I must find a way to surface, fight,
dream myself back, say,
to dusk, a reprise — last light, brief,
flashing low, moon, full, orange
turned gold, not glowering
before she goes. With luck,
I will be hooked downstream,
the end coming from above
though I lie still in tall grass.
(published by Jeopardy)
Shame remains
Use a black marker, fester shadows,
call her ugly, scrawl hate on walls.
Dis Me-too deeds, flame-throw
homeless, flip off the brown
from an SUV. Shoot up a mall,
join the Marines, shop for clothes.
Burn her panties after she goes,
call her whore in a Facebook post.
(published by Mad Swirl)
To Exxon 30 years later
(after “To Exxon a year later”)
Pipeline, tanker began the sadness.
Your legend as robber baron hangs on,
keeps memories of ebony ice alive,
takes us back to frozen tundra
primed with promises even caribou
knew were lies. We still feel pain
receding glaciers can’t scrub away.
Recall how we tromped black sand,
piled oil-soaked murres, seals, otters
shoulder-high, set them ablaze.
We collected bald eagles fallen
from slick sky, tossed them, too,
onto the pyre, watched it outshine
endless dusk. Puffins staggered in,
vainly tried to preen, white feathers
matted down. They wobbled
to Prince William Sound, drooped,
drowned. At night we burned ice
to stay warm. Your lawyers slapped
our backs in bars, bought drinks.
The high court, nine sleek crows —
a murder of them — put out of mind
seabirds, over a quarter million,
thousands of otters, hundreds
of seals, whales, all perished,
their kind never again to thrive.
The court believed your tale: a tragic,
terrible event … one for which …
(Exxon) has paid dearly. They found
no reason for a severe fine. Shores
lie bare now, thick oil still oozes
beneath beach rocks. Beach workers,
seabird washers, the Valdez,
all, gone. Skimmers, booms,
the dead, buried deep in black past.
We dream on Arctic nights
lightning strikes, the whole bay
catches fire, flames race to shore,
find you, burn you out of town.
We wake to salted tears and hate,
twin tides coming on schedule
to spread the hidden crude around.
(published by Cascadia Rising Review)
Too willing a Montana martyr
Hidden by sleep, I weave my way
through sage, weathered boyish charm
beaten down like this looping path.
I creep along, silent, with little hope
of finding real love, let alone dying
of it. I keep a sharp lookout
for any bliss overshadowing me
like an ominous noose. If I do hang,
it will likely be from sadness, say,
in Bannack, next to Plummer,
outlaw sheriff — his gold, vanished
like a faithless lover. As always,
I wake before dawn, watch her breathe,
certainly say nothing erudite
before her first cup of coffee.
(earlier version published by San Pedro River Review)
Wild and scenic aneurysm
Love dies like a river — slows, ceases
to flow, she says, tearless, then goes.
My fuchsia future lies ahead,
signals loss around the bend,
beyond swallow, breath, stop, hold —
like a waterfall gone dry, nothing
wet below. Even campfires fade
to glow, become timid embers,
give off a scarlet warning — black
follows gray. Sullen sun, hung low
in the sky, clings to red,
plunges over night’s black edge.
(published by Whatcom Watch; different version, “Embers,” Whatcom Watch)
Poems 2018
After the kill
Yes, Alpha, you ran with him
in Montana night, led the attack,
took down a straggling elk,
fed early to fullness. Retreated
with meat to den where pups ate,
nuzzled your nipples, frolicked,
curled in soft fur. Sleep alone,
she wolf, don’t heed call
to hunt by moonlight, feast
certain again to be crimson,
his scent heavy in black wind.
Stretch long, Luna, growl low,
eyes closed from gold.
Your lover, shunned by sleep,
lies panting in tall grass.
(published by Cascadia Rising Review)
Bakery
You in front, I enter, excited,
am drawn first to the cream puffs,
gold, swollen, white filling
spilling out slender slits. I see
pies steaming off to the side,
want to dive in, especially the cherry.
Huge muffins, then cupcakes lure me,
protuberant domes of pink frosting
obviously eager to be licked.
Warm cinnamon rolls beckon too,
outer spirals tracing their way
to moist centers. I think I hear sirens
beyond the truffles. You seem rapt,
obviously tempted by hot éclairs,
the softest, bulging with cream,
icing dribbled along the top.
By then I am with the brioche,
light, sweet, round, wee,
begging me to use two fingers,
pry apart each delicate crust.
You revive, stretch, sway
your way to baguettes, hover,
choose the thickest, turn to go.
I come behind, a bit sad
our task here was to get bread.
(published by Clover, A Literary Rag)
The deadhover
There is a little dead child in the pond —
one that has dreamed itself to death.
— Hans Christian Andersen, “The daisy”
I begin to small against my lost life,
believe it time to fish at sundown,
mingle with black moths
whirled white in graying light.
Trust rod, line, fly to provide
cutthroat stopped mid-gasp
in tall grass. Slide a bright blade
along red bellies as growing dusk
covers bad memories stuck
in pooled blood. Wash the dead
in deep river, fling entrails, hearts
into night. Try to forget why
the hopeless call this place
a burial ground for shadows.
(published by Sleet; nominated
for the Pushcart Prize)
Door
Squeezed hallway, slim slit,
waiting’s end, the pass
before. Breach, unbreathe,
scorn the fall, refuse the born.
Ignore pleas, turn, crawl,
leave behind the screaming door.
(published by Convergence)
Erasing black
I live a midnight vigil, lie still
in rain whipped by Montana wind,
try to dream my father back,
deliver a proper farewell —
will wrap myself in his gaze
as he recalls how wild rabbits
nibbled near his feet at sundown.
The motion sensor made darkness
spring to light. They froze, hopped,
froze again. If I feign sleep, maybe
they will arrive in small leaps,
him trailing with a smile to release
the loss, transform my dream
into a gateway to the past —
boy, age two, dad, paralyzed
by polio, alone in some hospital.
I refuse to eat, sit by the window,
breathless, wait. He lurches
on crutches from the night,
brings back a steady light.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Erratic tears
Off Oregon, Washington shores,
hulking above cove, beach, forest,
glacial erratics cry in silence.
They don’t take a stance on much
at all, remain coolly apart
from debates of wind, clean water,
global warming, coal. Erratics
don’t give a damn they are called
anomalous plodders, enigmas,
sporadic ho-hums. Seas sinking
Florida Keys, arbors kiwied
on Seattle streets mean nothing
to orphans ripped from Montana
to coast, abandoned for millennia now,
weeping, waiting for a bit of hope.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Etiquette lesson
(with a nod to White House Cookbook, 1887)
Propriety while dining characterizes a man. Even
if obese, he must not scoot his chair too close
to the table. Also, he must never lean with belly
or elbows onto the table. He should not touch
any plate and should open his napkin and place it
across his right knee. In so doing, definitely
he should never grasp thigh or buttock of a lady
seated nearby. A gentleman holds fork and knife
properly, and in conversing, should not interrupt
anyone speaking to boast loudly of exploits
with the fairer sex. Especially, he does not speak
in a lustful way about his own daughter. He must
restrain a monstrous ego and give the semblance
of polite listening. He must also avoid vulgarities
during the meal even if he tends toward them
in his normal conduct of presidential business
when not dining. A gentleman eats and drinks
without making any sound and always keeps
his mouth shut while chewing food, as smacking
and slurping evoke disgust from other diners.
Etiquette means that he never uses his knife
to obtain butter; however, he may pick up
corn with one hand and eat it; he may also
pick up a bone and eat, but only with one hand.
Certainly if he feels a habitual urge, he must
definitely not use the free hand to grab a breast
of any lady nearby. A gentleman never drinks
from a cup with a spoon in it, and he should
never totally empty a container. In conversing,
he must not show hatred for those of darker
skin color or different language, because one
of them may be serving and certainly can hear
and think. A gentleman never breaks bread and
puts it into stew or soup, and if tempted because
of a slobby nature, must not eat off his knife
nor invert a spoon in his mouth even if it is
large enough easily to do so. Also, he must not
cool a drink or dish by blowing on it. In so
doing, he reveals himself to be uncultivated
and crude. Nor should he ever use his knife
to cut pastry, but only break and eat it with
a fork. At the end of a meal, a gentleman
does not cross his fork and knife; instead, he
places them side by side across the middle
of his plate. When rising from the table, he
never pushes his chair in, and should not
leave the room pompously while gazing
adoringly at himself in any nearby mirror.
(earlier version published by Otoliths)
Final blizzard
Last dream, sweep past
passed away, faith in winter storms
erased. Lost, chance to redact change,
bring tundra, forests back again.
Gone, too, deep rivers, streams,
springs, rainstorms bathing scree,
terminal moraine. Build a cairn,
rocks commodious to wee, jagged
to sky, martyred stone frozen white —
iced sign for final blizzard. Snow,
bury the saved, pile high.
Wake to glaciers marking graves.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Fitting end
This being America, everyone’s been offed,
mostly shot. We grabbed Colts, Berettas,
Glocks — fitting end for friendship, love,
forgiveness, trust. We blew away rapists,
burglars, thugs. Those of different skin
or faith, friends we hate, our boss.
Knocked off liars, waiters who whine,
text a lot, shoppers ramming carts,
stopping mid-aisle to tweet, flipping
us off. Cheating lovers, drivers
who stink-eye, speed, pass. We blasted
telemarketers last. Every trial,
over in a flash. Defendants,
lawyers, each one snuffed. Even judges
wasted jurors waving loaded guns.
(published by Mad Swirl; republished, Tipton Poetry Journal)
Flat-line
Go, pack, leave. Be past tense,
deceased. Party, travel — jungle,
ruins, desert, dirty beach.
Museums, monuments, ghettos
back East. Fly home, collapse,
die alone in the street.
Family circle, land, search attic,
find gold, freezer, cash. Argue,
cry, fake grief — call attorney
likely to look up brewhaha,
find brouhaha, bill it as research,
discover a new will, bill that too.
(published by Mad Swirl; republished, The Best of Mad Swirl: 2018)
God walks out of math proficiency exam
No need, really, calculus, physics,
trigonometry. She had every right
to leave — flat stones counted
skipped on ponds, graceful bend
of willows to the ground. Clouds fluffed
in morning sun, canyon shouts
echoed back at dusk.
Sin tallied on bark of trees,
feminine formula for infinity.
(published by Red River Review)
I miss her more
I swear I do, now I know
it’s become a competition.
I drive lonelier highways,
am more forlorn, weave farther
across the centerline. I also weep
wetter tears — not from pollen
or smoke stinging my eyes.
I suffer alone in quieter silence,
have no hope to transcend
the loss — just ask my boss.
I feel loss of love three times
as much, have notarized papers
to say my broken heart
breaks afresh five times a day.
I miss her so much, I beg you,
help me forget — drinks,
later tonight, my place,
a good way to begin.
(published by Kumuat Poetry Challenge)
Inferno
Les Baux, rocky outcrop,
skyline castle, Celtic stronghold
above Provençal mining nightmare,
jagged inspiration for Dante.
Bleak peaks defying gravity.
Nine layers of tailings,
weeds scattered amid stone.
Nine lives of hell too
centuries before suspicion
free markets may not be
much good at all for those
who don’t own goods,
aren’t free — divine howl,
a blackened tragedy.
(published by Otoliths)
Intertwined whisks
Whirl the egg, twirl in broth —
roux mustn’t clot. Passion stirred,
hungry lives mixed up. Friend
of a friend, some texts, a date,
a waltz, a kiss, now this.
Like dancing or French cooking,
how to blend — or blending wrong.
Two whisks, intertwined,
different sauce, the same pot.
(published by Howl)
Leaving at the break
It’s a bad play, the set, a wreck,
Macbeth, a moron, lines, shrill,
frayed. Witches, no moxie, fretless
on a black stage, Macduff,
like you, lost since Lady left.
No way to be saved, one chance,
escape, act three, scene six.
Sneak by foyer grime, glitz,
warm wine tasting like crap.
Whisper farewell to Banquo, fall
into night, love, a leg fractured,
jagged bone sticking out.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Like a fenced-in dog
I’ll wear paths behind barbed wire, deep,
start a tunnel every three feet. Pit bull,
wait my chance — growl, howl, foam,
bite any hand holding a phone. I know
moist treats, meaty bones will be
distant memory once I escape,
hit the street. I’ll crap lawns, kill cats,
chase Amazon trucks, police, priests,
make veterinarians not charge a fee —
torture hydrants with angry pee.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Low-tide triage
Winter again, beach fire lit, ocean mist,
moonlight raking stranded starfish in,
nature’s hint — save something,
salvage spring. Kneel on cold sand,
iced, damp, assess the earth, the sick.
Breathe deep, trim ragged edges
of igneous heart, slice off conscience,
at least the darkened bits. Somehow,
avoid amputation of the ending.
(published by Sleet Magazine)
Making cadaver scents
Smells of death — stirred, brewed,
grave way to train rescue dogs,
saviors of the strayed, forsaken,
betrayed, lost. Dead, vanished
into bottles — avalanche, revenge,
fire, flood. Scents so strong
salvation turns out moot,
reclaimed life after breathlessness
another lie too. Those remaining,
missions aside, finally find sleep.
They dream the cuckolds are alive,
buried in snow, deeper than deep.
(published by Otoliths)
The math
adds up, given the time spent
figuring ways to stay alive.
Join health club, subtract weight,
do yoga, every new kind
of exercise. Limit junk food,
get sleep, plus shots for measles,
tetanus, flu. Life kept like a lover
on the sly — think no one knows,
divide the family, deny she, too,
someday will go. You, remainder
alone to crunch numbers, buy time,
escape avalanche, tornado,
flood, crashed car or plane.
Calculate ways to flee a fire,
not drown in stream, ocean, river,
lake. Multiply odds to survive
a quake — pitch tent out back,
hoard water, meds, food, supplies.
Believe we’ve solved the sky,
count black stars as they arrive.
(published by Convergence)
Miasma
With riot dogs, let them sniff
one hand — makes it safe to pet.
For police, a grin, stay back
ten feet, arms out, palms up.
If clubbed, cover head, close eyes,
cringe, pretend to sleep.
Dream away leaders, dense,
intent — willing to torch villages
just to catch the scent.
(published in Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Natural orders
The first decrees — lip-gloss fresh air
we breathe, pixie-cut all trees,
dab perfume on winding streams.
Brush a blush on glaciers, floes,
Arctic ice, perm stars lighting up night.
Blow-dry canyons, valleys,
mountain, crags. Mousse mesas,
prairies, all that’s flat. Eye-line crows,
buffalo, deer, their fawns. Wax
the ozone layer until it’s gone.
Thick mascara blots the sun, makes
living in darkness beautiful for us.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Nibblers
I dream garra rufa fish
feed toothless on my bare feet,
nibble dead skin from toes,
heels, my soles, my soul.
Evil ones, piranha of sorts,
leap clear of water, aim
for my chest — like you, rip me
open, devour arteries, ventricles,
everything vein. I am left to pray
for holy stents again.
(published by Howl)
No leaving
Mostly I keep death out of mind,
pretend path to the end to be
a natural flow, sometimes wend.
Then webcam streams online
B.C. eagle nest in alder tree —
below, a factory. At first, pure joy
on screen, parents, watchful,
sleek, nest ringed by twigs,
two fuzzed eaglets, lurching,
eager to eat. Eight hundred viewers
watch dad bring a dead squirrel in,
flesh soon ripped to bite-sized strips.
Mom returns, he flaps away, she, now
feathered shelter against the rain.
Next meal, flopping sockeye, still alive,
eaglets gobble belly, then insides.
I turn away before the end.
Overnight, one baby dies, by dawn
dried-blood-stuck to mom’s soft side.
We view a frantic dance — scrape
lifeless body over the edge. Workers
arrive, unaware one baby remains,
not the pair. I mourn all day.
She won’t leave. Her gold eyes stare.
(published by Windfall)
No more argument
He surges at me, spews
an armada of reasons
to reject climate change,
forget carbon, love cars,
trucks, planes. Lays praise
on factories, damns earth first,
the jerks, mere pessimists,
eager to hate. A loud knock,
the door, then two. I open it
a crack, have time to say,
the Pacific’s here to see you.
(published by Sleet Magazine; republished by Whatcom Watch)
Not stomping I LOVE YOU in the snow
A fire dance would be more in line —
cremate fields gone winter white,
kick frozen sparks at gray-black sky.
Something angry, fierce. Slice my heart,
see stomping cannot hold. Know YOU
would never melt, useless to try.
I should have seen love moves on,
not waste time, freeze feet,
in mid-pas de deux let words I write
lie breathless, flat, deceased, iced —
though in a row, left to right.
Remember she always hated snow,
believed romance the best fiction,
was quick to pack and go.
(published by San Pedro River Review)
One thousand seconds
No motion permitted, lie back, hope
dermatologist, Lance, knows enough —
laser in hand, can scorch evil layer
off cheek in sixteen minutes plus.
Eyes closed to each flash, time to dream
womb, baby, dark to light. More sparks,
face teened, back seat, homecoming queen
staring up from underneath. No luck — wake,
only one hundred seconds gone, age
not wiped away, nine hundred left to face.
(published by Red River Review)
Panic knot
False belief — only the chosen
don’t feel weak, won’t scream,
stifle urge to flee, excrete.
Woven ball of fear inside,
no good to cry, fret, lose sleep.
Gallows ritual, also useless guide —
adjust hood, pull noose tight,
step aside, wave goodbye. Go
in style — close eyes, yawn a curse,
fall asleep before the jerk.
(published by Otoliths)
Poplars
Arctic wind, autumn-coaxed,
tell ghost trees, release red leaves
chilled gold, let them float.
Northern lights on polar nights
try to pulse stark groves to life.
Nowhere to go, iced by snow,
the poplars creak, sway,
dream of spring, dance in place.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Reading
Famous writers seem especially adept —
drift in at the last moment,
blue jeans, wrinkled shirt, tweed jacket,
hair messed. At the podium,
they smile, wink at young women,
offer excuses for being late —
stopped to watch a clock tower burn,
heard it chime out in fright,
saw blackened doves take flight.
They reach into ragged pack
or wrinkled bag, finally bring out
a new volume of their work.
The moment may be near —
first, search pockets for glasses,
ask for water, room temp, no ice.
Adjust microphone, tap it, say
the book is for sale afterward —
at last, begin reading. They mouth
each word as if it were the nub
of a savory fried-chicken bone.
We clap eagerly, urging them
to suck out every last bit of marrow.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Resigning from being messiah
Not all it was cracked up
to be. Plus,
I had other plans.
More than you can imagine.
An array, bevy, plethora,
in fact, a piranha.
(published by Hobart)
Roseate
Dancers queued, poem to begin,
surfers intense, thousand-yard stare,
climber below summit, ready
for thin air. Mountain unconquered,
wave out of reach, lyric not written,
footwork seized — tango, sonnet,
ocean, peak. All paused, in step,
ready to keep time — calm,
waiting for dawn, breathtaking view,
the coming moment, pas de deux.
(published by Otoliths)
Several supple weasels
weave like your memory, sleek
through trees, find slippery ways
to avoid the rain, slink away
deep into murky streams.
Leave me dazed, confused,
ready to believe amygdalae,
the almond-shaped mass
in each cerebral hemisphere,
gray matter steeping the brain.
Make me embrace emotion,
whether or not I want,
like anger, hate, this sly pain.
(published by Convergence)
Vast silence
(with a nod to Ted Chiang)
A people conquered, stripped
of land, children, homes. Captives
for life. Language forbidden —
pleas for food, blanket, drink
permitted only by sign, wave,
blink. With the last elder’s death,
vanished, stories, songs, poems.
Gone, every dance, painting, play.
At the end, only vast silence.
On cell wall, a farewell, scratched
in English, the lettering, crude —
you be good we forgive you
(published by Clover, A Literary Rag)
When I went out to hang myself
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
I found laundry filled the line. Removed
black panties doing a frantic dance,
pirate flags spanking sky above a rigid plank.
Made enough space for head, throat,
pinned them to a flimsy, graying rope.
I was driven to hold sway over baskets
of rank adjectives and damp complaints
against a miasmatic world. Began
my final descent — a naive onlooker noted
the world smells as fresh as fabric softener.
(published by Red River Review)
Poems 2017
Almost
I promise we’ll hold hands
dawn to dusk, dream one dream,
sleep intertwined. Cuddle
each night, spot the same star,
wish the same wish. I’ll give
endless gifts, kiss the deepest kiss.
We’ll eat the same food, split
every dish. Share one job,
co-sign loans, carpool to work,
embrace all the way home.
A perfect love — or very close.
Pretty much one dream,
nearly the same wish. A few gifts,
quite a deep kiss. More or less,
every dish. At least one loan.
Part of the way home. Romance
full of bliss — almost. At least,
in the beginning, quite a bit.
(earlier version published by Foliate Oak)
Beginning of forgetting
(with a nod to Marguerite Duras)
I was lost before I was lost,
couldn’t find myself in Bannack,
Dillon, Polaris, Grant.
Missed me in Missoula, Dixon,
even my mirror looking back.
Seems I can’t get a compass right,
leave Montana behind, in peace,
reach the Snake, the Columbia,
Camas, Astoria, the sea.
A lover who loves rescue said
go, find deserted beach,
plant strands of wire, wait
for spring, see if barbs grow.
Better, I take a place near Blaine,
maybe Birch Bay, sleep alone,
dream myself a philosopher
of loss. Like Duras, map
a way out. Find losing, itself,
not to be the finale —
but a great darkness falling,
the beginning of forgetting.
A way to kindle hope —
to become certain the end
does not become the end.
(earlier version published by Cirque)
Benchmark
Gone, without wings she flies,
no backward glance, no time
for the massacred behind,
disemboweled — stark ending
witnessed by a murder of crows
who caw loudly before they go.
Hope could be the benchmark —
those with too little, soaring north
in dark night — with too much,
south, searching for rotted sky.
All not finding god becoming —
nor becoming god — proclaim
who dies, permit just anyone
to scavenge black coffins,
no entrails left inside.
(published by Convergence)
Books on the way out
(with a nod to Glen Larum)
My life is all I’ve got.
—Richard Hugo in The Triggering Town
Sun on horizon, you read an ending
like Milton’s — gone to blindness,
looking for light. It’s time to flee,
drive highways west — feedlots,
cattle queued, barns, hay
freshly mown, slaughterhouse below.
Finally one runway, control tower
rising like a phoenix from fields,
promising hope, rest not far away.
You wend to town, cruise Main,
pass bars, one lonely church,
ancient stores late in rot.
A pickup rolls by, gun rack full,
pit-bull growling in back, seat-belt
painted on the driver’s shirt
to fool john law. Hotel flies
a huge flag. You stay quiet,
wish your belt would hide iPad
tucked in your pants, deep.
Too tired to sleep, wi-fi coming
next year, you walk the street,
search for books — Hemingway,
Paradise Regained, Silko, Alexie,
Lycidas, anything in ink.
Night brings black, town cafe,
muddy coffee, charred steak,
burnt toast — wheat, not white.
The grizzled cook serves a smile,
says bookstore’s at the airport,
past security, on the right.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Cairn
Cascades meadow, peak above
pointing through mist. I gather
rocks, some annular, others flat.
You set each atop another,
gingerly construct a column
ascending from a mossy base.
Stones of different size give it
a ragged look. Sometimes,
shale supports basalt as large
as your heart or breasts. I recline
beside my pile of rocks, study you
from behind, hold my breath.
You bend, lithe, carefully adjust
the placement — stand, pause,
assess pillar’s stability, its rise
to a brightening sky. I hope
it takes you all summer
to finish this cairn.
(published by Windfall;
republished by River Poets Journal)
Cairnly power
No lame balloon man goat-footed
to inspire, no
widening gyre
no falcon, windhover,
wimpling wing whistling wee,
alluring, random gaps
put in, sweet sweat,
stamina not smalling in the distance,
she hopes I rise, cairnly power
coming from a small tablet.
(published by Harbinger Asylum)
Call waiting
My phone takes selfies, snaps pics,
has maps if I go on trips — Blaine, Sequim,
Wellpinit, Twisp. Lets me play old games —
Angry Birds, Super Mario jumping
from place to place. Newer ones, too —
Pokémon Go, Clash of Clans, Dead Space.
Orders pizza, counts calories, pulse rate,
my few steps. Checks Facebook, weather,
tells when the sun rises or sets.
Shows YouTube clips, movies, hip-hop,
Taylor Swift. I can Instagram, Tweet,
hike online with virtual friends,
ask Siri where truth begins, ends.
Also makes calls — haven’t tried it yet.
I did text Dad to pass the salt.
(published by Poetry Quarterly)
Centered
(with a nod to Stephen Crane)
The universe said to a man,
Sir, I exist all around you.
Great, the man replied, great,
but are you gluten-free?
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Damp dance
Mountain hike, summer thoughts
join memory — you, me, years ago,
alone, first date, sudden storm.
Sheltered by boughs, we shiver, listen
to rain, for warmth, intertwine.
Each splash becomes a damp dance,
wet pirouette amid tall grass.
Hot breath on cheek, neck,
passing lips, at last, a half-kiss.
One more, deep, full, intense —
bright sun, lull in the squall
bring an end to the beginning
of it all. You glide past puddles
on our path home. I fill each track
in my desire to stay close.
(published by Otoliths)
Executive orders
Pathetic, sad, blacktop the trees,
they bloom disease. Brick in
air we breathe. Drill moonlight
as it arrives, also glaciers, floes,
Arctic ice. Back-fill mesas, plains,
everything flat. Strip-mine rivers,
streams, frack green plants.
Spray buffalo, crows, antelope,
clearcut bees, butterflies, goats.
Driftnet muskrats, bats, deer,
their fawns, pave the whales
until they’re gone. Build a wall,
blot out the sun. Life in darkness
will be cool for us.
(published by Howl)
Existential diagram
(with a nod to Anna Eblen and Rick Popish)
I dream I am a verb midway
on some penciled line stretching
to the horizon in both directions.
A dark upright separates me
from the lithe subject, who finds
a way to seduce me. Again,
I become linked to a lover,
am still unable to talk fractals
before her first cup of coffee.
She has no hope for a complex life,
say, lying with an alluring gerund
or principled participle in control
of her entire sentence. Certainly,
not going wild, locked at the hips
with an infinitive in hot blackness.
(published by Harbinger Asylum)
Existential haircut
Not funeral home nor church,
white sheet draped over me,
mirrors repeat endless backs
of my head into far distance.
Each grows more wee
till the faint version of myself
does not seem to exist.
A tiny barber dances razor
to sharpness on leather strap,
finishes me off,
dutifully scraping away
even my smallest reflection.
(published by Dual Coast Magazine;
accepted by Windsor Review)
First sign of wind
I am alone again, breathless, covered
by blankets of white. A full moon
cuts birch branches lifeless
in Coeur d’Alene night. The rays slice
my heart. Ice hangs from the gutter,
waits for spring. I only see
the hanging. With luck, I will dream
primroses poke through snow at dawn,
bloom at the first sign of wind.
(published by Cirque)
Full of yourself
Mirrors line dining room,
one smile reflected, you,
again and again. In soup, too,
face shimmered back,
you looking trim — no lovers
added, no friends to toss in.
Full of yourself,
a seven-course binge.
(published by Red River Review)
Gone to rubble
(with a nod to Nejat Hulusi)
Husband thirty years, he writhes,
shakes in bed, calls for another soda,
this time after she leaves the room.
He has peed himself again, third time
since dawn, urine returning butt to red.
She changes diaper, preps for doctor trip,
fears a repeat of last week — shower,
scrub, shampoo, rinse. He shits
as the toweling begins. Another rinse,
dried, dressed, he pees.
Wash, ointment, fresh diaper,
finally ready, walker to the Ford
promised to still be hers when savings
are gone. He asks to ride his bike,
wants a pop, drinks, pees the seat.
She screams, why, why, why
can’t you tell me you have to go.
Parkinson’s marriage, no way back.
Earthquake, gone to rubble,
trembling only the beginning,
all major destruction coming later.
(published by Black Fox Literary Magazine)
Homeless night watchman
(with a nod to Steve Giordano)
Job’s for a week, start at dusk,
the pay, eight bucks — don’t sleep.
Park van behind the station, be gone
at dawn. Dial 9-1-1 if thieves
steal gas from the pumps.
Say you’re a guard, call my cell,
then take off. I’ll give a wave
when I’m done with the cops.
Talk to the guy who opens —
he’ll have chips, cheese,
Coke, some leftover meat.
Use the back door to leave.
Key opens restroom only —
no showering in the sink.
(published by Windsor Review)
Hope synchs
Uplifting, the anticipation, so weird
it droops, disappears — gone like drug
to vein, bloody sleeve rolled up
then down again. Chosen path,
moving flat, hopeless keep right,
bags closed, clutched tight.
Other pass, glide by fast,
intent on flight, the end,
rogue church, meek within.
Perfect time to writhe, pray, sweat
crème brûlée sin away, hoping
to be granted whatever.
(published by Otoliths)
Inflicting scars
Much like us, minerals gouge others
softer than themselves. Topaz
will scratch quartz, which can gash
gold, itself, cowering heaped, no way
to scrape emeralds or jade.
The mineral color when smashed flat —
streak line or streak, say green
for malachite. Diamonds, like you,
though rarely crushed, have a streak
of white. Beautiful, the hardest,
at their will they cut a deep line
into everything, even rubies.
To see really red streaks, scars
down far, take a closer look
at the bottom half of my heart.
(published by Convergence)
Long stumps of hope
Forgiveness is natural, you say,
like change — it’s half a heartbeat.
Blood, pumped out, flows in.
Waves, depleted, retreat
to sea. Wet tears later dry.
Broken hearts heal, pain subsides.
Suddenly I believe you,
after not — see how loss
can change to gain, buds in May
replace winter, snow, decay.
Lovers like you take back
the beloved who strayed.
War, too, goes, peace grows.
Children who cowered alone
put wounds out of mind,
smile at soldiers marching by.
They play without legs
on long stumps of hope.
(published 1n Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Love you more
now I see it’s a competition.
I laughed longer at your jokes
than you did, mine. I apologized
in half the time. Plus, I cried
wetter tears, sighed bigger sighs.
When you left, I felt deeper loss,
greater stress. I also miss you
more — or less.
(published by Gulf Coast Writers Association)
Migratory text
Ritual journey, known trip
unknown. Tunnel behind,
vaginal, dim. Locked
in memory, blissful ride
amid anemone, cosmos,
buttercup, rose. Lover
now silent, breathing low,
thumbs busy on her phone.
(published by Mad Swirl; republished
in Best of Mad Swirl: 2017)
Montana condolences, of a kind
Visit neighbor next farm over,
three silos, combines, a section
of wheat. His wife dying,
lung cancer, give her eight weeks.
I hang my head, shuffle,
see mud, clumped thick, both feet.
Only know to say, yep, well,
helluva winter, heard futures
might be headed up. Whiskey
at home if you need a drink.
(published by Third Wednesday)
Montana harvest
(with a nod to Margaret Atwood)
Garden ritual, early fall,
I try again to re-grow love.
Silent, we kneel, pull clumps
of crab grass, buttercup,
miss the roots. A few plants
have survived dry dirt,
spindly, anemic. Weeds
I raked into piles she burns
like witches, as if to scorch away
my evil. We sleep together, apart.
I listen to her breathe,
dream a grizzly rips up darkness —
manage to harvest radicchio,
chard, red cabbage, a few beets.
At dawn, the autumn sun bleeds.
(published by Third Wednesday)
No absolution
If you think you’re beaten,
you are. Again. Even though
you took him back.
Believe he will change,
he won’t. Your boat, oar,
his stroke. Lost love,
lost life, lost raft.
Deep ocean, last rites.
(published by Otoliths)
No day to be named after a uvula
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
I dream I am a famous tenor
stripped of my tucked-in shirt.
I rehearse in the shower,
later bellow high notes
into an ice-cave, echoes there
adding strength to my refrain.
The opera fails in Australia.
My songs leak counter-clockwise
down a plastic drain, lose power
at the bend, leave me out of breath
before the aria ends. Nameless.
Another guilty white guy
who will only be remembered
if I put all my shit in a museum.
(published by Poetry Pacific)
No more robbery
Mount Baker above, you collect rocks —
basalt, granite, shale — hand them
to me. I place one on another,
construct a cairn, each stone
jutting jagged. Some skipping rocks
support others the size of ptarmigans.
I need this column to be strong,
survive until the threatening storm
is impeached. A historian once noted
growth for the sake of growth
is the philosophy of the cancer cell.
Not always, not here. My pillar
joins others, a thousand of them
staggering into fierce wind, resisting
Earth’s great robbery. Together,
the cairns hold up the sky
(earlier version published by Whatcom Watch)
No release
Dreams of her swim in again
like red-gilled trout lying deep
in a Montana stream. They school,
eager to feed — hold back,
skittish, fearful of being hooked,
flung into tall grass, lying still,
gasping only at the end.
One after another flash past
my Black Ghost skipping by —
each a gold, green streak
reminding me what I catch
I cannot release.
(published by Convergence)
Not biting
I wade with pack, rod, flies
onto the freeway, slosh across
white stripes to the far side.
Fish for a time in the carpool lane.
No strikes. Cast deep into tunnels,
swirling eddies at exits.
Still nothing. Near dusk, I pitch
my tent on the median, fry a slab
of Spam, huddle by campfire
reflected red on a yield sign.
It could be I have reached
my limit, put her memory
out of mind. A fuchsia sun
flashes low, turns orange to gold,
glowing purple — then she goes.
I rise in total darkness,
break camp before rush-hour,
take the long way home.
(published by Clover, A Literary Rag;
republished in Speakeasy)
Odd
now no cards to send,
write happy holidays,
lick glue, add stamps.
Busy instead, stand off,
emoji, blot out friends,
send a text, tweet
cruel joke, harass gay,
label woman slut or tramp,
let pass who groped whom,
grabbed whose ass. Easy, alone,
head down, virtuality, together,
busy thumbing phone. Sadder
in a way, loving love less
than loving to hate.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Parenthetical
Walls curve gently up, high prisons,
like your hips. Poets inside can’t glimpse
sentence end, never see final words
drive meaning home, satiated by dash,
terse period, giddy explanation point.
New Yorker favorites like Alexie
don’t mount a rescue mission, scale
bowed barriers, belay down, let
bad sonnets go. Overshadowed,
the trapped quiver, sadness looming
parenthetical at both ends. Like me,
only iambic lovers dream them free.
(published by Harbinger Asylum)
Please
be seated, this poem is about to begin.
No run-of-the-mill greeting card rhyme
with lots of pop and pow. More subtle,
nuance lodged in metaphors, meaning
ripped from jagged words, obscure,
like graffiti on a brick wall, scribbled
in black ink, at night. Imagine
an outlaw poet on the run, wounded,
firing blank verse at a posse in pursuit,
missing, putting out the sun.
(published by Otoliths)
Question of humility
(with a nod to Richard Hugo)
Dream some festival to honor
a great writer. Dozens of poets
lounge by mineral springs
hidden under trees. Hot water
mixes with cold, ringed stones
create pools different in heat.
All drink bourbon, wine, brandy,
the good stuff — it’s free.
They circle a fire, grow silent
in fading light. The great one
rises from steam, asks poets
at his feet — if I were to place
three poems high in night sky,
what question would you speak:
Which poems are placed there?
Or, is mine among the three?
(published by Fragments)
Ravel
Begin to knit a new design,
decide if and when to forgive.
Do you keep her memory inside
for what to breathe for next
or toss, like moth, to candle flame,
gossamer flash gone gray
to ash — raveled smoke on the rise,
searching for an end to night?
(published by Spindrift)
Read-out
Your lover lies still, white.
Listen to her breathe. Stare
at the read-out, red numbers
swimming by. Follow the I.V. flow down,
pause at a bend where the tube
darts beneath starched sheets.
Dream back half a life — campfire,
tent, creek. Cast out thin line
on the blank screen. Hope you fish
together, downstream.
(published by Spindrift)
Sea change
Floe broken off, mere speck now,
bear cubs whine, drift south.
They prowl the ice.
Mom dives in, swims to them —
for quite some time.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Still glow
(with a nod to Albert Camus)
Heads down, no way to say sorry,
mistake, we drag laden canoe
to the beach, paddle choppy water,
her behind, steering.
We churn up a narrow channel,
hope current won’t take hold,
sweep everything downstream.
Camp pitched without speaking,
soup heated over anemic fire,
we swallow hot broth of remorse.
Forgiveness hangs in smoke
below sun turning cutthroat red.
We place sleeping bags far apart,
try not to shiver, lie alone,
sob as meteors trail to black.
I dream I am not lost,
the sun casts no shadows,
and somehow I escape night.
Coals still glow at dawn.
The canoe and she aren’t gone.
(published by Harbinger Asylum; different version, “Still glow at dawn,” published by Howl)
Storm
Her lacy bra lies on the bed,
white cups open upward
as if ready to catch every drop
from a coming storm. I tiptoe
to the window. Clouds loom,
huge. It smells like rain.
(published by Clover, A Literary Rag)
Summer hymn
Metro stop. July. Sun, hot,
high — a voice behind —
rest-home lawn, some old guy,
wheel-chaired, waves at me.
I wander over, give him five.
Holiday’s complete, he says,
now you’ve come home.
Mom’s shopping, back soon
with pies, tree, presents, lights.
My bus arrives, I search my pack,
find a gift — turkey sandwich,
wrapped in white, no ribbon,
no bow. He smiles. I lean close,
hum a few bars of Silent Night.
(published by Red River Review)
Sweet peace
Pinned down many days, we sent
for a beekeeper to rid us
of the machine gun nest.
She arrived, dressed in fine mesh,
gloves, khaki coveralls so thick
the enemy must have believed
she was a platoon, company,
maybe an entire brigade.
Wand of dark smoke, brush,
like a feather duster swept
gunner, ammo, nest, the entire war
into a cardboard box. We gasped
when she marched to a distant hive
as if carrying only a single swarm.
(published by Harbinger Asylum)
Viral in Norway
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
City street, fine brasserie, slip inside,
find a seat. Shake piled snow
off cuckold. Sip Pernod,
study the menu, name its font.
Not Arial, Gil sans. Feast on lamb,
frog legs, foie gras, Pastis Gascon.
Top it off — coffee, St. Rémy,
crème brûlée. Close your eyes,
dream a new lover arrives.
You move to Provence, become
a chef. Tweet recipes. In bed.
In French. The Mistral blows sheets
of phyllo dough down the street.
Your dream life goes viral in Norway.
(published by Sleet Magazine)
Wedding rescue
Reflection, men’s room mirror,
outdoor wedding, clear sky,
groom, pierced, tattooed,
struggling, panic in eyes.
Black tux, on right, nice fit,
he wrestles loose tie —
like marriage gone bad,
stretched thin, unknotted again.
Stranger turned savior,
I offer to drape my neck.
Wide end, short, hang to right,
snake over tip. Squeeze,
use two fingers, spread slit.
Slip it in, pull down, adjust
a bit. Loosen the noose,
drop over groom’s head.
Nose ring bright, he smiles.
I pull the knot tight.
(earlier version published
by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Who’s counting
Number’s up, six feet round, clock
turned empty, work week, love,
ticked down. Time to plant wire,
strands coiled dark in soil,
taking root, rusted gold,
sharpened barbs about to grow.
Garden fenced with kale,
four joined rows bristling out
weasels, rats, even cats —
black ones, tails eleven inches,
white ones, female, sleek,
claws measure twelve.
(published by Otoliths)
Working with wind at Canyon de Chelly
(with a nod to D’von Charley)
Flute to lips near precipice rim,
Navajo man bends a bit,
catches breeze, sends haunting song
down to ruins, stream, jimsonweed,
salt cedar, Russian olive trees.
Echoes dance off sandstone cliffs,
drift past women herding goats.
Ducks etched green, gold, red
on canyon walls, wait to swim
should Chinle Wash flow wide again.
Tourists buy photos, CDs. Navajo youth
play small flutes under piñon trees.
(published by Howl)