Pilgrim’s poems that was accepted and/or published in 2021 and 2020 (63 of them) are presented by year in alphabetical order below.
Many of the 2020 poems can also be found in print in Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems, a volume of his first 400 published poems (Cairn Shadow Press, 2021).
Watercolors by the late Mary Dale (photographed by the late Bud Dale) are sprinkled among the poems — also photos and photo-illustrations by Pilgrim and others.
Poems 2021
A few obscene words escape
my mouth, not to mention,
a wounded sparrow of despair
flying out of my soul
as I watch her drive away,
the whole thermos of mimosas
nestled between her thighs,
warm brioche with cherry filling
lying on the seat beside.
(published by Gold Man Review)
All memories left
do not haunt me
as much as the ones
that fled like virus deaths.
Blew out, in fact,
like a mistral, mask-less,
whipping toward Arles,
like police, all white,
taking another Black body south
to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer,
a pile of them on the beach
by the deceased sea.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Another virus nightmare
I’m running in some dark tunnel,
graveyard train closing in on my dream.
I cough, make wheezintg sounds,
can’t find my mask, clean my hands.
I lie between the rails, face up,
train’s clack above. Bras, lace panties
hang low from cars, whisper
past my cheeks. The end comes,
I stay under, six feet.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Bellingham skirmish
Morning glory creeps from alley,
buttercup close behind. Out front,
I try to stem anemone’s attempt —
take over the entire yard.
Already, queen-of-the-prairie
rules the west, peace lilies,
roots tangled, dense, lay claim
to soil below the trellis,
where kiwi battle grape. Not to be
outdone, family-cousin day lily
is busy to the south, crowding out
chard, arugula, peas. None dare
steal north — massive sword ferns
shiver lightless, claim ownership
of shadows, along with ally,
moss. Shovel, hoe in hand,
I resist, alone, withstand blitz,
serpentine horde of green
intent on choking everything.
July, my hope, shorter days,
chance to reach October —
less time to pull, dig, rip, more
to stop, wipe brow, sip from hose,
see the beauty, drink in all this.
(published by Windfall)
Black swirls
I flee city, virus, loss,
spin, re-compass, choose west.
Forest, stream, sinuous, deep.
I camp, rig rod, fish. Cast Gray Ghosts
to the far side, expect no strike.
I begin to breathe, hope
hope revives. Presume zip, nada, zilch,
live frugally, on surprise.
I daydream I die, come back not old,
not spent, eager to learn to fish again.
The sun weighs down, light dives maroon
from gold. Dusk swallows tamarack,
aspen, cedar, pine. Riffles gone to eddies
swirl to black. I trace path back
to tent, the remains of fire,
accept dark coals, revel in the ebb.
(published by The Bookends Review)
Blueprint
In the end, they did not have time to club
every protester in body armor of adobe,
nor those unclothed, tattooed all over
with sledge hammers inked black.
City police, precincts demolished long ago,
now worked without papers in the kitchen.
Clueless as to what was building,
Federal agents quarreled over takeout
at Taco Bell. Sheetrock, ever racist,
cowered at Lowe’s in white piles, livid.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Breathing snow
You can do it awhile. Air pockets remain,
locked around ice crystals. But not forever —
just long enough to replay the avalanche
rolling over life, sweeping love downhill,
leaving you flattened in white,
no way to reach for sky. If your ears still hear,
eyes are not frozen closed, hand trapped
near face can clear a bit of space,
you may have sufficient time
to listen for swish of metal probes
slicing nearby, promising beams of light.
If tempted to sleep, imagine
a new lover finds you, scoops a place
by your side, lies close. Together,
you breathe hope into deep snow.
(published by the Sue Boynton Poetry Contest, republished by Thick With Conviction; republished in Bellingham Poems, Flying Trout Press; republished in Poetry Walk: The Second Five Years, Poetry Walk Press; republished in Mapping Water, Flying Trout Press; republished by Poetry Pacific; republished by Better Than Starbucks, republished by River Poets Journal; republished by High on Adventure)
The capes we wear
Superman tattooed on one arm,
Batman taking up the other,
original Wonder Woman on thigh,
you leave her, heinous, behind,
steer for Montana, last best place
to escape. Wine in cooler, extra capes
in the trunk, you hum I’d do anything
for love (but I won’t do that),
reach Missoula, Sula, Lost Trail Pass.
You batmobile hard into the Big Hole,
keep sharp lookout for evil in cutoffs.
Wisdom is a speck in the distance.
(published by Mad Swirl; republished in Best of Mad Swirl: 2020)
Click here for wind-up monkey
I’m online, long time,
searching for a slingshot
to accelerate existence —
low-point life, any new direction
will suffice. Hide my eyes,
blind-click mouse, fate decides
my prize, a YouTube
wind-up monkey dance.
Belly-key twisted tight, red dunce cap
hanging down, sad-faced monkey,
cymbals high, begins to rise,
clash brass, crash, vibrate windows,
ceiling, house. Monkey bounces
across the floor, applauds
old lovers, Youtube viewers,
primates past, private monkey
wind-up shaft. He writhes,
thrashes, squats then slows —
pauses mid-clap, quivers,
stops, mournful face frozen,
iced in pixels of displeasure —
both of us, pitiful, all danced out.
(published by Otoliths)
Crossing
Antlers fuzzed, ears up
like skunk cabbage in spring,
two deer gauge eight lanes,
uncertain if they should risk
the crossing. I have wee time —
decide to brake, swerve,
create an opening, allow them
to bound out, pass in front,
big eyes relieved I made ninety cars
not send them bleeding skyward.
Instead, I hold breath, speed by,
grateful they remained frozen,
my new hybrid unscathed — five miles
down the freeway briefly wonder
if they got across, or died.
(published by Bond Street Review — early verion)
Decision
Adages, maxims, aphorisms aside —
forget, too, for a moment, politicians,
sarcastic lies — early in life, each of us
makes a choice to live by.
Always let other people know
I am very, very smart.
Or, be kind.
(published by Otoliths)
Folding maps
Back then, paper, when we used them,
trick was, figure how to follow
worn tracks of seams and folds.
Crease past searches, trips half-recalled.
Re-trace old routes charted, logged.
Live’s path to the edge. Truth inked down.
No tiny pins in Starbucks ad, no directions
from app on phone. Nor satellite view
of malls, freeways, roads. Before Alexa
or Siri, sensuous voices, eager friends —
buy joyous junk for this journey,
drive the lost way home.
(published by The Vital Sparks)
French whisks, two
Missed chance to dance,
we skim past, whirl, stay at bay —
murmuration unpaired,
gone separate ways.
I dream we don’t twirl by —
choose different pas de deux,
become whisks, French, two,
intertwine, emulsify.
We mix till dawn, create sauce,
creamy, rich. Succulent, thick.
(published by Otoliths)
High-pitch
I dream you back, a butterfly —
flit in, dance past belly, thigh,
touch cheek, settle on sheet.
I offer a texting thumb, you float down,
vibrate there, do not flee.
Maybe you’ve changed, will stay,
vacuum, massage me, clean the sink.
You sleep. I grab phone, snap photos,
store your rainbowed slumber —
an Instagram treat, red, lilac,
gold, green — you wake, unfold wings,
transmute to drone, rise,
hover briefly, high-pitch whine.
I wake too, you zip off east.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Mining for salvation
Campfire, tent buried by night sky,
we’ve both come to be saved.
Me, rogue son vanished from his life —
Iraq, Afghanistan, wandering
for a time. Back after twenty years,
in search of forgiveness,
redemption on my mind. Him,
stoic father, still polioed at seventy,
arthrithic, losing his sight.
We’re camped by a radon mine,
abandoned, ore carts gone to rust.
Rumors now say these shafts
hold power to cure — body, mind,
soul. We take the main tunnel,
sit, not talking, far back,
lantern lit, shiver in unison
to water dripping off lime,
hear murmurs from sufferers
hoping nearby. A couple,
withered, gray, hug each other,
believe enough visits here
will lead them back to health,
give them more time.
We shift at opposite ends
of cedar bench. Forgive me, Dad,
I should have written, phoned —
can I warm you, keep chill off bones?
At first you don’t hear me ask,
or do, but don’t reply. Moments
go by. I draw my hood low,
pull the strings noose tight.
He listens to me breath, sigh.
Tomorrow, he finally whispers,
nearby, the stream, the fish.
Like before, we’ll catch them,
admire their beauty, then release.
(published in Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Our 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; republished by High on Adventure)
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; republished by High on Adventure)
Recalling fragments
Of a poem flitting off,
say, about a life breaking apart,
like a sensitive, fragile universe,
pieces flying off dark
after colliding with another universe —
a voluptuous, curvy one,
low-throat purr, unfaithful,
ready to leave on a whim,
selfish, full of black holes.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Redacted vision
I spot a life going bad, mine, sort of,
obscured by dark pits on the front
of my eyes. They swim across,
slowly erase good choices I’ve made,
blind me a bit with every blink.
A whole spatter ruins my view
as I gaze skyward. They seize
the entire foreground,
Rorschach white clouds into storms,
make them sinister ink blots
clearly intent on turning
even peripheral memories black.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Smaller, closer, nice
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
Turns out, past sizings of the universe
were dead wrong. New calculations say
it holds only two hundred billion galaxies,
not two trillion previously believed.
Sadly, we must accept, ninety percent
have vanished. Our gloom deepens
when we bring to mind dark energy
occupies three quarters of the cosmos.
Dark matter takes up one-fifth, leaving
five percent for all planets, suns, moons,
a fistful of comets moving through.
Not to mention black holes — and us.
Nihilistic dreams become the norm
since dark energy has only one mission —
destroy all space and time. This will take
a few billion years — quite a while to wonder
if gods won’t be desperate for worshippers.
Clearly, budding believers shop around —
folks switch deities, female gods, notably,
on the rise. Prayers not answered instantly
cause the half-devout to kneel elsewhere
if new gods promise delivery like Amazon Prime.
Small wonder scientists search fervently to find
a parallel universe, any kind. One our size,
filled with fresh creators, would be nice.
(published by Otoliths)
A sonnet tweet, almost
Bacchanal, bacillus, bucolic,
blithe. Also bathos, bastinado,
brusque — not all well known.
Beastly, this obsession
with B’s — brash, banal, base.
Mostly bad babble awaiting
an avenue to arrive, appease,
absolve, leave B words behind.
Achieve anew, appreciate,
not with breath, brazen, bizarre,
bold, but with beneficence.
I must anticipate abandonment,
accede, accept alteration, ascend.
Absolutely. No buts about it.
(published by Coffin Bell Journal)
Sowing
On my first visit, I share with phlox,
verbena, firebrush, rose,
my plowed past, garden affairs,
what I’ve sown. To be embraced
in her yard, I must set at ease
peppers, chard, even beets.
He, before me, wouldn’t plant,
hoe, weed, disliked flowers,
hated veggies, ate meat. Lantana
remember this betrayal, so do
radishes, anemone, beans.
I slip among them, bend, listen,
whisper low to each. The cosmos
bow acceptingly in wind. Kudzu,
suspicious, stays out of reach.
(published in The Best of Mad Swirl: 2021; first published by Mad Swirl)
Standoff
Mother, no way to visit again,
virus, the vulture circling,
about to dive. Open window,
frail figure, distant,
blue-gloved wave. No stroke
of hair, embrace, kiss
on cheek. Me, peering masked,
alone, with binocs, far side
of street. A final glimpse,
I spot tears, then she’s gone,
no time even to zoom.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Twitter of crows
The entire black murder
flies south to see
if it’s true —
sheetrock at Home Depot
still lies in white piles,
seething.
Waiting for a tweet.
Shotguns pointed up,
caw, rattle, click.
(published by Coffin Bell Journal)
Upon my arrival
I announce to columbine, ajuga,
astilbe, rhodies where I’m from,
tell them I garden, how and what
I’ve grown. To be embraced
within her yard, it is clear
I must pre-apologize to phlox,
anemone, hydrangea, rose.
He before me disliked flowers,
veggies, hated to water, weed.
The peace lilies know this,
so do azalea, chard, daffodils,
peas. I make the rounds,
bend, listen, talk low to each.
Queen of the prairie bow slightly
when I wish even buttercup well.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Virus mourning
I resolved to cease grieving
once every trace of her was gone.
I donated hats, scarves, skirts, coats,
stowed her perfume, rings, Kindle,
phone. All spring, gathered strands
of hair from sofa, afghan,
chairs, placed each beside her urn.
My plan — heal during summer,
bury everything deep beneath aster,
cosmos, rose. Watch their blossoms
sway final farewell in wind —
until fall, when frosts took hold.
But as the winter dark set in,
I stumbled upon her cache.
Vinyl gloves, goggles, masks
breathed my grief to light again.
(published by Sue Boynton Poetry Contest)
Waiting to connect
Texted children moments ago
about my phone calls,
all five, not picked up —
messages left
told of email I’d sent —
recounted ambulance ride,
my emergency MRI, the extent
of nerve damage done.
No response yet.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Weight of it all
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
A single hot afternoon toiling in my garden
underscores science findings that time
has weight and is an aspect of gravity —
with special fondness of attaching itself
to large masses. Like, forever,
to the bottom of my shovel and hoe.
(prose version published by Sleet Magazine)
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, red, gold
on canyon walls, wait to swim
should Chinle Wash flow wide again.
Tourists buy photos, CDs. Navajo youth
play small flutes under pinyon trees.
(published by Howl; republished by High on Adventure)
Poems 2020
Antique store mannequin
First glance, I believe it’s you
doing a headstand, offering
my way back in. Inverted eyes,
green, bright, avoid mine, stare
at tires, hubcaps, wrenches, rims.
Legs slightly spread rise taut,
stilettoed heels stab ceiling lights.
Black stockings re-stir the urge —
somehow skirt security lock,
help shoes, nylons, panties off.
The dream must pass. You packed,
clicked out the door, chose condo,
mate, golden Porsche. No chance
for me or antique store, you
trapped, windowed, upside-thighed,
winking, inviting millennial guys,
hey, you, come in, spend time,
browse fine junk, don’t pass by.
(published by Spindrift)
The capes we wear
Superman tattooed on one arm,
Batman taking up the other,
original Wonder Woman on thigh,
you leave her, heinous, behind,
steer for Montana, last best place
to escape. Wine in cooler, extra capes
in the trunk, you hum I’d do anything
for love (but I won’t do that),
reach Missoula, Sula, Lost Trail Pass.
You batmobile hard into the Big Hole,
keep sharp lookout for evil in cutoffs.
Wisdom is a speck in the distance.
(published by Mad Swirl; republished in Best of Mad Swirl: 2020)
Covert rainbow
Light’s not lithe, scientists found —
it has weight. Now they say
time, long known to be a property
of gravity, also packs pounds.
This knowledge giddies me,
I daydream a rainbow
so voluptuous, so heavy
her sides billow, spill from the sky.
Red, green, indigo mix together,
splash down at both ends. Bluebirds
find gold worms, fill backpacks
with them, fly south early,
retire. I am hired as a janitor,
get paid double overtime,
work all night, clean up the mess.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Eclectic suitcase
Masked, virus to flee, hurried pack
for flight back, laundry flung
into any bag. My socks, jeans, briefs,
your dresses, skirts, undies,
bras. Totally inconsiderate, teddies,
shirts in one wad. A thousand years
from now — confusion.
Archaeologists at plane-crash dig,
sifting boxers, panties, tees,
perplexed at what it could mean.
(published by Otoliths)
Embers
Lost love’s the Nooksack, winter,
barely flows, she says then goes.
My fuchsia future lies ahead,
signals loss around the bend —
somewhere beyond pause, yield,
stop, hold breath. More like ice, crack,
splash. Even campfires succumb
to snow, a branch load, fade
from bright to glow. Become
embers, give off scarlet warning
heat must go. Like sun hung
in still sky, low in the west, I cling
to red, desperate not to plunge
over night’s black edge.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Evading gray
I am undone, so is love, the fringe
won’t hold. I abandon coast, home,
head for Montana, new chance to be.
Missoula, crossroads, I choose south,
comes shallow river, comes barren stream.
Finally Bannack, half caved in,
stories here, lessons from the past –
like hunter vanished in prairie sage.
Maybe I stumble on the gold,
gather crazed, get lost, perish
from greed. Or, Plummer’s stolen loot —
folks hanged the outlaw sheriff.
no trading noose for secret cache.
I haul it away, choose warm beach,
sun, sea. Perhaps, a hidden shaft,
I fall, climb free, broken, weak.
Gaze west, believe I see the Sound,
die, never get found. I must begin
to breathe, deep, wipe out despair.
Realize Bannack shacks rot,
outsiders, like me, get whipped
by bad wind. Dust always blows in,
buries broken lives, sage, regrets.
Its one street still flees at both ends,
gives the hopeless a chance to leave.
Only the remains will fade to gray.
(published in Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Getting even
(with a nod to Anna Eblen)
Time to end climate debate.
Put snails, slugs to use —
revenge for chewed marigold,
iris, tulip, rose, anything else
green that grows. Creative payback
for half-eaten beans, grape leaves,
arugula, chard, peas. Toss each
in pail, swish them slimeless,
rinse clean. Next-door denier —
his second sin, Fox News
spewed loud at night — text him,
come, argue world’s end.
Offer Breadfarm loaf, or two,
non-GMO. Brie, aperitif, Pernod.
A neighborly pile of escargot.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
La chanson
Stir red coals, poke Deer Island beach fire,
again, fiercely. Begin to see
nothing brings back a loving smile —
the mere sight of you cues contempt,
urge to leave. Hang your head,
wish it were your life dropped
in Biloxi Bay waves — despair,
a muffled gong smothered by night.
Time to drown ancient dream —
battle strong surf, pull her to shore,
Time to drown ancient dream —
battle strong surf, pull her to shore,
deep kiss, revived, heated,
straining upward, she breathes.
Like Calypso, she has severed ties,
unraveled knotted love, muted
siren call once tying her to you.
She likely dresses in black, prowls
a far beach, piles photos, poems,
memories of you, sets them ablaze.
Drinks red wine at dusk, fakes
a bit of mourning beside her pyre.
She will scan horizon, sing la chanson
into darkness. Out on the Gulf,
a new Odysseus will hear, lift head,
not know enough to scream.
(published by San Pedro River Review)
Last
I
Basement turned swamp,
floor rotted, john flushed up.
Sawgrass out back drooped,
died. Coffins once cemeteried
rose with the tide, floated
dead bones by. Sopped clothes
packed, this house, free,
painted on porch turned raft,
I fled Florida for new home.
High bluff, Vancouver coast,
sweeping view — oil trains,
tankers, black smoke.
II
Gulf risen, gone east
to greet Biscayne Bay,
deniers dog-paddled there,
trapped, squeezed,
contained. They tweeted,
texted, blogged,
played with their phones.
Ate seaweed, dreamed
it was filleted, creped, creamed.
The last were the last
to drown — even the aftermath
steered clear, still went down.
(published by Soliloquies Anthology)
Last one clapping
Applaud longer than anyone else —
viable goal to achieve. Uber success,
no app needed, nothing left
to chance. Screw elusive dreams,
greatness promised later — president,
rock star, sex after the prom,
beauty queen. Winner, lottery,
spelling bee, Nobel Prize for peace.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Let us dream
for one day, no shootings, not five,
not eight. No teen blogging hate,
no deranged shooter taking aim,
no macho guy firing away.
Let us dream
someday we see it’s always males —
violent boys, violent men — back then,
muskets, carbines, Colts, today,
Berettas, Glocks, Heckler & Koch.
Let us dream
we begin to see women suffer
most of the rage, cower, shake —
tough guys shooting lovers, wives,
other men, strangers, friends.
Let us dream
culture finds a way to change —
men stop blasting black, brown, red,
come home to rest — for fun,
shoot rabbits, ravens, robins, wrens.
Let us dream
we expunge the urge to kill — drones,
bombs go away, male violence becomes
public health threat number one.
Finally, we learn how not to prey.
(published by Howl)
Man pleads guilty in death of relationship
She said goodness may lie within me,
even praised my gentle ways.
Her brother agreed, later confided
he wanted to kill me,
not that I would stop him,
choke off his Iraq-aholic dreams,
refuse to convulse on desert floor,
Rorschached maroon, death being
a mailman with bad news,
no one in search of letters,
always at a distance,
ignoring mail-call snarl,
it’s for you.
We all kill something —
by accident mostly —
smother it, then ourselves,
with guilt, even as we invite
our postal carrier in at Christmas,
serve up a shriveled fruitcake,
say, take rum-soaked bread chunked red,
have a hot toddy for your time.
She suffered, knew I am no warrior,
forgave mistakes, cut sand-blown ties,
absolved anemic love webbed in by life.
So I lie alone, wallow wounded —
no wonder clerks fake headaches
to avoid me in their line,
why I blocked her out, all her needs,
why self-pity whets my appetite.
I dream myself a Tigris killer,
move ghost-like through the streets.
I wear polyester, not fatigues.
(published by Jeopardy)
My conclusive dance frame
rigid, classic, like parentheses
trapping a flutter of sparrows
mid-theft, chicken coop, after grain.
No match for hers, corseted tight,
white-laced, as she denied my bid
to diagram our pas de deux
across the ballroom floor. A feud,
two stern teachers, each certain —
how to construct the perfect sentence,
our grammar book of would-be love,
unbound, sections lying random
among whirling couples, the chapter
beneath us, ironically, open to rules
on passive voice, page thirty-three.
(published by Mad Swirl)
New twist on the end
Captive to an explosion happening,
each spark hitching a fling into blackness,
the light beside dazzled shadows
with shine and glow. Fire that had burned
at the core, a genesis of sorts,
streaked behind into universal night.
It would eventually pockmark time.
One trace remained, a fuse of coiled rope,
still embered, writhing on the tile floor.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Obsession
Tear off price tag,
Behind the Glamour $18,
next to long row, prison-cell lines,
crush bar code into a tight ball,
toss it away. The wad won’t let go,
adheres to fingers, as if to chide,
Marilyn’s worth any price.
Study her photos by the bed,
wonder if Prufrockean meaning
lies in stickiness, steamy novels,
all those Norma Jean YouTube posts.
Probably not, given white sheets,
imagined whisper, throaty, low,
Must flee white men using me.
(published by Otoliths)
Old poet
I find it in The New Yorker now
easier to yawn about nothing poems —
self-obsessed men, depression, sanity
on the run, priests preying on nuns.
Phallic prayer naked, life, spread wide
for redemption, full bosomed end.
So little depends on anything
when limp metaphors droop and bend.
(published by Toasted Cheese)
Recalling fragments
of a poem flitting off,
say, about a life breaking apart,
like a sensitive, fragile universe,
pieces flying off dark
after colliding with another universe —
a voluptuous, curvy one,
low-throat purr, unfaithful,
ready to leave on a whim,
selfish, full of black holes.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Runner-up disciple
Like America, Justus, next in line
but outside — apart. Almost a part.
Just us, we two, screw you.
A good man, well, maybe heavy
on greed, lust, just not good enough.
Of ninety apostles, fill Judas’ spot,
one rule — no more betrayal,
but don’t forget about race.
Justus did not seal deal, seize
victory, cheat to win, build a wall.
Matthias takes the robe, makes it
an even dozen again. Runner-up
done in by Twitter, tweet, eyelash,
Jesus winking from the shadows.
Irony nailed to humility.
The payback, blind justice for all.
(published by Otoliths)
Solstice ceremony at Medicine-walker’s
(with a nod to Rainbow Medicine-walker)
Rainbow strokes drum again,
beat probing bonfire flame,
invoking mother earth, water, air.
She summons power, the ancients,
an unkindness of ravens, lets pass
a murder of crows. Day on the fade
dips red, lilac, pink, finds gray.
We circle the blaze — whirl, dance,
chant. Sparks snap, rise bright,
take flight with our prayers, clear
cedar trees, streak high. I believe
they surge deep into cringing night.
(published by Otoliths)
Solstice ceremony near Mount Baker
Nooksack River flows by black,
drums intensify in fading light,
inspire bonfire, Earth, air, new life.
We circle the blaze, dance, chant,
summon an unkindness of ravens,
ancient power. I see Spirit Woman
float in from shadows, offer
feathers, berries, salmon strips —
place the oblation in quieted flames.
We add boughs, urge fire, revive.
Sparks gather our prayers, clear pine,
fir, cedar trees. The spatter brightens,
pierces night, floats off east.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Spiral down
Taught to dream yourself popular,
at the prom, crowned queen.
Another good-hair day, makeup,
perfect, white gown, chiffon.
You dance every dance,
king never grabs your ass,
cuts you off. Your selfies
go viral, Twitter groupies
retweet, praise. Dreams fade —
you wake, MeToo life in place.
Hair, flat, skin broken out,
prom dress turned nightgown.
Your cell phone, dead,
Facebook life spiraled down.
(published by Howl)
Text from the exotic pets store
Ants farming here gather for the service,
bury their dead near the edge,
return to work. They ignore the light,
dig new passages in old sand,
carry a thousand times their weight,
eat, sleep. Two may antennae, touch,
tap out a brief embrace, make ways past,
take separate tunnels — not marry,
grow apart, escape. Forgive me, love,
I babble on. Just texting to say
mistake I left, only hours away.
Put on music, light the candles,
open red wine, let it breathe. Don’t call —
if the key still works, I’ll let myself in,
we’ll dance all night in the hall.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Topless woman steals baby Jesus
from Vatican nativity scene
(with a nod to Euronews.com)
Carried carved infant to a boat,
floated down the Tiber, him safe
in valley between her breasts.
Shouted her maiden name
was Dante, at Christmas missed
nine levels of hell, also Les Baux.
Said she alone dared save
the savior. The Pope viewed
surveillance video many times,
decreed Jesus could not return —
a plastic one must fill the role.
Her lawyer focused on fear —
alleged priests made threats, stole
her clothes. She had to promise
never to row to shore for more.
(published by Burnt Pine)
Violent male rut
Same blue sky frames recurrent clouds,
one more sun, boring gold, shines round.
Birds head home, homogenous tree,
re-fluff, beak déjà vu repeated tweets.
I walk my normal trail, joggers —
always guys — again slog by, snarl
in unison another hi. Repeat yesterday,
bring out Glocks, take aim, spray
a dozen school-bound kids. They yawn,
put smoking guns away — consider it
repetitious slay. I speed-dial 911, report
the deed. A cop car re-runs over me.
(published by Howl)
Viral ending
Lifted masks, brief kiss, on the lips.
Turned away, skipped some stones,
she went to tinkle (feel free to call it
urinate or pee). Once out of sight,
doubled back. I Purelled, waited,
dreamed, paced like a cat. She packed,
emptied my place. Took can opener,
tuna tins, T-paper, stopper for the sink.
Left bleach, vacuum, blue vinyl gloves,
stale bag of Lays, litter box to clean.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Wash your hands
after, and before,
you go. With this virus, rinse away
the desire to touch everything hugged,
grabbed, stroked by roving hand.
Wipe off dirt, germs, those deeds
long in need of a serious clean.
It’s not as if we were paintings
being restored, say, every century
or so — sucked-up dust, lifted grime,
colors, vivid, brought back to life —
nor glaciers on the rise, climate change
un-bona fide, years, decades, scores ago.
Think of it — stranded on roofs, no fever,
no cough, risen sea all around,
the unwashed, certain they’ll stay pure,
never be stricken, never sink down.
(published by Cirque)