Below in alphabetical order are 53 poems published by Pilgrim in 2022.
This Pilgrim page features watercolors by Mary Dale, who passed away in 2021.
They were photographed by the late Bud Dale.
As with other categories on this site, in adition to Dale’s paintings, some of Pilgrim photos and photo-illustrations, are sprinkled (mostly) at random.
At the vegan rodeo and gluten-free fair
A rodeo queen astride broccoli
helps clowns roll out barrels of beets.
Fans back from Burning Man,
Walden for assholes — desert
of jerks — gulp pinot gris,
drool, babble, slur. Guys in big hats
ride squash, spit, curse, then rope
wild carrots, radishes, beans.
Glass-eyed lasses, unkempt
in guacamole tents, peddle dresses
spun from hemp. Dreadlocked dudes
don’t let me pass by — say, sample tofu
kale, long zukes, thick cukes
steeped in a vinaigrette.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
After the title
(with a nod to Robert Macfarlane)
comes more memories, iced,
their color, blue. Similes signal
another interlude. Regret
guides the cursor, moves
my fingers down. Cruel slights,
to begin — go, sleep alone, no more
midnight swims, no forested hike
to meadow, camp, fish, count stars,
spoon all night. Stoke the echos
with reluctant strokes, let regret
spill over line edge, plunge deep
in pool below, struggle to surface,
float. Admit love tossed, the loss,
let pulsing guilt stream out.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
At the put-in, before the float
(for the Russian president)
No,
I am not a good target —
clouds hang low,
cover me, blanket me,
sock me in.
I do not possess weapons
eager to kill everyone
with sight — or without.
No bombs smart enough
to play chess. Nor chemicals,
six slender vials of which
makes people death dance,
do the final twitch.
Yes,
I do float imagined rivers,
fear my raft carries
rockets, tanks, bombs —
I break each like a fly rod,
toss them overboard,
savor the reflection
of a skinny-dipping sky.
I conjure Pandora, her box,
missiles inside vibrating, eager
to escape. I close the lid,
steer toward peace downstream.
I help her go all the way.
(published by Otoliths)
Another virus nightmare
I’m running in some dark tunnel,
graveyard train closing in on my dream.
I cough, make wheezing 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)
Apology from Proctor & Gamble
(found mostly in a letter from customer care)
Thanks for your recent note
saying our dish soap has become
very runny as of late.
I shared your comments
with our team — we are sorry
for your disappointment, appreciate
your input. We hope you enjoy
the Metamucil coupon enclosed.
One delicious cinnamon wafer
each day begins a smooth journey
to a healthier lifestyle and beautifies
your insides at the same time.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Binge novel
She’s trapped in my story,
lost behind lines I’ve crossed.
Flashbacks swim by, an entire school.
She waded upstream, caught
only me. Now I dream dark paragraphs,
carpe tedium, fill them with speckled verbs
in passive voice. Conjure her sway —
a slow, undulating sidle — back, to me,
in our tent. My tale breathes embers
to life. I toss on dry participles, fry
a slab of Spam, sprinkle in bits of myself.
My cursor pulses in anticipation.
(published by Sierra Nevada Review)
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.
(republished by Whatcom Watch; first published by The Bookends Review)
Books on the way out
(with a nod to Glen Larum)
My life is all I’ve got.
–Richard Hugo, 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 the 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.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
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.
Archeologists at plane-crash dig,
sifting boxers, panties, tees,
perplexed at what it could mean.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Otoliths)
Fat, weak, slow
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
Diets aside, universal news heavies
my mind — W Boson particles pack
more weight than previously believed.
Of the three elementary types,
W’s can change the idiocy of quarks,
give off Beta radiation too. They carry
Weak, a decrepit universal force,
second most puny of four.
Sadly, W Boson, death-fat chubby, stout,
staggers about, more brawny
only than Gravitons, those slaves
of Gravity, with force barely robust enough
to barely hold planets in place. Blame it
on Beta decay, whatever, W is weaker
than Photons and Gluons, porters
for Electromagnetic and Strong,
forces with the power of Hercules.
Electro, Grav, Weak, Strong
strut about, flex, whack any galaxy
they want. Unlike me, puny, quick
to yield, unable to lift a can of poutine.
One caution — W is still fast,
appears for only a trillionth
of a trillionth of a second. I fear
it sends Beta rays through my body —
Kevlar vest, thick wool sweater,
heavy coat be damned. I’m a slug,
so slow time catches me with ease,
slides inside my body, sticks to everything.
Photons come heavy on my head, too —
they control Dark Lightning, gamma rays
charging about insanely during storms.
A secret, I fear onyx flashes at night, bolts
unseen against black sky. It need not
be said, I also dread being drenched
by plump drops of obese W Boson rain.
(published by JALMURRA)
Fear on the way out
FOMO, as some would text,
short for Fear Of Missing Out,
has little to do with differences, say,
between prophet — knowing
the end is near — and profit
gained from a lottery win
before the denouement. Certainly,
a more powerful form of worry —
like brooding over whether to admit
I am a cuckolder of prodigious stature
or giver of lesser heart-panged slights.
Akin to Odysseus worrying
if he should choose sirens over home.
Nonetheless, formidable enough
to spur despondent quarry like me
to leave a perfectly good life at halftime.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Feeding poems to the garden
Unlike plastic, paper breaks down
in compost, sheets from my printer
after a week. Cardboard takes longer,
accused, too, it changes pH balance,
ruins good soil. I am buoyed
to know what I carry outside —
early typed lines about her sway,
shy smile tossed my way, hearts urged
to merge on Salish nights — will help
the bin stay damp, let worms prolong
their writhe, devour rinds, lettuce leaves,
shriveled leeks. Soggy similes,
meek metaphors, unbridled rhyme.
also digested. My flawed phrases,
recycled, enriched, given pluck.
Wheeled to the garden as mulch —
there, nourish sprouts, runners, buds.
A page comes loose, gets caught by wind,
rises high. I imagine my love
composted in clouds, nurtured by sky.
(published by Sue Boynton Poetry Contest)
Final gathering, at six feet
Children have all arrived,
rushed in, lingered a distance
from the bed. Found places
to sleep, leafed the photo book,
gulped wine as they cooked.
Left the linguini half-eaten.
Her oxygen level has dipped.
Each besieged breath floats off,
follows housefly ragged buzz past
leaping cat. They unmask,
leave dishes in sink, play poker
at six feet, argue about who cheats.
Pretend not to see the fly
has landed, begun to feast.
(published by Trestle Creek Review)
Good trumpet
Life kinked, cracked, love
faded by winter to black, I dream
a wet get-away — hot babe,
bikini, salt water, tequila, sand.
I dive deep in the sea, play
good trumpet on the bottom,
a net anchors my band.
She squirms above, splashes,
flirts, eyes guys swimming by.
This time she remembers to clap.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Grief
from the loss of her
comes over me in waves,
a tsunami intent on some island
already struggling to stay
above sea level after a convoy
of icebergs melt by. Or like a tidal bore
not holding its breath twice a day,
headed upriver, murky torrent
choking sawgrass, anemic, half dead
from salt left to cake both banks.
Or, perhaps, disbelief any sun will rise,
casually dispense heat sufficient
to dry blood, the grieving heart
pinned like her wet virus mask
on some tattered clothesline —
in wait for a wolf to lope by,
pause at the scent, leap,
rip red, run, feast.
(published by Toasted Cheese)
The hum
Secret must be at the heart
of it — knowing something others
will learn someday, likely not soon.
And maybe happiness has a part —
or contentment at least. We
bear witness to joy any secret keeper
exudes. We hear not a whisper
of the secret. Not even a song.
Glean only hint, an audible clue.
Glaciers hum, Antarctica hums.
Wind whips across the ice shelf,
makes ice move a bit, disturbing
snow. We hear the resulting hum.
High in Colorado, we see mist
shroud steep mountain peaks,
fog belly along streams, crawl
into valleys, obscure tamarack, fir,
spring, stream. We feel wind scud
across scree, past boulders,
over cairns. If we do not breath,
let ear guide us, the hum is clear.
Scientists have found all the Earth
is humming — in F major. The secret
nature hums about likely explains
how to keep the planet from dying.
We do sing, about ourselves. So far,
our grade in humming — F minus.
(republished by Whatcom Watch; first published by Harbinger Asylum)
Last fling
Sways above me, ice vanished,
now flushed. Glacial frustration
thawed, unleashed. Naked flood
of passion. Love tantrum back-combed
like Arctic wind melting low snow.
Entire gamut — lithe, writhe,
passionate, flood of verve.
Dramatic swerve streaming skyward,
decent fling. Finished, the end,
spent frenzy, planet satiated,
conniption gone, not a good fit.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Light weight
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
Sleepless, driving at night,
scientists have discovered
light is not lithe — it has weight,
packs a few pounds, needs
time at the gym. Likely detected
by accident — Audi high-beams
wouldn’t straight-line though black —
dipped, plowed down, skidded
into pavement ninety meters out.
Another event, flashlight out back,
beam fell well short of the fence —
white-bright slowed, dived,
skidded in damp grass.Virile fire
atop candle drooped as well,
lit its own shaft. Same fate for match.
In a flash, our faith in light snuffed,
doused, put out. Eternal flames
now weighed down forever,
doomed by corpulent shine. The end —
coming heavy, too, for low-cal soda,
ice cream, any beer labeled lite.
(published by Otoliths)
Lithe
My dream, a mime air-draws bowl,
pours in colors equally. I nod, agree —
she speaks low, accompanies me
past mountain spring, pooled, pent up,
ready to flow. Downstream, a meadow,
lupine-lush, also daisies, cosmos,
violet, gold, blue. We lie among them,
me, white, she, brown, eager, lithe —
limpid sign it’s time to bloom.
(published by Otoliths)
Montana watercolor
I dip my brush, paint a depression
turned from fawn to gray,
beyond the wheat, next farm down.
Re-dip, add old age, barn, weathered,
sagging — rafter rot most likely —
roof caved in. Good lives faded
like Big Sky mist, a still-white,
blizzard-frozen, drifted to edge,
off canvas, across road, piled on fence.
My plan — four paintings, montage,
a single homestead gone to ruin.
These two, large, plus hope,
gold sun-streak daubed small
through corral, past manure pile
to muddy stream. Last, the ravine,
willowed, wending, steep. Chickens,
sheep, strayed, the moving van,
blackest black. Children, inked waves,
from truck bed, huddled in back.
Memory complete, almost dry,
I rinse my brush, put it away.
(published by Toasted Cheese)
Muse
She begins to begin, swirls in,
dances past, windhoves in mist,
elusive, promises magic — again.
A mistral, she shuns whiskey,
dope, triggering town,
ceremonial smoke. Never comes
the same way twice. Wheels in,
gyres, rides me like a rough draft.
Purrs, the ending should be iambic.
(published by Otoliths)
Novel dream
I’m trapped in a forested story —
scrub pine, stream, clearing. Jeep-loads
of vignettes churn by. A rodeo queen
circles them on horseback, texting.
Lurkers, likely ranchers, watch her,
don’t post a thing. I draw my Kindle,
fill it with verbs in passive voice, sidle
to meadow’s edge, ignite. The tale
catches fire, burns every page.
My cursor senses heat in each finger,
pulses with anticipation. It hopes
I will delete my past life.
(published by Otoliths)
No breath drawn
Darkness separates Dipper handles,
until now allowed no stars —
not even pristine planets dolloped out
as shiny buoys. Suddenly, light
intent on us — kin in our own way
in mid-gorge. Burning white in black sky,
shooting toward our carnage.
We pause, still hungry, no breath drawn.
A few look up, kindle distress signals,
small campfires lit with flint
in high Salish meadows,
await the bright molten accretion,
new to deceit, lies, greed.
They fish, pan-fry rainbowed despair,
lie back, wait to be embraced
as naive aftermathstreaks home.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Out of myself
A slender tube slithers my way,
stops to siphon, drip.
Any deep breath might cause collapse.
I retreat, moan, don’t gasp,
probe memory to recall if immunity
for idiots is out of the question,
if phone trees hate all the lines
running through, branching off.
In the end I am relieved
it is not some patriotic catheter
sucking a lifetime from me.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Outsmarting ants
Ragged barrier of bleach laid down,
I know it won’t stop them all.
Like student painters, they crawl
the perimeter, search for crossings,
intend to bring every morsel
of burnt burger back. My sponge
from above daubs up rogues, scouts,
provides damp ride to patio edge.
I squeeze them free. They begin
new paths to supper dregs. Gloved,
intent, trying to breathe, I sense
your presence behind me. Drawn
by the sheerest of nighties,
I find a direct route to bed.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Pop-up ad
Energize sonnets,
add pizzazz to free verse,
unbutton blithe images,
make similes moan.
Results guaranteed —
writhing, moist poems.
New Yorker rejections —
no worry, no doubt
nor any need
to wash metaphors out.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Punctuated
I dream I emerge from a coma
comma
run depressed to the lake
dash
plunge in with no way to surface
period
I learn an important lesson
colon
People can deep-six themselves
without ever having used
any kind of razor
slash
blade
(published by Mad Swirl)
Rain damage
My son, myself, shoots curses
at a darkened world, closes blinds,
shuts out the storm. Inside, I’m dry,
safe, alone. As for my father, me,
we self-loathe, pelt doubt on us,
with fury, prefer to fondle night.
Lightning strikes nearby, strikes
again, I shudder against thunder,
hug myself, my next of kin,
fold heart, crease it, lock it
closed-chest, in. Dismiss
thoughts of crevice, vent, slot,
slit. Refuse to admit rain —
even through tiny needled eye
lest it ruin clean floors inside.
(published by Otoliths)
Rapt, not wrapped
I dream a brown recluse belays down,
proclaims my fate, pedipalps my likeness,
fangs my name. I sleep on, savor,
grieve for me. Hope for rescue, a lover —
widowed, fully vaxxed, with tequila shots,
really good pot. Silk stockinged gossamer net
spun out around. Lured to the damp edge,
black center waiting — perfect trap.
I must snip funneled lines, climb, flee
the dream, pay no heed she ravels me.
My hope — awake sticky, engaged,
not yet cocooned, fully rapt.
(published by Jeopardy)
Reparation
Day gig, earn dough, coin, scratch,
buy food to live — my task,
erase graffiti sprayed below
BLACK LIVES MATTER sign
pasted huge on building side.
Distracted, I thrash past, destroy web
spider-spun from wall’s chalked edge
to chainlink fence. She’s tossed,
swings wide, gyres in wind,
drops fast, gets ink-spot splashed
in white-paint tin. A younger me
would pay no heed, stroke on,
ignore latex bump’s swimming throes.
My own end now in sight, I dip,
spoon, provide water bottle drip —
rinse her back to black again.
She rises, casts a line, climbs free,
leaves me, guilty, white, behind.
(published by Sierra Nevada Review)
Resist the gutting
Color finds a way to drain
from the living, flow away
where the patient lies. Gone,
like saffron stream in catheter,
no splash, no spray. Sick planet,
delirious, she whirls alone
in starless night, frozen by fear
of scalpels, saws, gloved hands
eager to clearcut, slice. She
believes this inevitably leads
to slaughter, closes eyes,
turns away, readies herself
to accept the gutting. Children
must gather around her, pray,
nothing complicated really —
please let her breathe again,
deep, on her own, struggle,
revive, find a way. In a circle,
black, red, brown, the innocent,
even the guilty, mostly white,
their chant must rise —
hope again, fight. Sing loud,
strong — revive, our Earth,
rise up, believe, find new life.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Reviving kilter
Abandoned, off-balance, my dark life
flows away, like a Montana stream
seeking happiness with the Missouri,
suddenly diverted, Clark-Forked
to Pend Oreille, the Columbia,
Portland, the sea. Drowned, dream
for smooth float, depression swept
downstream, no more rapids. Vanished,
any chance for an Eliaden return,
mythical, eternal — forgiveness
pulled beneath, rivered by undertow.
Somehow, I must surface, seize
sacred time, surge with new strength
into the riffle. Re-breathe, heed
central leveling force of existence
advising, confess shadowed secrets,
love yourself again, accept the current,
undulate, flow. I must revived hope,
circle each confluential eddy
swirling black, beckoning me to shore.
(published by Cirque)
Row versus wade
Like fishing, there’s a catch
to getting it right — whether to cast
from shore or let fly off boat. How
to impose birth, replace all those hooked
only to be slain —a whole school
no longer alive with lives, thanks
to deranged males, bullet-proof vested.
Suitably rifled, pistoled, bandoliered,
knived. Given swagger, full sway
to shoot, fire, blaze, dispatch,
send fingerlings back to black
There, again, wait for mandatory first light.
Born, new fodder, no creel
for last gasp anywhere in sight.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Ruined, buried, lost
Weighed down, hollow, on caprice,
I flee east — Utah, Blanding,
check in, try to eat at Yaks —
won’t serve the masked. Drive south,
hike brushy draw to shrouded ruins
near Butler Wash. Overhang, high,
cut so deep breezes swept away
summer heat. Clean clay walls,
vast windows facing west, ceilings
ancient Hopi could stand upright in.
A cavern behind, huge, room enough
to dance. Path down to willowed stream,
fire pit, wide — ten ears of corn
could roast side by side. Elders believed
this place would last forever —
until the cliff collapsed. Dwellers
went to sleep, their bellies full, safe
from raids, certain of another dawn.
Midnight, a quake, maybe rain,
or sandstone under strain. The wall
came down, buried children, parents,
lovers, dogs. They lie below, still,
I gather pottery shards, place them
face-up in a line, peer into cave.
I recite their lives, see spirits rise
from darkness, scream in black wind,
chase me down the flume. Alone,
motel room, I pace, brood, rue
old ruins, mostly mine, unearth
fresh gloom. Finally, sleep. The dead
come to life, plunder my dream,
bury me, leave me behind.
(published by Howl)
Sea change
Floe broken free, mere speck now,
bear cubs whine, drift south.
They prowl the ice.
Mom dives in, swims to them —
for quite some time.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Whatcom Watch)
Shadow burial
Horizon jagged near sundown,
I stop tottered trek, find clearing,
stream, make fire, camp.
With luck, I’ll outlast night.
Squawk of jays in tree conjures back
boyhood life — father of my father,
his memory flares, cruel,
immerses me in what sowed hate.
Not so much back of hand,
fast, hard, on pimpled face. Nor scorn
sprayed for chores left undone,
irreverent talk, refusal to pray.
More, ferity seen as I lay tall-grassed
near willows, bank of creek.
High ladder, he reaches deep
through leaves, magpie nest,
scoops babies, beaks open wide
eager to eat. He strokes each a bit,
then rips head off tiny black neck.
Blood-spurt memory still beset
fifty years hence, I namaste
my wrinkled hands, breathe in,
hum low. I bury this shadow,
forgive him again, then forget.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Siphon
Tubes snake toward me, stop
to drip. I fear any deep breath
may bring them to life, lie
deathly still. Vow to find a way
to say immunity should not be given
carte blanche. Dread the phone tree,
waiting, all those lines.
Meanwhile, a patriotic catheter
sucks another lifetime out of me.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Snippet
I drop my sewing needle,
open screen, let in what’s left
of day. On a whim, use scissors,
cut me out of her photo album —
toss the ragged bits away.
Still un-cleansed, upset, I snip
a passing fly in half. One winged side
gyres down, a gossamer glide —
the other dives. I feel a modicum
of sheared delight, hope briefly
to discover if self-loathing contains
intricacies beyond mere suffering.
Maybe I’ll find within a single
trimmed snippet whether impulsive,
mesmeric frenzy has anything
to do with random vasectomies.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Spelling lesson
Wilderness date, temp in teens,
she, libraried woman, organic,
me, college dropout, outdoor
winter dude extreme. We ski
five miles in, make camp, huddle
by fire, get Clif barred, souped,
red wined. Shivered, close to three,
we tent, one bag, share the heat —
twice. By now it’s dusk, moon,
up full, beckoning. I fail to say,
let’s cuddle, chat, share dreams,
instead, buzzed, restless, ask,
Want to night ski? Later, learn how
to spell apoplectic — she reads
till nine, goes to pee, feigns sleep
all night, her back icing me.
(published by Jeopardy; accepted by Spindrift )
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.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Harbinger Asylum)
Stopping time
(for Carolyn)
I dream we two lie close,
you, feign sleep, spooned, at peace —
me, behind, begging darkness
not to go. I listen to your heart,
seize each beat, imagine clock hands
moved to pause, not pass by —
instead, turn, touch, intertwine.
Our shadows, too, converge,
unite — repeat, all night.
I lose track of stopping time.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Supreme brilliance
The newly dead — a range diverse —
arrive from Earth, shuffle to the line.
Twelve hours a day, side by side
they refurbish used souls, forever.
Same routine — renew, pack, ship
until hell lies under ice. The problem,
for God — increase yield, prevent
petty spats. Her solution, brilliant, shrewd —
between workers who are deaf
put one with Tourette’s.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Swagger goes, tears flow
(for the dead children of Uvalde)
A novel dream windhoves in —
late spring day, America finally births
real change — helps boys, men,
expel rage, begin to breathe,
toss Berettas, Glocks, Colts away.
Sacked, purged — deep urge to kill.
Lets children play, laugh, live.
Makes school yards safe. Even rabbits,
ravens, robins, wrens escape,
no longer practice targets
of the killing craze. Quite a change,
deranged shooters — always male —
throwing aside the tough guys pose,
not blogging hate, not firing away.
People everywhere melt guns —
generals bury grenades, rockets,
missiles, drones. Men, young, old
begin to think. They cry, care,
admit feelings, stop the swagger,
cease to seethe. Women sigh,
revel in relief — love the peace.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Three-layer dawn
The universe flickers, chokes my dream
with an inky blanket of woe. I face
a single flame, sit cross-legged,
watch it quaver, undulate, wave —
wonder how ties, once strong,
at quite a price, turned worn, stretched,
frayed. How amity lost its refrain.
My eyelids zip up, streak down —
can’t erase lies, taunts, cruel slights.
I must focus — breathe out, in, hold.
Somehow reclaim. Turn dying flame
to fire, fire to blaze. Find redemption
inspired by cats, whose blink is slow —
like frosting glacially layered
on cake, smoothed over iris, pupil,
white. Eyelids, bit by bit, inched low
to closed. After a time, un-rushed,
rising to show love, friendship, trust —
where I must go. Awaken, re-bond,
celebrate a three-layer dawn.
(published by Whatcom Writes Anthology)
To Exxon 30 years later
(after “To Exxon” 1989)
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.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Cascadia Rising Review )
Unbalanced
I focus, dream, wrap memories tight,
become the indelible center
of my life. I refuse to accept
rejection, loss, the end of hope.
I explode mosquitos, catch the scent,
bury knives in ice, deep-fry lies,
smudge my life. Make a bucket list,
rename shame. I map water,
seduce metaphors, eat bitter hearts,
paint souls black, do the splits.
I have grit, find a way to guide
Odysseus back. My tools — myself,
a Swiss Army knife, good shit.
I use two pillows, sleep fast,
dream on key, fence-in night.
I go viral in Norway, hook
black sky, teach Penelope to weave.
At dawn, she escapes me.
(published by Quibble Lit)
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
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.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Windfall)
Uprooted
Online pets — buy the fluffy puppy,
cute kitten, fecund opportunity,
add joy to a small child’s life.
Later, understand my complicit role
in sadness created by departure —
forever severed, mother’s touch.
It’s not merely the leaving. More,
love cut by distance — fragile one
abandoned, heart pounding,
eyes bright from new life of grief.
Once uprooted, puppy learns
to play, kitten, snuggle, purr,
seemingly happy in a new home —
clearly, only my assumption.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
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.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Sleet Magazine)
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)
Watercolor sorrow
I dip my brush, paint despair —
sable turned from fawn and gray,
the size, three by five. Next, loss,
vanished before re-dip — larger, a bit.
Life faded like mist, gone to white
then off the canvas. My plan,
put four paintings in one design —
these two, plus hope, mixed in,
gold streak caught in eddy flow,
whirled once, swept downstream.
And death, burly, in the corner —
onyx moon full, at night,
chunks of black star languishing.
Like campfire coals, inked,
unlit. My vow after this dream,
cap colors, rinse my brush clean.
(published by Red Coyote)
White hole
Sun after sun grabbed, sucked in.
Planets, too, vacuumed by darkness,
everything forced to night,
consumed by cosmic fabric flaw,
zip-lined down a Black Hole —
into a new universe, fluorescent. bright.
Only to streak — meteoric ride across,
to its far side — past onyx moons,
charcoal stars, inked comets.
Black background spatter, speeding,
ebonized specks on a tapestry
of light. At the shining edge,
drawn in a rift, again —
this one, a hole seething, white.
(published by Mercury Retrograde)
Winding up winding down
Memories swirl by un-queued, like a top
spinning, wobble, mere beginning
of turning to un-spun. Dreams
askew — blur of gold, fuchsia,
white, blue, careen to blackness,
dizzy journey along sunset frozen red.
I carve a last whistle from willow,
cliff-paint mantis, stilted, still,
sculpt ravens in salt, outline them
with snow. I forget lies, slights,
crawl diapered in circles ever more wide.
Fear the final letting-go,
I don’t know you, call you evil,
wish you dead. Bitter end of the end,
I forgive myself, then forget.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry )