Welcome to Pilgrim’s poetry page for 2023, a year in which Pilgrim saw thirty-one poems chosen.
The final poem accepted just before year’s end was “Time to go” — by Mad Swirl.
Chosen just prior were “Puree still air” and “Ceremonial” by Toasted Cheese. The journal had an embargo period of 60 days, so the two poems can be found under Poems published lately.
“A-fib” (see below) was also chosen by The Bond Street Review near the end of 2023 and published in February of 2024. It is displayed below as well as in Poems published lately.
“Slick — to Exxon then and BP now,” an environmental poem first published in 2012 by Poets for Living Water, appears below — in connection with its Ghent and Amsterdam inclusion in the late September 2023 oratorium by UK composer James Wood. (See more information on Pilgrim’s home page.)
All poems below appear in alphabetical order, and Pilgrim’s photos and photo-illustrations, along with watercolors by the late Mary Dale, are sprinkled among them. Dale’s watercolors (some found more than once on this website) were photographed by the late Bud Dale.
All Pilgrim poems are linked in chronological categories in the sidebar — for example, Poems published 2020-21.
A-fib
I cannot tell the doctor’s lie
from heart flutter,
vow to do more squats
so blood won’t pool
in an atrium, clot. My fake self
believes I passed all tests,
sneaks me past surgery theaters
to a movie set. We cower
on a cliff above a plywood town,
keep sharp lookout for the sheriff
said to carry catheters
in each holster. Fake me offers
a noosed rope, says belay
to the general store, bring back brie,
ice cream, chocolate, wine.
Hunger drives me to the edge.
I strap both ventricles down.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Augur
Her gaze searches crowd,
finds him, drops shy — town picnic,
pre-fireworks sky. He’s the lover now,
not me, I surmise, somehow endure
the technicolored night. She doesn’t see
me see hot memories rise,
bring brightness to her eyes.
Love lasts seven years,
then expires, she said back then,
confession punctuated by fiery kiss.
I believed myself to have undone
any denouement, doused finale,
extinguished the inevitable end.
Only to augur it yet again.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Autumn fall, yawn
Boring, Grand Canyon, deep,
ribbon-river below sheared
by sharp cliffs. Wearisome — desert,
parched, stretched out, flat,
red sky lured black. Mundane,
my eyes, swollen, throat cracked.
So pedestrian, crawl to edge, the lean-out,
the drool, the regret. Very trite,
October light vanishing, gray dusk
swallowed too. Not to mention,
tedious, sleep coming at midnight,
fall reflected by the rising moon.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
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 High on Adventure; first published by Clover, a Literary Rag)
Beat me up
Sky dances four shades of blue,
evades cloud-frowns blown
like a bad past across it,
turbulent as canyon river foam.
I believe for a time I see him,
still alive, hazel eyes not stormy,
like mine. Lupines bow low,
swoop wild in wind, admonish me,
confess. I recall summer hike here —
trail headed sunward, him left behind —
I moved out, upward, alone,
along the granite ridge. He hid,
shy, never waved goodbye. Sheer edge
still here, no way to turn, I reach
into mist, come up empty.
Maybe in the fall, if I whip myself
sufficiently with this memory,
on the way down, I won’t flail.
(published by Toasted Cheese)
Bookmarked dreams
Real dreams having fled me,
nightmares gone too, I wake
before dawn, curse the night,
stream a faked dream instead.
I close eyes, hold breath, trust
to be soothed — though it’s a lie.
Tonight, rock concert tour,
me, lead singer, Clapton-like,
with dreads. Witty, fit, not tone-deaf,
to-die-for in bed. These me-dreams,
bookmarked, yellow-stickied, queued
in my head. Rich, happy, sheaths
of friends, loved by my children,
I give big to homeless, shelters,
even my sibs. One marker, though,
ragged, for a dream I repeat —
my heart beats on its own,
like magic, I sleep.
(published by 13 Miles from Cleveland)
Bound together with tears
A dream drifts in, conjures loss,
rivers me aswirl downstream,
imagined yet unfeigned, sunk
from view. Like a story read to death,
pages loose from spine — our tale,
stormy, false, yet falsely true.
Like a shadow bright in buried light.
Or, maybe kindred color, orange,
no longer faithful complement
to blue. I plunge to black, fear
love has gone under, too —
until I wake, begin to breathe,
find her beside, still asleep. My tears
extol our story, bind us together.
The undertow releases me.
(published by Whatcom Writes Anthology)
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.
(republished by High on Adventure, first published by Mad Swirl)
Choosing second person
If you could re-live life,
it would look like this —
lurk shadowed outside,
peer in, study yourself.
Wish for no more snow,
a bit of warmth, enough time
to wonder if you could stand
being in there with you.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
Duke of dance
He kicks high, jumps, spins,
kicks again. The duke is sixty,
doesn’t know it — his knees work.
Gray beard, gold tee, green shorts,
legs fish-belly white, he swirls
across the lawn, purple cape
floating up with twang of guitars
from the summer city park band.
I keep time in a low chair,
swig water bottle, half gin, grin,
drool as I sip. He goose-steps
my way, mimes Bojangles —
tears of fifteen years …his dog
up and died. Lap-danced by royalty,
I convert to groupie, know Bo
had nothing on this sexagenarian
even if all county fair were tallied.
The song ends, duke stills himself,
stands statued in damp grass, cloak
pulled tight over head. I fear briefly
no breath will rush in.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published in spring by Jeopardy)
Fawn
Dawn, twins arrive, behind the fir,
her second year of birth. By noon
a third lies dead near spotted lumps
asleep in leaves under dogwood tree.
She has time to feed on tulips,
columbine, laurel, choice weeds.
I sneak out, cover what’s left
of blueberry with net, leave salt,
tub of water, lock the gate.
Four hours pass, my window vigil —
are they alive — YES, first, one,
then the other totters out, begins
to nurse. Garden-pot-tall,
spindly, unsure, they stray,
nose the grass. Ears rise, turn
to each new sound, somehow
they re-find her, reach up, nuzzle,
drink. Both wobble away, lie
amid planters warmed by sun —
begin to nap. Mom reclines, rests
in grass, chews, grooms — ears
keep track of cat on patio,
boys-brawl next door, blended sounds
of skittering squirrel,
dipping jay, pressure-washer whir.
The pattern repeats three times,
dusk, dark — I fail to sleep.
Day two mirrors one — teeter
through salal, day lilies, taste peas,
return to teat. Rest three hours, nose
young leeks, cross lawn, find mom.
Third morning, she leaps the gate,
I prop it open, later see her go,
twins in tow. They lurch along —
to gone. I bury the dead fawn.
(published by Toasted Cheese)
Flying Jack Daniel’s to a séance with Theodore Roethke
Our imaginary cockpit
was lit by candlelight
as I strapped in beside you
grinning sweaty at the stick.
Your whiskey laugh, wild breath
said the flight ahead
would be a dance of pleasure,
sky-crazed waltz with death.
We chased Wordsworth’s nightingale
across a dark cloud bank
then buzzed Aphrodite
sunning naked on her back.
Spotting Xanadu below us,
we plunged into the wind
and climbed, chasing blithe spirits
skylarking in Coleridgean sin.
One last shot of Jack gulped down,
we whirled skyward just for fun
then crashed into ocean breakers
beneath the smoldering sun.
(published by 13 Miles from Cleveland)
A form of remorse
It feels much like a noose, anyway —
sleep, troubled, the Earth’s lithe back
turned, Peneloped, to me. Unraveled,
nature long ground down, us, all quite okay
with waste, ruin, decay. I drift to sleep,
from elfin scaffold see what will be —
tiny house, windows closed,
no water for micro-lawn, trifling vines,
mini-garden, grape tomatoes,
baby peas. Dwarf shadows fall
from Bonsai trees. It’s now a given,
rusted Lexus, thawed tundra, empty dam.
Rotted mansion, guesthouse,
yacht. Cruise ship north, watch
glaciers calve, melt to zip,
nada — no reprieve, any hope
for petite demise, gone. Only hope,
a rope too long, last words,
the entire Odyssey, in Greek.
I’ll speak them hanging, upside-down.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
Hindsight
An unnecessary comma near the end
of her fiery text creates temporary doubt,
much like an m left out of comma itself
would render me unconscious for months.
Causes rethinking the wisdom to reach out,
mention our sensual encounter last night —
passionate tryst after heated discussion
about eroticism in Rossetti’s Goblin Market.
Clearly prompted her to tap back with fury,
disclaim any romp with flibbertigibbet (me)
who dares to recount reputed nakedness
after nonexistent melt and drip. In hindsight,
understandable, a vicious digital flaming
intended to preempt early pre-supposition.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
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 High on Adventure; first published by Harbinger Asylum)
Inventing fake me
Mocking, irreverent, tongue-cheeked,
I’ll text strong, only my pronouns
shadowing me. Double entendre
what I say, refuse to shave,
wear bamboo shirt, modal briefs.
I’ll tuck I Ching coins into my jeans,
wry smile, tweet what I eat —
asparagus poutine, three times a day.
I’ll fake follow this fake me.
Post diatribes on a website page,
the background, black, my burning words,
white, of course, set italic, all in caps.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Latte life
Gnats, a churning cloud, swirl past
my drive-thru pane. They dance,
whirl, flit en mass, puree still air
in growing damp. I fake-smile
at ordering pricks, stir, mix,
liquify. Sun fades to gray,
wipes the entire swirl away.
I clock out, flip off night,
blunge myself a crap latte.
In the end, I slog home alone —
blackness pours in again.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
Mouth-breather
(with a nod to Rick Popish, Alex Vouri & others)
Living in a living building
turns out to be disappointment,
suffocates whoever’s good life
I’m trying to lead. It’s a given,
intermission wine will be shitty —
but the mouth-breather beside me
in yoga class makes me want to drop
a bottle of juice at Whole Food,
see if it spews back, not forth. Forget
the china in mom’s sacred hutch
or inane fear of getting undressed
in front of the dog. Reality
is really out there — not different,
depending on whose point of view.
I’ll never wish to be shaded
by banjo strings or eager to kiss a stick
of butter. My eagle pose might suck
but I exhale through my nose, follow
each breath to peace — my pronouns
floating free, escaping rusty barbs
on the roof-top garden fence.
(published by Quibble Lit)
No time-outs left
The coming end wraps my sleeve
like a letter jacket stripe.
Each friend’s death circles,
doesn’t cheer me on. I am stuck
court-side at the game,
only dreaming of a halftime show —
long-legged girls kicking high,
pert pompoms bobbing white,
in synch along the free-throw line.
It was Castaneda who called
old age the last enemy
of a person of knowledge.
Transformed himself to afterthought
when fake peyote stories
turned his existence into a lie.
I will never shift shape — become
wolf, puma, star player, crow.
Not smoke good stuff, dunk, dribble,
drum. Leap off a cliff, survive.
Past tense need not be a sentence
of loss. I must change my gaze,
focus, refuse to leave the court early,
watch game’s last moments,
breathless, from a balcony grave.
(published by Cirque)
Quantum depression
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
I am livid about Dark Energy,
seethe when I think of its mission —
destroy all space, and time.
Fear I’ll live to one hundred, wake up
not dead, live my entire life again.
This time, own a ranch, an island,
fly alone from one to the other
in a private jet. My ill will builds
for physicists, even if they’ve found
light has weight. I try to recall
whether I took my meds, opt to forget.
Call up special hate for Photons,
puppeteers of Black Lightning.
Decide to kite-fly naked, at midnight,
taunt the coming storm.
(published by Cascadia Daily News; similar version with different title accepted for republication by The Bond Street Review)
Quantum hate
(with an nod to Rick Popish)
I am livid about Dark Energy,
seethe when I think of its mission —
destroy all space, and time.
Want to have my suburban mansion,
two garages, three sheds.
Live till one hundred, wake up
not dead, live my entire life again.
This time, own a ranch, an island,
fly from one to the other
in a private jet. My distaste builds
for physics, even if they’ve found
light has weight. Swear not to take
anti-depressants ever again.
Call up special hate for Photons,
puppeteers of Black Lightning,
vow to fly my kite, naked, in a storm.
(published by The Bond Street Review; first published by Cascadia Daily News as a similar poem, “Quantum depression”)
Quid pro mow
Optical conclusion — lawn needs
a trim, except the mounds of brown
folded in grass by sheared stalks
of columbine, camas, currant, rose.
Near tulips, also sampled,
ripped, nibbled, stripped. A doe,
in tall grass — beside, twin fawns,
asleep, spots still damp. My bad,
sad, push clanky antique,
go slow, give wide berth —
passive-aggressive mow, brief,
discreet. At first blade whirr,
she bolts, wobbly fawns in gangly tow.
Regret slices deep in me.
(published by Whatcom Watch)
Salt lick
I lie still, half-breathing
listen for steps, faint,
hesitant, deft. She glides
from the shadows, pauses,
holds breath, intent.
Slips toward me like a doe
summoned by salt lying white,
to be licked. She lifts
nightgown off, tosses it aside,
creeps to bed. In moonlight,
her skin glistens, backlit.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Sea change
Floe broken free, mere speck now,
bear cubs whine, drift south.
They prowl the ice.
Mom dives in, swims to them —
for a time.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Whatcom Watch)
Slick — to Exxon then and BP now
I.
Number of the 23 species seriously depleted by the 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill that have recovered — 1
— Harpers Index, September 1997
“The current worst-case estimate of what’s spewing into the Gulf (of Mexico by BP’s Deepwater Horizon oil well) is 2.5 million gallons a day.”
— Associated Press, June 24, 2010
You brought new meaning to robber baron,
taught us to know
black snow on Tundra,
scrape frozen sod primed with promises
even Arctic fox knew to be lies.
Your lawyers slapping backs in bars,
buying free drinks — all these brought sadness
even dutiful glaciers could not scrub away.
We tromped black sand, piled oily birds,
seals, cheek-high, set them ablaze,
watched the pyre outshine frosty dusk.
Our breath froze white
on the darkened beach. That night
we burned ice to stay warm.
II.
“This was a tragic and terrible event, and one for which the company has paid dearly. …”
— Walter Dellinger arguing for Exxon before the U.S. Supreme Court, February 2008.
The rocky shore lay bare,
helicopters, skimmers,
hoses, booms, all gone,
seabird washers, beach workers,
dead sea otters, harbor seals,
even the Valdez, gone too.
No more hot salt spray
spreading the goo around.
A lone mallard struggled in,
staggered up the beach,
tried to preen, gave up,
too many green feathers matted down.
He turned, wobbled to the Sound,
where he drowned.
III.
“The U.S. Supreme Court on Wednesday gutted punitive damages awarded to victims of the Exxon Valdez spill … slashing the award from $2.5 billion to $500 million.”
— The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, June, 26, 2008
“BP CEO Tony Hayward … took a break from his oil spill duties in the Gulf of Mexico to attend a yacht race … in the English Channel.”
— Politics Daily, June 1, 2010
We buried another fisher today,
dropped a handful of greasy sod,
a few black rocks in the grave —
at dusk kindled his boat,
its hold empty 21 years until BP killed the Gulf.
We set our tribute adrift,
watched the whole bay catch fire,
flames race to shore, climb sand,
burn a row of skiffs.
No terns turned high,
no eagles swooped low. Out on the Sound
your tanker droned.
In its wake, nine sleek crows
escorted another bloated walrus home.
(parts performed in September 2023 in Ghent and Amsterdam as part of James Wood’s oratorium Apokalypsis; first published by Poets for Living Waters)
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 in The Best of Mad Swirl: 2022)
Surgery daze
Nurse wheels me, gurneyed,
long hall — count back,
let go, dream. I drift to thrift store,
float near saws, buy a wit machine
for a song. Starts, runs, pumps out
slogans, puns, Google ads.
Bumper stickers — stupid, glib,
patriotic puke gagging me.
I aim spout down drain,
watch my blood lead the way.
Last gem to go, Americans —
tolerant, selfless, free.
I awake bandaged, mouth, dry,
tasting of phrase, hint of cliche —
brain, what’s left, half-decayed.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
Time to go
Bearded guy idles up, Ram truck,
exhaust-cloud spewing rage
toward the gunless. Chaw in cheek,
sneer, deep suck, fifty-caliber spit
blown past, I fear a plethora
of slaughters will soon splatter
my shoes, my pants — am driven
to finish fueling fast,
hit the road to any city north.
Later I allow me to believe
rifles in his gun rack
held only hollow-point poems.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Unherded geese
Trumpeted solo on the edge
of evening sky, candles unlit —
drooling, all, enduring traits.
Not quite like not catching yourself
on fire, just to be safe. Flight
away from the South, nooses black,
everything else, white. A secure pond,
by gaggle, by dawn. The hope,
survive night, maybe vote.
Put out of mind they shoot
at darkness until fall is seen.
Bullet after bullet cheers, claps
when you say it’s all done
with mirrors. Speed on,
honk when passing,
no tweeting allowed.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
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
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Clover, a literary rag)
Wasting liberals
Seventy-seven percent of confirmed
congressional gun owners are Republican
— PewResearch.org, Aug. 25, 2022
We must seize the hour, act
since three of us have Glocks
for each of them who packs.
Their pretty guns — in velvet,
locked safe in safes, the ammo
hidden far back under Vax card,
title to hybrid, passwords, cash.
Homeless-loving whiners,
babblers of justice, rights,
fairness in who casts votes —
it makes real patriots want to puke.
Definitely time to stock up,
score AKs, bazookas, grenades —
before the lefties get a clue,
move to shotguns, rifles
with scopes, read instructions,
learn to load, aim, shoot.
Cry-babies, maybe it’s time
to erase a blue state or two.
(published by The Bond Street Review)