This Pilgrim page features poems accepted or published in 2025 — a total of 28.
The last poems accepted were by Bare Hills Review , selecting a trio of Pilgrim’s poems — “End flow,” “Correct” and “Swimming free.”
November saw Whatcom Writes Anthology accept for its 2026 edition Pilgrim’s poem, “Garden family” (available here later in 2026).
Earlier, Tipton Poetry Journal accepted “Out of vogue,” and High on Adventure published “Speechless” and Mad Swirl, “Swirled down.”
Among other acceptances, “Printing press cleanup site” was printed earlier by Whatcom Watch, and “Putting doves to sleep,” by Cirque.
A different version of “Printing press…” was published in 2024 under the title “In conclusion” by Empty Bowl for The Madrona Project.
Also seeing print or pixels earlier this year was “Sea ceremony” by Explorations, an online journal of the Climate Psychology Alliance.
“Quieten” and “Final say” by The Bond Street Review and “Indulged,” “Petrichoric” and “Earth ceremony” by Sage Magazine (from Yale School of the Environment) are now available as well.
In additon, Hawaii Pacific Review published “Fitted sheet” (also to be republished in 2026 by Silent Publications in an anthology) in April, and High on Adventure chose “Montana absolution, of a kind” for use at a later date.
Three bonus poems are printed below: “Trinity remorse” (accepted Fall 2024 by Here: a poetry journal and under embargo until the print editon appeared), “No red books” (accepted Fall 2024 and printed in March in Whatcom Writes Anthology) and “Gutting” (accepted by Toasted Cheese Fall 2024 and under embargo until this year).
All Pilgrim’s poetry pages feature accompanying art, mostly watercolors by the late Mary Dale (photographed by the late Bud Dale), but also photos and photo-illustrations by Pilgrim and Carolyn Dale and others.
Thanks for visiting — enjoy these poems!
———–
Back
Sundown, mom waits with fawns,
knows I will cave, open the gate.
Permit her inside again, twins,
safe. It’s a matter of trust —
they totter, can’t leap the high fence,
escape. She found her own life here
amid ferns, behind snowberry
under the fir. Stood wobbly,
shivered beneath her mom.
I’ve said many goodbyes
to sorrel, anemone, laurel, rose.
She reclines, ears up, chews,
closes doe eyes. Fawns frolic
in nasturtium, feast on astilbe
jump arugula, leeks, beets. Finally,
they settle, sleep. It’s summer,
light fades around nine.
I’ll latch them in, from the night.
(published by High on Adventure)
Bellingham Caesar
Roam Holly Street, search out
wooden bowl, bamboo spoons.
Press garlic cloves, at least three,
grab lemon tight, squeeze, squeeze,
pour juice in, then add dijon —
a heaping spoon of Maille
or Grey Poupon. Pepper, black,
just a pinch, coarse, ground,
two of salt, slosh around.
Worcestershire splashed,
four anchovies mashed,
stir the golden, chunky mix
then drizzle olive oil in,
whirl, swirl, make sauce thick.
Romaine lettuce, Northwest grown,
green, washed, spun desert dry,
ripped by hand to bite-size chunks,
no pallid leaves, no bulky stems,
toss together, add grated cheese —
Parmesan, Pecorino among the best —
top with avocado if you please.
Eat this Caesar when subdued,
after meal, in peace, yes last,
as is done in southern France.
(republished by High on Adventure; slightly different version first published in Bellingham Poems by Flying Trout Press in 2014)
Cookies of shame
Lying there blotched, chunky, flawed,
hideous bumps sticking up.
The disfigured, cowering among
the perfect. Sad testimony
to carelessness in shaping,
failed fecundation — or worse.
I sense warmth, fervor,
desperate desire for touch,
nibble, tongue, lips.
Karma seems to be saying
eat the ugliest ones first.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Correct
Out wobbling in a walker
ghost crosses street, stops
whispers I know I’m right
about one thing — nipples.
Squeeze them tight, let go,
then repeat. Turns
floats off. Leaves the metaphor
electric enough to intensify
my own end.
(accepted by Bare Hills Review)
Earth ceremony
Riled river, glacier melting above,
drumbeats pummel bonfire, invoke
Mother Earth. We summon ancients,
power, unkindness of ravens, murders
of crows, hope for deep snow.
Circle blaze, chant, whirl dance.
Spirits drift from darkness,
bring dry moss, twigs, sift them
into embers almost ash.We add sticks,
bend low, blow, flames flicker back.
Sparks rise float past birch, cedar,
spruce, night slinks off, cowers
a bit. The moon draws in its breath,
I hold mine too.
(published by Sage Magazine)
End flow
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
Ancient, leaky, trapped, I feign sleep,
fake-dream glaciers still exist,
turn purple at dusk, mate, darker ones
on top. Somewhere beyond the first stars,
galaxies dance around a black hole,
merge, slip slowly in together.
Dark energy gorges on all that’s left
of time, eager to devour space too.
Meanwhile, the universe surges south,
tiny speck in a river undiscovered
or named. Not to mention the ocean
where it goes. Here, a diligent spider
spins its latest web on my ceiling,
its shadow spinning a blacker one down
the edge of night. Futile of me
to conjure fiery passion, heat again —
afterward, the glow. Tomorrow, an equinox,
my tasks — stand eggs on end, recall
decades wasted, Earth damage done.
Better, I dive deep into my dream life,
find a parallel universe not yet melted,
wending along in a mirrored stream.
My end — dangle guilty, alone, above
each sleepless, quantum moment.
Trag-ironic, especially when what I think
I know, I will forget too, wherever I go.
(accepted by Bare Hills Review)
Facing eighty
I don’t clearly recollect
if this place is mine, if I’m visiting
or here to stay. If I took my meds,
moments later, took them again.
If I had pizza for lunch — or a steak.
If I ate it all, washed the scraps,
threw plate away. I don’t recall
if my wife lives, if she’s the one
who bathes me, dresses in white.
If I have children, if they phone,
visit or even write. I do hear
from a niece in jail — she caused
a wreck. I send her gift cards,
sometimes write checks.
(published by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Facts worth knowing
Our last big clash, why affection
for anyone other than ourselves
withers as we flow toward death.
Lost somewhere, the truth
about the void between us,
complicated by iced silence,
mostly mine. Whereas, it’s a fact
to banish rats, use pounded glass
splashed with dry corn meal.
Not enough to apologize — instead,
I offer a saying, boiled walnut bark
can darken eyebrows gone from gray
to white. And so, the day turns bad,
divides itself, bringing sundown closer,
faster, the finish depending on upset
sealing off each heart. Matters not
if a hot iron will soften putty,
unlike anger, easily lift it away.
Contempt pulses, ebbs. Love splits,
often jaggedly, but hardly ever
in half. To repair the ending,
I must first find one small tear.
(published by Jeopardy Magazine)
Final say
Religious youth sneaks Glock
to school, averts murder spree,
kills weird dude before he shoots.
Students flee, hands over heads —
boy with Glock accidentally shot,
blown away by a Swat-team cop.
Father who came to save his son
snuffs the sniper with a backup gun.
Passing priest takes revenge,
pulls out Uzi, blasts the dad.
Padre, too, gets erased, from above,
out of love — the final say.
(published by The Bond Street Review; earlier version first published by Convergence)
Fitted sheet
We’re making the bed
after the night of failure
not that it’s always like that.
But it does happen
sometimes, given my age
and I wonder if it’s even possible
to fold a fitted sheet
shrunken, wrinkled, sad.
By the time it’s stretched out
all corners finally tucked
we’re both sweating, staring
at each other across the void
of taut whiteness
her with the two firm pillows
me, alone with the comforter
almost all down.
(published by Hawaii Pacific Review, and later chosen by Silent Publications in Puerto Rico for an upcoming anthology)
Gutting
I carry my wounds with me
bottom-deep in canvas creel,
grassy path winding past pine,
you following behind. We don’t speak,
keep distance between us, in part
to let fly rods swing free. A meadow
opens wide, mint high, both sides
along the creek, serpent-like, serene.
We tie on leader, add Coachmen —
red-wrapped royalty, bright guards
of the curved barbs. I recall last night,
words cast your way in lantern light —
cruel enough to divide the tent.
I lower to knees, cock rod, float fly
up, let it drop soft on stream, feign
a struggle, begin to drift. The splash,
a tug, I jerk, lift caught cutthroat
into tall grass, follow green line
to its frantic thrash. Now I’m seen —
the fish, like you, goes quiet as hope
run out. Knife handle blow to head,
sharp spasm, one more, death.
I blade a slim slit, gills to tail,
pull out entrails, including heart.
Fling them far across creek, exhale.
Red hands scrubbed, I scan the horizon —
a silhouette, lithe, standing in green.
You fish alone, headed downstream.
(published in 2024 by Toasted Cheese, embargo lifted 2025)
Indulged
Two eagles on snarled snag
scan the spit, study bay, beach,
grass. Beaks yellow, eyes gold,
heads white, feathers preened,
slicked back. Talons dabbed
with essence of sockeye
dig deep into dead branch.
Below, with my phone, I am still,
so there, silent, they let me be —
not gripped, carried off, guilty,
white flesh to be stripped.
(published by Sage Magazine)
LaPush
Wend away from Kalaloch, leave miles
of beached cedar logs behind, pass
Ruby Beach, sand there, a gritty craddle
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, mossed rain-forest
gone rain-insane — two hundred inches
of drizzle tricking huckleberry bushes
into taking root in crook of cedar,
new life fifty feet off the ground.
Refuse to be fooled — head north
for Forks, turn west, make for LaPush,
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,
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,
check in, find every other stair
to your Fifties room half-rotten, siding
slime green, gray curtains, ragged,
ripped to shreds like black spaces
between bony remains of your life.
Sit by the dirty window. Stare. Look
for endless gray before what passes
as anemic sun floats belly up into night.
(published by High on Adventure; first published by Windfall)
Montana absolution, of a kind
Seattle fled, for good, I skim Missoula,
let Wisdom wait one more day,
on megrim drive to Bannack,
ghost-town shacks all sagged-in, gray.
Here, Sheriff Plummer hid in sage,
ambushed miners headed home,
stole their gold. He stashed loot,
ambled back, downed drinks with the men,
seduced their wives. Like our crooked leader,
loved himself too much. Town folks
found the truth, wouldn’t trade his life
for promised map to cache, hanged him
by Grasshopper Creek. I can learn from this —
pan for luck, find glittering dreams,
with enough whiskey become worthy,
even in my eyes. On a full moon, discover
some right way back. Or not.
Bannack’s one street still weaves with ruts,
chokes on dusk, flees each day both ways
at dusk. Total absolution, they say,
is rare, may lie only in the leaving.
I’ll be a long time leaving lies.
(published by High on Adventure)
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 aftermath streaks home.
(republished by Whatcom Watch)
No red books
Montana, me a teen, summer day,
studied ritual of bloodiness I hate.
In my memory — big sky, dawn,
family up, everything prepped near shed.
Roosters, hens, feet clenched, peck
a pattern, cluck a collective cluck
when shooed near the chopping block.
Dad, ax, Mom, gutting-knife, sis,
scalding-tub. My job — stretch out
the neck, hold firm with stick, deflect
each gold-eyed stare a bit.
Swift chop, head lopped off,
chicken freed to circle-prance,
dance, spray the wet grass red.
Guts gone, birds get dunked,
plucked, singed, packed to freeze.
Last gash left behind, queasy,
I bike to town, weave the streets,
rest in shade, quiet as required,
on library steps. A shaken guest,
I erase my blood-geysered day
with books, books, books, also silent
in rows, roosting on shelves.
Unharmed, at peace, entrails intact,
eager to be read.
(accepted 2024 and published in 2025 in Whatcom Writes Anthology)
No winter picnic
Camping date, iced gusts sweep in,
smoke follows beauty, I say.
You smile, stomp out cold, twirl
and spin. I coax fire to life,
twigs grow bright, subside, die
to glow. I blow coals back
from black, make flames rise,
spit. You whirl past, flash
a grin — slip away, too fast,
me, too slow. Just then,
a branch of snow lets go.
(published by High on Adventure)
Out of vogue
A modicum of ruth remains
inside me just below the spleen.
Empathy, sadness remorse
wee feelings of caring caught
in crouch, cower, cringe. Safe
for now from stony scoff
scorn, taunt, heinous hate.
Meantime all around, anchored
in anger, swagger, conceit
being ruthless remains the rage.
(different version accepted by Tipton Poetry Journal)
Petrichoric
Water skippers slow-skim,
dodge smatter, storm’s last drops.
Fragrant waft lifts off mint,
stream goes rain-drooped to serene.
I toss aside idée fixe — rod, flies,
fish — let memories flow in,
follow her sweet scent along the bank,
lay my head among damp leaves.
I evoke soft touch to throat,
cheek, lip graze on lips, the kiss.
I breathe, in, deep, hold —
bouquet back, clasped, replete —
past caught, creeled, not released.
(published by Sage Magazine)
Printing press cleanup site
Newspapers produced here left behind
more than scraps of lost lives, scream
of sales, weddings, crashes, heaps
of political lies. When presses stopped,
ink dripped, pooled, gooed good earth
black. Darkroom chems, long time
escaping vats, seeped, streamed,
found hidden paths to gutters, streams.
Lead came heavy on soil, fresh
from announcing the newly dead —
infamy, added to weight of alphabet.
Vowels seemed relatively innocent,
even lithe, trudging to gray piles,
toxic, behind consonants.
Whole classified ads, their font, Times,
two inches wide, set ten points high,
left, with headlines, poisoned wakes.
Every paper, guilty, unaware, happy
to announce playoffs, Oscars, storms,
where a life was shot, the newest war.
(published by Whatcom Watch; this poem is an early version of “In conclusion” published in 2024 by Empty Bowl for The Madrona Project)
Purpled dusk
Look, my old ears hear, violent shadows
on the hillside, and, there, reflected,
blood-red sun across the pond. I dive
from bench, drop knife, cutthroat trout
I’ve been gutting, pull her down, say
let’s lie this way til cruelty fades.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Putting doves to sleep
Single mom, Bellingham street,
birthday party, balloons, cake,
her son turning five,
I drop by with wand, red cape —
chance to move beyond chats
of lawns, roof repair, recipes
for quiche. Kids giggle, wait—
I bring out Paloma, gray dove
of peace. Open cage, she hops free,
eyes bright, feathers sleek.
Tuck tiny head under a wing,
cut off light, ferris wheel her round —
dramatic circles — set her down.
Paloma thinks it’s night, goes to sleep.
After a bit, wing drops, in comes dawn
Paloma wakes, fluffs, flies away.
Kids clap, you bow, mom smiles.
Your magic lasts all night somehow.
(published by Cirque)
Quieten
Dark past locked away, distant
misted, vague at bay. For good
for peace, she would always say.
Truth googled its way to me —
uncle shot wife, both kids
asleep. In packed car near the bar.
Offed himself last, no note
of guilt, regret sorrow, shame.
No remorse for another poker loss
last loan parents gave. The dear
cast aside in a wispy cloud
of pistol smoke. Final chance
for esteem, respect, love, shunned.
Secret out now, may she breathe deep
forgive the dead, let ghosts go
find a piece of peace, sleep.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Reincarnate
When a queen kills the other queen
then offs herself, the hive comes back
to life. Someday no more floes
float south, snow piles deep
in drifts, glaciers rebuild ice.
At eighty, I see one hundred monkeys
locked in a room with iPads, two type
The Idiot and Wuthering Heights.
Like a cat, boxed in, I’m dead
yet not. With time to drool
dream back a queen, spit
limp to the end, forget.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Speechless
Farmer market, spring, subdued town,
I pass a shivering mime — tight grip,
still, on her phone. I read the screen —
white letters, five pale lines,
hushed words — almost a poem.
Lives long for voice, touch
home. Reach out, risk, love
be bright flames — dance
to the end together, not alone.
I leave, shop farm-stands,
drop back by. She shares a smile,
sips my quiet coffee,
devours the silent slice of pie.
(published by High on Adventure)
Sploot
Squirrels do it, so do cats.
Lie face down in extreme heat,
limbs spread wide, bellies flat.
Black holes find each other, dance,
send gravity waves through fabric
of the universe. Squirrels try to cool,
survive, revive at night, hope never
to sploot again. Black holes swirl,
collide, unite, take a few galaxies
into oblivion with them. Scientists
wait breathless at telescopes,
eager to witness the final moans.
I lie naked on my back, alone,
sweat, ignore noise next door.
Nothing rises into the black.
(published by The Bond Street Review)
Swimming free
(with a nod to Rick Popish)
I’m old, can barely keep dreams afloat,
see others flail, cry out, go down.
Time thins on the surface, thickens
below. Quantum spin whirls by, intrinsic,
not because of any rotation. I drift
to a black hole, don’t vanish all at once,
am stretched slowly in sort of like
the elongated man. My hope now —
swim free, make it till dawn, find what’s left
of me in a geriatric dimension.
I’ll celebrate incontinence there,
stop caring if I took my meds, fail to recall
what I dreamed, I knew. In the rec hall,
I’ll be the last one clapping after jazz solos.
I’ll drool new algorithms there, just a few,
forget, drown them too.
(accepted by Bare Hills Review)
Swirled down
Mountain tent, campfire, promises
not kept. Caress, kiss unrepeated
twenty-minute pleasure deleted.
No midnight swim at falls
no trunks tossed — all things buff
put off. She, a shadow in my eyes —
in hers, a lesser me. Flow of trust
ebbed, libido over the edge
swirled down — love
no longer bottomless.
On the rocks.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Trinity remorse
First atomic blast, story buried
deep, page six, the Times.
Orange flash goes red, yellow,
gray. Shroom cloud seven miles high,
sand melts green to glass.
Bunkered generals, still as desert rats,
whistle, cheer, break into wild dance,
keep out of mind the aftermath.
Land called desolate, uninhabited —
shameful lie. Thirteen thousand souls
with homes, quiet lives until ten pounds
of plutonium rain down. Hot ash
coats cows, goats, their milk aglow.
Corn, beans, peas, dusted too. Silent death
blown layered-in on fatal winds.
Sickness, suffering, painful ends.
No remorse, no apology.
No sorry for pain, short lives
for you, your children, their kids too.
Trinity shame — it still remains.
(published in 2024 by Here: a poetry journal and under embargo until 2025)