This Pilgrim page features poems accepted or published thus far in 2025 — a total of 14.
The latest ones accepted are “Quieten” and “Final say” by The Bond Street Review, and “Indulged,” “Petrichoric” and “Earth ceremony” by Sage Magazine (from Yale School of the Environment).
High on Adventure published May 1 the poem “LaPush,” first printed in 2019 by Windfall.
Also, Hawaii Pacific Review accepted “Fitted sheet,” and Jeopardy Magazine took “Facts worth knowing.”
Explorations, an online journal of the Climate Psychology Alliance, chose “Sea ceremony,” which is slated to appear soon — and will be posted here afterward.
In addition, “No breath drawn” has been chosen by Whatcom Watch to be published again in an upcoming issue.
Also, two bonus poems are printed below — “Trinity remorse,” which was accepted Fall 2024 by Here: a poetry journal and was under embargo until the print editon appeared — and “No red books,” accepted Fall 2024 and printed in March 2025 by Whatcom Writes Anthology.
High on Adventure also earlier accepted “Montana absolution, of a kind” for later publication.
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!
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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 under 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)
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)
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.
(accepted by Sage Magazine)
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.
(accepted 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.
(accepted 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.
(accepted by Hawaii Pacific Review)
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.
(accepted 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.
(accepted by High on Adventure; first published in Windfall)
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.
(accepted 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 try to erase my blood-geysered day.
Inside, find books, books, books —
also silent, roosting on shelves.
Unblemished, at peace, entrails intact,
eager to be read.
(published 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)
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.
(accepted by Sage Magazine)
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.
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.
(accepted by The Bond Street Review)
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)
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 by Here: a poetry journal)