This Pilgrim page features poems accepted or published thus far in 2026 — a total of 25 as August approaches.
In late July, Mad Swirl published “Livid-free,” Tipton Poetry Journal accepted “Night metaphors” and Argotist Online Poetry in the United Kingdom posted “Throe” and “Weaving redemption.”
“Dream less trammeled” will appear soon in The Bond Street Review.
Earlier, popular online travel magazine High on Adventure published “Securing the hive,” and The Argyle Literary Magazine posted two Pilgrim poems, “Empty” and “Shadowcide” and republished a trio of previously published ones — “Vacuuming your cat,” “Ken Burns Effect” and “The deadhover.”
Just prior, Northern Spy: A Journal of Literature and the Arts (formerly Bare Hills Journal) published “End flow” and at the end of 2025 had accepted but has not yet published “Swimming free” and “Correct.”
Also below is a bonus poem, “Garden kin,” accepted in 2025 for the Whatcom Writes Anthology but not in print until March 2026.
“Best forgotten” and “Letter from LaConner” were chosen midsummer for Elder Project Anthology, a volume which focuses on Aging Well priorities and the Aging Well Blueprint.
“Catch-22 in northern Idaho” (first published in 1989) has been republished in a retrospective by Trestle Creek Review. Over the last several decades, Pilgrim has published nearly 30 poems there.
Sagebrush Review early this year accepted “Viral grief” and “Weaving forgiveness,” along with another Pilgrim poem, but several weeks later reversed itself. Pilgrim counts those acceptances but has revised/retitled all three for submission at journals known to honor acceptance notifications. (See, for example, “Weaving forgiveness,” now “Weaving redemption” recently published by Argotist Online Poetry.)
All Pilgrim’s poetry pages feature accompanying art, including watercolors by the late Mary Dale (photographed by the late Bud Dale) and photos and photo-illustrations by Pilgrim and Carolyn Dale and others.
Thanks for visiting — enjoy these Pilgrim poems!
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At White House Ruins
I hike into Canyon de Chelly,
dream of Pueblo Bonito, place beyond
the horizon, find pictographs —
blue duck, white duck, green feathers,
red heads, gold beaks. They wait to swim
should Chinle Wash flow wide again.
Etched in sandstone cliffs,
the drawings sleep beneath jimsonweed,
salt cedar, Russian olive trees. I wish
for wind to change direction, breathe down
the canyon, with hope. The old Navajo
herding goats by the dry stream
says it happens every thousand moons —
with luck, maybe today. Below ruins
reflected dark in afternoon sun,
only she sees Kokopelli dance past,
flutes raised golden in slanted light.
The real ruin is my life. No sacred ducks
swim back and I cannot conjure
ancient ones powerful enough
to erase my soul. Streams of sand
will never flow east to Santa Clara Pueblo,
where, rumor says, hope vibrates within you
and pottery is blacker than black.
(published by High on Adventure; first published by Poetrymagazine.com)
Best forgotten
Great recall, I seem to recollect
puts the retriever center stage
photographic-memory star, certain winner
of trivia games. But, conjured too
past moments of intense pain
like loss, cuckold — fresh hurt to re-suffer
all over again. Forgetting, long underrated
deserves more praise — best to let go
first-date mistakes, say, hand moving high
on thigh, purely by accident
thumb-hammered profanity word mess
or binge-drinking headache caused
by hurl, keck, regurgitate.
Dementia, czar of forgetting, brings back
heaped mound of reasons why
to let old memories lie.
Given time, I can recite a dozen.
(accepted for Elder Project by Aging Well Whatcom)
Catch-22 in Northern Idaho
“White supremacists were denied a cross-buring permit today
because of tinder-like conditions in the Hayden Lake area.” — Seattle Times
It was not my heat
alone or yours saying
in Nazi breezes
scoop up one white cat
clutch fur to chest
have for an instant
a monogrammed Yosserian coat
holding the very entrails in.
Soon purrs turned low to growls
claws stitching black reminders
saying I couldn’t have you
in the holding
or the setting free.
(republished in a retrospective by Trestle Creek Review; first published in 1989)
Correct
Out wobbling in a walker
ghost crosses street, stops
whispers I’m wrong, you’re 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 Northern Spy: A Journal of Literature and the Arts)
The deadhover
I begin to small against my lost life,
believe it time to fish at sundown,
mingle with black moths
whirled white in graying light.
Trust rod, line, fly to provide
cutthroat stopped mid-gasp
in tall grass. Slide a bright blade
along red bellies as growing dusk
covers bad memories stuck
in pooled blood. Wash the dead
in deep river, fling entrails, hearts
into night. Try to forget why
the hopeless call this place
a burial ground for shadows.
(republished by The Argyle Literary Magazine; first published by Sleet Magazine)
Dream less trammeled
Night, moonlight flow in
flood sleepless rest. Maybe
incontinence, loneliness
meds, octogenarian dread
won’t let me at last drift off.
Le chat noir wakes nearby
washes, covers eyes with paw.
I draw sheet over head, invite
my lithe dream, naked, into bed.
Snuggle close to her back, slide arm
over, down, let it rest. Feign sleep
hold breath — after a time
cup the lower breast.
(accepted by The Bond Street Review)
Empty
“The ultimate truth is the truth that everything
is empty of essence, including emptiness itself.”
— Nāgārjuna
No wind whirls in my dream world
no gust stirs darkness at dusk. Nothing
slices this stillness. No cosmos bend
no lilies sway, no aspen shake.
No midnight breeze, no whispered dawn
no gasp, no sigh. No breath beside me
leading me back. Hollowed end
without hope sifted in. Empty life
with nowhere to go. Like being
in an empty vagina, alone.
(published by The Argyle Literary 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.
(published by Northern Spy: A Journal of Literature and the Arts)
Garden kin
Another dawn turned winter gray
forlorn yard outside, shivered, cold
branches, iced, leaves, half-buried
in snow, I put windowed cocoon aside
dream myself back to spring.
Breathe in green, greet budded rhodie
caress maple, laurel, cedar, fir. Confess
to them I’ve missed family bond
apart from flora siblings, together content
in peace. I kneel, whisper low to sprouts
shoots, blossoms, blooms, This time
I’ll stay. We embrace morning sun
float in breeze, soak up soft rain.
Anemone peek from soil, grow tall
bow my way. Grape vines reach down
entwine me — bushes bend, offer berries
blue, ripe. Even morning glory creeps near
presents white blossoms as if to say
Welcome home, kin, please settle in
we’ll keep the bleak, black months at bay.
(published in the 2026 Whatcom Writes Anthology)
Iced thirst
Hike-weary, Moab mart, bottles drained
pee-dribble gone, nothing to spit.
Clerk, ammo-belted, pistoled hipped
fires stink-eye, dries any hope
he’ll lunch — down cans of Spam, Red Bull
fondle Glock in monster truck.
No cold H two oh, no frosty brews
no early Coke spiked with blow. Forget water
six-pack, block of ice. Lurch outside
find sprinkler down the street, drink deep.
Spit, gun hybrid, speed by
leave red-necked mini-czar behind.
(published by High on Adventure)
Ken Burns effect
I’m writing by candlelight from my tent,
next one over from Odysseus,
journey going on eight years,
nearly forever. Each day
we scan the sea, look leagues east,
almost back to Troy. The men mutter
we should be home now,
complain about the weather,
want more wine, more sheep.
They fear our next adventure
will be worse than Cyclops, Sirens.
If gods were filming this voyage for PBS,
they would likely zoom out,
show campfires, beached boats,
the whole island hopeless,
gauzy mist covering all light,
pan to one side, there in darkness,
Penelope, alone, unraveling night.
(republished by The Argyle Literary Magazine; first published by Poetry Quarterly)
Last pause
I use kale to stop the teeter
Seattle nursing home, lunch
my slender salad fork rocking
on plate rim, balanced there
like a worn-out heart just above
an aging spleen. Perched perilous
like existence, one see-saw away
from the void. A single green leaf
with tiny barbs. Tucked like a page
torn from an old family Bible
or gold gossamer wing ripped
from a butterfly. I slide it slowly in
between china lip and curve of neck
halt undulation, freeze the sway.
Its shadow, too, stills, like death
becomes a stain, motionless
black on the white tablecloth
my inked life at the final edge.
(published by Cirque)
Letter from La Conner
Facing eighty, I try for what’s left
of me, first in Newhalem, Marblemount
Rockport. Side trip off the Skagit
to Darrington, Fortson, Swede Heaven.
Then Concrete, Burlington, make my way back.
Not to be captive by life anymore.
Somehow get free — maybe north, Edison
Lynden, swirled Nooksack murk at Everson
Mount Baker half-sunk in anemic sun.
Sleep near decayed Deming casino
dream old lover back, hear her say
attain peace at Maple Falls, plant rows
of good memory, wait for spring
hope to hope something living grows.
Better I move to Fish Town, sleep alone
muse myself young, become a poet.
Trek to Montana, fish rivers headed west
pan-fry guilt, season it with powdered gray.
Breathe in dawn, write poems of shame
drink shots of nothing, on the rocks
all day. I’ll float the clearest river out
find an endless end, plan to return again.
(accepted for Elder Project by Aging Well Whatcom)
Little adobe something-or-other in Santa Fe
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
If it does not work out, that dream
each time your lover leaves — buy
a fleet of taco trucks, nubile teens
working Seattle streets, then kick back
since you don’t have a damn thing
to worry about — one option would be
hitchhike southwest, roll out your bag
in dark desert, lie face up
inhale the moon, the whole Milky Way
actually wake up, at sunrise
explore arroyos, red cliffs, ruins
more important than your life
inhale smoke from burning sage
breathe deep, get a meaningful job
save your pay, buy a little adobe
something-or-other in Santa Fe.
(republished by High on Adventure; first published by Cirque)
Livid-free
Well, maybe, you know
with a little luck the shooter
will not pull trigger, parents might sense
something’s off, have a talk
see if the boy is, well, alright.
Get him some counseling. Lock up
Beretta, Colt, Glock. Maybe he’ll decide
today is the day not to blast targets
skulk to school, take aim.
You know, breathe deep, exhale
make some friends. Begin to smile
not smolder inside. Discover
life’s a special gift worth savoring
if not livid that way.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Night metaphors
As sunset fades, gives in to stars
I recite an old invocation, summon back
our campfire, purple at dusk.
She careens across the night, joins me
an ember growing bright, first throe
of ceremony taking hold. Again together
finally, heartbeats unbroken, we cast
one shadow on a slivered moon.
I inhale, try to hold this conjured goddess
fire rising in her eyes
promising another dawn.
(accepted by Tipton Poetry Journal)
On the wing
Rain, spring day, gray. School shootings
war dead, mall shoppers slain.
I silence TV, shift gaze to garden
sip tea, try to breathe. Hawks circle
one dives, chases a robin my way.
Slam — into patio glass. Hawk grabs
stunned prey as mate swoops
sends frantic jay toward the same pane.
I step out, scream, wave
the blue blur veers, flees.
One small killing cycle impeded —
death on the wing.
(published by The Bond Street Review — and accepted by Cirque.)
Pactual query
If I whisper, share, tell where to find
precious treasure beyond diamonds
rubies, ashes on the moon
Tesla, Apple stock, iPhone, gold
will you swear, promise, pledge, vow
in short, no fingers crossed
not pilfer, take, steal, loot?
Or if it is my heart,
yes, do?
(published by Mad Swirl)
Securing the hive
Guard bees spread out, protect
the entrance, a foot wide
prepare to die. Permit in
only worker bees pollen-laden
happy to be home, loved
supplement the sustenance supply
pleasure their quivering queen.
Vapid wasps, keen to maraud
sense the protein, dive, kill at random
buzz inside, murder a few more, feed.
Congress takes no action.
(published by High on Adventure)
Shadowcide
Rod, reel, guilt-filled creel
high mountain meadow, I hike in
deep. Maze through tall grass
seek the wild stream. Creep
to mossed berm, cast bright fly
old, long shadow arced
close behind. They join, eddy
till dusk, finally swirl free.
Float over the high falls
somewhere downstream.
(published by The Argyle Literary Magazine)
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 til 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 Northern Spy: A Journal of Literature and the Arts)
Throe
Always plural, dictates the norm
overrides me in my latest crisis
suffering acutest of all possible throes.
No help knowing I am faced
with likelihood of a gruesome end.
Nor solace, my prediction as a kid
I would likely barely live until now
and did. Regrettably, time enough
for new faults like contempt, sarcasm, hate
with consequences I also knew
would arrive, yet failed to avoid. So, now
I’m throeing here in a time of vast rot
wrought by a demented, would-be king.
Throes would have me jump in front
of the big rig I pretend I’m driving
when a long line of trucks
steered by dutiful halfwits
close in on my behind.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
Vacuuming your cat
Begin with a long hose,
canister in closet, door nearly closed.
Overcoming hatred takes time.
Use the nozzle meant for blinds,
bristles black like Hitler’s hair.
Or don’t. Your hose alone
will scare her. Sidle up
as if searching for a spot
to wash yourself in morning sun.
The hose will appear more normal.
Pet her side with a free hand.
The vacuum should be running.
Sneak in a single stroke
with the Hitler wand. But only one.
If the cat remains, watch her tail.
Swishing may mean trouble.
Repeat daily even it it rains.
Pretend to be looking for a place
to stash your hose for good.
Consider yourself lucky if she is fooled.
Keep at it, without variation.
Remember, Darwin had no clue
as to why cats hate vacuums.
After a week, you may break through.
If so, stroke both her sides,
maybe tail. But, do not vacuum ears.
And, don’t misread your cat’s purr.
We all have growls for things we fear.
(republished by The Argyle Literary Magazine; first published by Jeopardy)
Weaving redemption
“I wanted to hold captive those I loved,
but I wanted them happy in their captivity.”
— Gabrielle Roy (Street of Riches)
Neither hell nor tortured soul can fill it
at least not all. Certainly not absolution
its very definition assuming guilt.
And not promises to undo past wrongs
empty sacks of sin, let go a bleak past
be more selfless, start over, begin.
Create new me, wash the old away
become giving, innocent, pure.
Serene in sweet knowledge sullied slights
won’t ever plague me again.
Be swept upward by a mourning wind
assent monitored by rogue priests
fly-fishing for trust. No real rescue
can come from under queen bed
or earthquake-kit complete with condoms
aspirin, sunscreen, six-pack of Spam.
Certainly not from fake promises
do yoga poses correctly, shun mouth-breathing
always flash an inner smile. Good drugs
help me sleep, weather storms of anguish
float bloated streams of despair. Tonight
I’ll dream I’m redeemed, worthy of love too.
Assign a modicum of penance — by dawn
weave MERCY, all capital letters
in Braille, on a forgiving loom.
(published by Argotist Online Poetry)
Wrinkled sleep
I fade more mid-sentence now
slow-stop, fall out
of musing, cease soliloquyed talk.
Wine takes over, brings on
the old, drifting off. Wing chair
no longer in fashion, the two flaps
keep me paddocked in.
Mid-smile, my face lists
head droops, tilts, nose plows deep
into impromptu night, furrows
the paisley pinion. An image
not easily let go, me, upright
wrinkled sleep taking flight.
(published by Mad Swirl)
Updated July 2026