This Pilgrim page features poems accepted or published thus far in 2026 — a total of 8.
The latest poem accepted is “Iced thirst,” slated for the May/June issue of High on Adventure, a popular online travel magazine.
Also set for republication in a retrospective by Trestle Creek Review is “Catch-22 in northern Idaho,” which first appeared in that magazine in 1989. Over the last several decades, Pilgrim has published nearly 30 poems there.
Other recent poems to see print or pixels are “Wrinkled sleep” by Mad Swirl and “On the wing” by The Bond Street Review.
Almost simultaneously, Cirque notified Pilgrim that it has chosen “Last pause” — and wanted “On the wing,” which, if used, would give credit to Bond Street.
Earlier, High on Adventure republished “At White Houe Ruins,” a metaphorically accurate poem for current times that was first published by Poetrymagazine.com in 2011.
Also printed below is a bonus poem, “Garden kin,” accepted in 2025 for the Whatcom Writes Anthology but not available until March 2026.
Pilgrim poems chosen in mid-December by the Bare Hills Review, now Northern Spy: A Journal of Literature and the Arts were “End flow,” “Correct” and “Swimming free” — all of which can be found among Pilgrim’s 2025 poems but were slated for 2026 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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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)
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.
(accepted for a retrospective republication by Trestle Creek Review; first published in 1989)
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 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.
(accepted by High on Adventure)
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.
(accepted by Cirque)
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)
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.)
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)