This Pilgrim page features poems accepted or published thus far in 2026 — a total of 15.
The latest poem published is “End flow” by Northern Spy: A Journal of Literature and the Arts.
Also recently accepted were
“Best forgotten” and “Letter from LaConner” for Elder Project Anthology, published yearly by Aging Well Whatcom, which along with community partners, focuses on Aging Well priorities and the Aging Well Blueprint.
“Dream less trammeled” was accepted not long before by The Bond Street Review.
Sagebrush Review accepted “My void,” “Viral grief” and “Weaving forgiveness” but several weeks later reversed itself. Pilgrim had already posted the poems (see below) but may retitle/revise them for possible submission elsewhere.
“Pactual query” was published in early May by Mad Swirl, and “Iced thirst,” became pixels on May 1 at popular online travel magazine High on Adventure.
Also recently published 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.
Earlier, Cirque notified Pilgrim it has chosen “Last pause” — and wanted “On the wing” too but did not see Pilgrim’s withdrawal and, if used, would credit Bond Street Review, which had accepted it just hours before.
In the early spring, High on Adventure republished “At White Houe Ruins,” a metaphorically accurate poem for current times and 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 in print until March 2026.
Two other Pilgrim poems below were chosen in mid-December 2025 by Northern Spy but not printed in Issue 29. They are “Correct” and “Swimming free.”
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)
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.
(published 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, formerly Bare Hills Review)
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)
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, formerly Bare Hills Review)
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)
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)
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)
My void
Brandy gone, my naked snifter
has the bitter scent of emptiness —
a shipwreck for any depressed octogenarian
unable to grow hope, or go
even at my mutiny trial unless I factor in
the total loss of continence
what with the whole ocean overflowed.
Which uncovers another metaphor —
treasure chest, hollow, not filled with anything
no gold coins sticking out. A void
so much only mine I’m judged guilty
by fellow plank-walkers willing to plead
compostable-diaper syndrome.
(accepted by Sagebrush Review)
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)
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, formerly Bare Hills Review)
Viral grief
(with a nod to Alex Vouri)
Brother dying, all his Glocks emptied
I use two pillows, sleep fast
dream myself there. Imbibe, fry slabs of Spam
offer to trade places, cry.
Tend this white guy who wanted to put
all his shit in a museum, shoot any bear
ripping up the night. I wade to dream’s far side
cleanse with ceremonial smoke
sweat crème brûlée sins away, am granted
whatever. His old lungs collapse, gossamer wings
of a frantic moth gone still. I dribble ghost pee
reek of senescence, vasectomy, gin.
Him, of bad catheter. Gerunds run down
my leg, death comes four ounces late. I wring out
my wettest shadow, diaper dark, awake locked
at the hips with a grizzly, breathless, home.
The video of us goes viral in Nome.
(accepted by Sagebrush Review)
Weaving forgiveness
“I wanted to hold captive those I loved,
but I wanted them happy in their captivity.”
— Gabrielle Roy (Street of Riches)
Absolution cannot free me
its very definition assuming guilt.
Forget promises to undo wrongs
empty sacks of sin, let go a bleak past
be more selfless, start over, begin.
No washing away the old, become giving
caring, pure. Serene in sweet knowledge
sullied slights won’t plague me again.
Be swept upward by a mourning wind
assent monitored by rogue priests
fly-fishing for trust. Real rescue
won’t come from under queen bed
or earthquake-kit 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. Meds let me sleep, weather storms
of anguish, float bloated streams of despair.
Maybe I’ll dream myself redeemed, worthy
of love too, assign a modicum of penance
at dawn, weave the word MERCY
in Braille, on a forgiving loom.
(accepted by Sagebrush Review)
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)