Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, had a hammer named Mjölnir. Mjölnir was considered a fierce weapon that could level mountains and summon lightning with every blow. In this poetry blog, every Thursday, (Thor’s Day), Mjölnir will forge only song - sing of the mysteries and beauties of the world.

Thursday, February 20, 2020


An old dressing gown.
A cave of common cloth
and kindness.
A creature comfort
the animal I am
felt safe in.

The shift made my home 
a harmony
where every possession 
sang the same song 
and by heart.

I knew myself in it, 
in the mangy frock, and others
recognized me because of it.

How quickly I traded
this solace and second skin in
for something better
and more lavish,
when fortune rid me of my poverty
and humility—
and caused me to covet and crave
a red, red robe
that I had to make mine.

Who knew a tint of scarlet would
cloak everything outside of it
in depravity and obsolescence.

I went about trying
to remedy this error
by upgrading all I owned
with luxuries that would match
my stodgy, garish garment.
But the more I bought
the more dissatisfied
and disenfranchised I became.

Now I am wrapped in regret,
enshrouded in it and am a slave
to my old robe’s replacement,
because I became consumed
with consumption.

No one knows me anymore.
Least of all myself.

*Inspired by Diderot’s essay: Regrets for my Old Dressing Gown, 

Thursday, February 13, 2020


Some days
the slant
of the sun
just before dusk
is enough
to make
me smile.

Thursday, February 6, 2020


After a day
of surf and sun

I think I am done
with the beach

until the sand
in my suit

abrades me
on the long

drive home,
as if to say:

Take nothing
for granted.

Water floats what
it too can drown.

Thursday, January 30, 2020


The universe is not asleep at the wheel.
It’s eyes are wide open always.
Like Old St. Nick it’s watching and knows
when I've been bad or good...
When I've done what I’ve done
for all the wrong reasons. And so,
metaphorically speaking, I'm back on the street
with my mangy mutt at my side
panhandling my way through the day
with an attitude of entitlement
as the chip on my shoulder, hoping
to make enough so I can fill my belly
before sundown. And as luck would have it
my upturned hat on the seedy sidewalk
is brimming with loose change and crumpled bills.
And so I go and buy the hen on the spit
in the window I’ve been eyeing all day long
turning in it own juices. And having made
that purchase I go to sit down to make
a feast of the fowl with my mouth swimming
in its own saliva, and I turn my back for a moment,
just a moment, and that’s when the universe
steps in, and like the Grinch, steals
my Christmas right out from under me
by having my own damn dog eat the bird. 
That’s the wrap on the wrist I’ve had coming 
for all the wrongdoing I’ve done
that I’ve paid no never mind to.
Yes, the universe is awake at the wheel—
and will only give me my just desserts and no dinner
until I’ve finally done some good for goodness’ sake.

Thursday, January 23, 2020


I wish I could call out: line
when the thing I should be saying
isn’t there to say.

I wish an off-stage voice
would feed me
the exact right words
and sentiment
when I go blank
so my scene partner,
who ever they are,
doesn’t feel like I have 
left them alone 
and standing 
on an empty stage.
That’s not in the script.
I am meant to play my part
until the stage directions
clearly state: [Exit.]

The truth is: I am not
an off-book actor
in rehearsal. I am 
simply myself living 
my unscripted life
opposite good people
who deserve the best
performance I can give them.

Oh great dramatist in the sky,
be my prompter
when I can’t prompt myself.
The play’s the thing, remember?

Thursday, January 16, 2020

     An Ode to Magic Johnson

What would it be like
if we had access
to our every move and,
like a movie, could play
and replay each and every
action after the fact
on a big screen
at the touch of a button?

Would we be equipped then
to bring more of our magic
to the court of our lives,
because we could clearly see
what worked, what didn’t and why?


But let’s not confuse
the magic with the wand.
How we bring ourselves
to what matters, 
is what matters.
And there's nothing 
remote about that!

Thursday, January 9, 2020


Merchants in the mercato
selling everything

from bread to birds.
A man on a daily stroll

comes upon the cages.
How much? he says,

and points to
the biggest coop.

He pays, then opens
the latch, releasing

the little prisoners
into the blue infinity.

A man and his custom.
A daily practice.

Just another way
da Vinci brought

the Renaissance
to a dark age.