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 22, 2018


What are you holding
On to?

What are you keeping

In your heart,
Your soul

That you’d be better off

To continue to store
This surplus in any part

Of your being
Is too much overhead

For your one precious life
To carry

When no one, not even yourself,
Is buying

What you are selling

Thursday, February 15, 2018


The answers—
that is what I am looking for,

like a safe-cracker trying 
to suss out the right sequence,

the perfect combination that will
unlock the machinery that's in my way.

And I am listening, listening,
with every part of myself,

for the sound, the whispered music,
of the tumblers turning,

and for the moment when
everything clicks into place.

And when it does that's when
the mighty door opens

and there they are
stacked high like gold bullion,

the answers, which I recognize
straightaway as the fortune

I inherited long ago
but had forgotten 

I 'd been appointed 
the trust's faithful trustee.

Thursday, February 8, 2018


Crow made the cupola 
with their flight.
The oak were the arches.
The meadow, the high altar.
Train whistles, dog barks, children
laughing, were the voices of the choir.
The sunlight was the sermon.
Experience, strength and hope,
the chalice and the wafer,
offered with humility,
and with humor, by those
brave enough to speak.
Faith was in the fellowship
that blew through the circle of us
like a breeze climbing 
the steps of a secret steeple.

Thursday, February 1, 2018


It is not Fort Knox
or the lost city of Tanis,
where legend had it
the Ark of the Covenant
was once buried. It is more
like a fallout shelter.
But there is no gold bullion,
lost treasure, food rations,
or medical supplies to speak of
in this underground bunker of mine.
What I have squirreled away
are the essentials
a different kind of survivalist
would stockpile:

anger, shame, grief.

I store them here, in this place,
to keep myself safe.
Little do I know though
that I have the makings
of a pressure cooker,
not a safe house, on my hands.
A land mind you might even say.

The only way to uncover the gold
or any kind of covenant
that may actually be hidden here
is to allow the anger,
the shame, the grief out,
to let them rise to surface, 
to daylight them, making sure, 
of course, no collateral damage 
or external fallout occurs 
along the way.

If I can do this then
there is nothing to survive,
there is no threat of a Doomsday,
and no dark cellar lurking in my soul.

Thursday, January 25, 2018


Like a spindle,
it’s just there

and yet it runs 
through everything I do.

It is the thing around which
all the turning takes place.

It will take whatever I give it
and twist it into thread.

How tightly it winds
is up to me 

and starts with
how I work the wheel.

Thursday, January 18, 2018


I am trying.
I am really trying
to stay with you.
To stay with the diversions 
and deflections
because I think
you are taking me,
taking me some place
worth going to.
So I wait for the punch line,
for the needle in the haystack.
But they keep not coming.
And so, I finally just ask:
What’s your point?
And that’s when it comes
like a catapult, the non sequitur,
your answer that makes no sense  
given what we’ve been talking about.
It sends me flailing away
into the distance, into a mote
of confusion, from where I see,
bobbing all by myself,
a fortress that will have
no visitors today.

Thursday, January 11, 2018


I am the helium
that fills it,
the plastic
that surrounds it,
the string
that has me holding it
in the carnival
where I carry it.
I am the child in the circus,
in the Big Top.

I am all the children
that are there
with their big red balloons,
who at different intervals
let them go 
while they excitedly watch 
as they rise toward the tent’s peak,
toward its tight pucker.

There the balloons stay bouncing
against each other—against 
all that red—trying 
to get out.

I am all these things at once
if I go through the world
always thinking I’m right.