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, November 26, 2020



In the middle of a wild canyon

I came upon handprints 

on a frost-covered stump.

You left them there 

when I wasn’t looking.


I have seen those hands

every day since our walk

in my mind. 

The image of them

continues to open

and warm my heart.

Thursday, November 19, 2020



A distant sky

suddenly got closer.


A flat screen TV

and its red roses


cavort for the one



A pajama party,

giddy under blankets,


smacks its fragrant lips.

All the while


life moves like

an approaching


anniversary, holding

its breath before a candle


that burns brighter

as the days grow darker


and the pandemic is the norm

we know. A place to settle into.

Thursday, November 12, 2020



What was once shrapnel

works its way as diamond

up through a deep alluvial vein

to the surface and into a riverbed

called relationship. This is the site where

the artisanal digging and sifting begins.

Thursday, November 5, 2020



Yesterday I burned a pot black,

 while steaming beets.


All the red-juiced water evaporated

when I wasn’t looking.


Was burned into thin air, leaving

the cookware scorched to a crisp.


I took steal wool

to the pot’s bottom


and scrubbed

my little heart out.


I did this on the day

the election results came in.


I scrubbed as hard as I could

to remove the scourge for good.

Thursday, October 29, 2020



is what we need.

A strand


that braids Trust

and Truth together,


that affixes

to a here and now.


It doesn’t matter

where we come from


if the hands

that hold the rope


grip it with experience,

strength and hope.


Where the tether attaches

becomes umbilical.


Becomes womb.


Thursday, October 22, 2020



A breath blew up from the basin

through the golden grass

and past the ridge.

It buffeted you. 

Teased and taunted you.

It did this every time

you walked this stretch of trail.

Without fail.


And each time this tussle took you

you felt elemental,

not separate, but a part

of the living landscape.


The wind saw you,

knew you, inhaled you.


Take that breath away

and the ridge becomes neglect

and all seeing ceases,

and the stillness is a suffering

that is human.

Thursday, October 15, 2020



Beneath trees that towered over us

we walked through the moonlit park


on a narrow stretch of pavement

that gave way to dirt and meaty earth,


that gave way to a carpet of leaves.

And as it did 


our shadows, like the path,

changed also.


A question moved between us: 

Are we becoming trees?