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, May 24, 2018


The world is whispering.
Slow down

and you will hear  
the cynosure

in the syllables
it is singing.

Beads on a strand.
Prayers in your hand.

Hold these susurrations 
like this. Feel them. 

Let them guide you
like a star in the night.

Like a tail
that wags its dog.

Thursday, May 17, 2018


Heave it against the wall. 
Break as many heirloom plates as it takes
to have the argument you’re not having.
Hold nothing back.
This time, though, the person 
you are feuding with is you.

After you are good and done,
after the dust has settled,
and you are a little worse for the wear,
a bit shell shocked and still red-in-face,
only then can you start the real work.

From the scattered broken pieces
strewn about the room
make something new. Do it
with the precision and moxie
of a forger attending to his masterpiece.

This is how you keep it fresh, your genius, 
how you keep from falling asleep at the wheel 
of your of own originality.

Thursday, May 10, 2018


in a dark wood

follow them away
from the fairy tale

don’t use them
to make

a false home,
a candy-coated

house that hides
a boiling pot and

a blind hunger

let them lead you 
out then feed 

them to Crow
or Coyote 

watch the scraps
turn into

shining stones 
that will skip

like light across 
the lake of your life

Thursday, May 3, 2018


An obstacle course
of my own invention.
Like a Rube Goldberg cartoon.
Too many dominos,
links in the chain,
machinery, devices.
Pulleys and levers.
Cogs and wheels.
Conveyor belts.
Not to mention...
the boxing gloves
and bowling balls.
Mallets and axes.
Pales of water.
Bird cages.
Donkeys and alligators.
Light bulbs and lawnmowers.
Alarm clocks.
All I was trying to do
was catch a winged thing.
Instead I got caught 
in my own creation.
In hindsight now I see
all I really needed was a net.

Thursday, April 26, 2018


I make ghosts.
From the things

I won’t say.
From the things

I haven’t given you
a chance to say.

They look like us.
Walk and talk

like us. They are
us. They are

in their silence.

Shadows emptied 
of song.

Thursday, April 19, 2018


There is a music in me
that needs to be tempered.

It's too strident, 
too brassy.

If I was Miles Davis
and the song was

“My Funny Valentine,”
I’d know what to do: I’d mute it.

That’s the tone,
the timbre I’m after.

A quiet kind of blue.
Strength in fragility.

Thursday, April 12, 2018


It dances in the air.
Twirls and flutters.

It entrances, casts its spell.
A wild frenzy ensues—

all because of a talent
to tease and toy.

What did Emily Dickinson say?
Hope is the thing with feathers.

There was hope, at first,
until the illusion wore off

and all that remained was
a few paltry plumes,

a string and a stick.
I am the cat

in this story.
There was never a bird.

Hope molted before
my desiring eyes.