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, August 6, 2020

     remembering George Marchi

Soldiers in uniform.
Taps at mid-day.
A flag unfurled
is folded back
into itself again.

All for you.
Just a bit more theater
for a man whose life
and the world 
was his stage.

Thursday, July 30, 2020


the wind
has caught it
carried it

allowed it
to spread
its storied wings

wide, to travel
across time
and history

high above
the terrain

of shame below
that has been so

that white flight
has been the only way

to escape 
the brutal truth
that’s indelibly

in earth’s
ebony flesh

the wind of change
won’t and can’t carry
story that way no more

*title comes from How To Be An Antiracist

Thursday, July 23, 2020


a river in Egypt

yes, the milk
is mine
and white

but I did not
spill it, and these are
not my tears

a bridge in Alabama

Thursday, July 16, 2020


and blind

to his surrounding

the pallid
spook of a man

one day
lurches forth

from a blizzard
he’s been in

and has worn
like a winter’s hibernation 

all his
somnambulant life.


Raised from this relief,
like a dead man

from a crypt,
awake and more alive

than ever before,
he now sees

his own whiteness
as an oblivion

he must make peace with
and never return to again.

Thursday, July 9, 2020


Maybe what is happening now
is Turtle Earth,

buried in its sandy brood
for too long,

is waking up again.
Maybe its egg tooth

has grown back.
Maybe it is chipping away

at its leathery shell
one more time.

Maybe the incubation period
has come to an end again.

Maybe all the chaos
and cacophony right now

is just Turtle talking to itself
like it does when it is time to leave

its underground nest.
Maybe it is saying:

climb, claw, dig.
Don’t stop.

Do not rest.
There’s no time left.

And maybe once above the surface and breathing
its first true breath in a very long while

it begins to crawl toward the sea,
toward the great water,

toward the moonlit horizon.
Only one in a thousand  

mature, survive.
Maybe we are the ones

in need of an egg tooth right now—
to free us from our own arrogance and oblivion.

Thursday, July 2, 2020


A dog in the back of a parked pick-up.
A dog on the street with its owner.
One is high up, 
the other is down low.
One roams free in the flatbed, 
the other is on a short leash.
One is big with fine fur, 
the other is small and shaggy.
Each is a different breed.

The moment they see one other
all hell breaks loose: rage erupts.
They flash their fangs.
They bark incessantly, uncontrollably.
Charge one another.
Each turns rabid.
Each could kill.

This is just what dogs do.

Why all of the frenzy and fuss
from a common species?
Is it because they are not
the same breed, height, or size?
Because shackles
and a master are involved?
There’s no way to know for sure.
Maybe Mother Nature
or animal instinct are to blame.
Or perhaps it is even more basic than this.
Maybe it’s difference itself
that’s the problem:
the very presence of an “other”
is what creates the commotion.

Humans do what dog do but better—
with far more subtlety and subterfuge
and much less noise.

Like the noise beneath these letters,
that almost goes unseen.
The noise behind all the inky blackness.
A noise as white as cotton.

Thursday, June 25, 2020


I am a child
in my Sunday best,

in church, in a pew
behind a woman

with a wasp on her back.
The yellow and black body

crawls on her shawl
toward her neck.

The nape, so exposed, so supple
doesn’t know what’s coming,

but I do.
Will it make it there?

Will she jump when it touches her flesh?
Will it sting her?

Do I want it to?
Do I know?

These thoughts run through me
like a venom

as the minister at the pulpit
reads the homily—his voice,

escaping from its vestments,
is a buzzing I can hardly hear.

There’s a flicker, all at once,
in front of me, a fluttering.

The little body
lifts and bobs, ascends.

The spindly yellow legs
angle and dangle down.

I follow it with my eyes.
The tiny wingèd payload

rises toward the hive of light,
hollow above our heads.

This sight
is the sermon I saw.