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, January 10, 2019


If it were really there
it would look like

a crystal ball.
But it’s not.

It’s an invisible orbuculum, 
an imperceptible

orb that obscures
rather than foretells.

It detracts, impedes
rather than reveals.

It is the thing you and I
are separately polishing,

incessantly burnishing,
most of the time,

like a misted mirror:
the desire to look good.

Let’s remove it altogether,
the sphere, shall we,

so we can see, scry,
what’s really there:

a mystery
that’s waiting for us

to shape it, constellate it
into possibility

empty, finally, of all our
orbiting affectations.

Thursday, January 3, 2019


thirst and the beating sun
the fleas of a thousand camels

desert and more desert
an infinity of sand

as long as the dunes 
hide the oasis

the mirage obscures
the mirror

Thursday, December 27, 2018


I am in a nursery
surrounded by

plants, trees and vines.
Winter blossoms.

I am waiting
for a poem

to find me
in this Garden

of Eden
in my neighborhood.

But what comes
is the light

and wind—the rapture 
of so many shades

of green, so many
translucent leaves

dancing against
an azure sky.

Maybe this is all
a poem is:

sunlight and leaves, 
a breeze,

swimming in
an infinity of blue.

Thursday, December 20, 2018


Don’t dress it up
in a bear skin coat,

galoshes. Strap it into  
a corset or chaps.

No special garb’s
required. It wants only

to be wading in
a lagoon buck naked

at night, clothes strewn
about the bank.

To be swaddled 
in alabaster waters 

and draped in silver
light. Wading until 

the moon’s milky image
and the body are one.

Thursday, December 13, 2018


We are all waiting, more or less,
for the day when the gig is up,
and our cover’s blown–along with
the proverbial whistle: when we are
found out for being the frauds
we think we are.

That we are nothing more than
ne’er-do-wells is an insidious soundtrack
that plays like a high-pitched whine
almost imperceptibly in our minds.
The music's shrill messages is:
we are not and never will be good enough. 

What we listen to, and yes,
silently tell ourselves,
can become our masters,
if we’re not careful.
And, if we believe everything we hear,
we are no better than
the dog that gnaws the bone.
But what this pooch doesn’t know,
because it’s too busy being obedient,
is that the limb it's noshing on is its own.

Thursday, December 6, 2018


Emotions...we feel them
and yet we wonder

is their signature real
or just the handiwork

of our imagination.
The need to be needed

wanted, loved
is so strong

that we can easily
tell ourselves

their ink 
is indelible

as it's drying
when it's actually 

disappearing before 
our desiring eye.

Thursday, November 29, 2018


I want my days
to be like gardens
where I collect cuttings
for lithographs
I will make.

When I am gone
and in the ground,
please, now and then,
open the book
of botanicals
I’ve left behind.
Leaf through it.
Share it with a friend,
a stranger,
and remember me.