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 29, 2013


Desire is delay and is painful. Liberties
are worth taking without telling.

What’s missing matters.
And an absence can easily go unseen.

Extend any perplexity into time and you may
end up with a partridge in a pear tree.

Despite the subtle meaning of things,
syllables will still be there to say

and less than scintillating facts about cities and rivers
will continue to pepper the pages of books.

Ungulates will lumber upon the earth and pigeons, 
like always, will make great bombardiers.

And hands, when they gesture,
will only tell part of the story.

The figure approaching out of the oasis
may just be a sailor once lost at sea.

None of what we know is a fait accompli
or an anomaly that can end a primrose conversation.

Regardless of our native tongue
or the lack of spice in our pastor’s homilies

or the puff and predictions
from a detective’s calabash,

there is more mystery
between what we perceive and what we imagine

than any cliché can contrive.

Thursday, August 22, 2013


dances about architecture, egregiously.
Calls the cause and the consequence
by the same name.
Makes perfect approximations
when trying to quantify the unquantifiable.
Doesn’t dilly when it can dally.
Lives by clock and ruler.
Spills blood and ink.
Carries a pocket thesaurus
under its hair piece
to help it find the right words
for what it isn't feeling.
Could be said to be oxymoronic
and hypochondriacal.
Is fond of spicy pickles.
Hears a chorus of narrators 
in its knuckledheaded noggin
and the scarlet song of the tanager
outside its tinted window.
Believes that believing in pain
is more efficient than actually having it.
And wonders, really wonders
what it must have been to be Ornette Coleman
when he decided to set jazz free.

Thursday, August 15, 2013


Often it is the incidentals –
a hinge, a clasp, a bearing –
that make a thing work,

that gives it its sway,
its music,
it movement.

Without it
a door won’t open,
a woodwind won’t blow,
a wheel won’t spin.

And if these elements
aren’t at play,
if, let’s say,
a ligature is lost
somewhere in the night,
what then?

We will have to improvise.
We will have to become the clasp.
We will have to thumb our way onto the stage
from the audience,

and make the slimmest offering possible.
And that will have to do.
And it will.
It does.

It will be the interlude
that no planning
could have composed.

Thursday, August 8, 2013


The abacus does not think
about arithmetic.

The parenthesis does not know
it is qualifying anything.

So do not separate the to
from its verb

by boldly splitting
the infinitive.

Do not take nuts
from a squirrel,

from a hostess,

the ticker-tape
from the parade.

Let the falling rock
have its gravity,

the chalice
its chiaroscuro stem.

We are all human.
We make mistakes.

And in the errors we make
is an elegance, a design

we must try to see
like the illusion

that toys with our optics
and our nerve.

Let’s not be
the shrewd politician

that avoids the question
with an obfuscating answer.

Let’s live inside the sentence
we are writing.

Let’s leave later alone
and tomorrow unfurnished.

And just for now,

let’s watch the chalice

until our faces almost
touch, kiss.

Maybe then we will see
how beautiful we really are

and ourselves
in each other.

Thursday, August 1, 2013


Somewhere between
the province of physics
and the quantum leap
of a first step is 
an agoraphobic inside
the straitjacket of his own
skin. He is on a crusade
to tame a tornado.
But he won’t leave the house.

He is like the inventor
who destroys in the afternoon
what he has made in the morning.
Like a river that thirsts its own water,
a tree that hungers its ripening fruit.

He will follow the cues and arrows
of his imagination, circumventing
nothing. Behavior’s misbehaviors,
standard deviations, grievings and shrivings
crowd him like wolves.

Then one morning…
indeterminate as an electron,
at the edge of tolerance,
with nothing left to read
but the scratchings of his own mind,
he will quiver with the knowledge that god is
the dice and the hand that throws them –
and he is that God.

He is a proverb
waking to its own wisdom.