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, September 26, 2013



Born from a murder
Caws among wires
Wings clash and glint
Against a curtain of blue


Metal crosses metal
In a kitchen of sky
Blades scissor and sing
To Howlin’ Wolf on the radio

Thursday, September 19, 2013


Go ahead, dig
another Erie Canal.
Bury weapons
beneath a white pine.
Paddle back to the village
in a canoe full of fish.
Chauffeur your daughter's new trophy -
a bowling pin - proudly
around town in your Prius.
Do whatever you do to be in your life.
And if you let your life be a metaphor
for what it means to be human,
then maybe you won’t need a wake to tell you
you've labored like an angel to be alive.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

     for Anthony

The world, with all its sirens,
at times just isn’t safe. It is like

a backyard trampoline
with its hand-written rules,

that tell us, the living,
all we need to know:

Careful, you may die!
Jump and have fun!

Wednesday, September 4, 2013


We can exit modernity any way we want -  
as historians, futurians, anachronists -
with all our erudition and experience
gathered together like books
in a schoolboy’s satchel.

We can leave our tortoise shells by the roadside
while we search for the perfect tomorrow,
not realizing that our nearsightedness and libidos
are cargo we can’t help but carry
no matter where we go.

Maybe the way you feel right now
is the way I feel right now.
Wouldn’t that be the bomb.

It’s hard to find a haystack 
when all there is is
- never mind the needle - hay.
Ya know what I mean?

I guess what I’m trying to say is:

The rest of our lives happen
to nobody else but us.
We are the silhouettes on the horizon
waving semaphores like signalmen
trying to catch our own damn attention
before it’s too late, while the sun’s cameo,
like a Hitchcock, crosses the sky.

How about we agree now, 
with this moment as our notary,
not to be caught watching
the aforementioned fireball
dousing itself, day after day,
in a sea of complacency.
Let's not stage this scene as a sequel
framed by the same window, in the same room,
where we do nothing more than 
rifle through the thesaurus  of our minds
searching for new synonyms for the word sunset.