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 25, 2014

WHATCHAMACALLIT

Maybe the lock’s broke
on the door we’re trying to open.
Maybe that’s the trouble.
Or it could be the key.
Maybe the key I’m using
and the key you’re using
ain’t the right key.
Maybe we need a different kinda key.
Maybe we need that whatchamacallit kinda key.
You know the one I mean.
The kinda key that can open any friggin lock,
‘cause it’s been filed down
and has no notches, grooves,
or teeth to speak of, 
no real bite, which means,
there’s nothing to trip or trick
‘cause the key just slides right on thru
getting caught on nothing.
And so the knob just turns
and the door swings open, wide-like,
and we walk right on in.

Skeleton key! That’s its name.
That’s the kinda key we need.
Dontcha think?

Maybe if we had one
we’d find ourselves on the inside
of where were trying to get to
and once there
maybe then we’d end up
one day
in the same motherlovin’ room –
and laughing 
at all the fussin’
it took to get there.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

GOD'S BLAZER

Step into the judge’s chamber.
God’s blazer’s there
hanging from the rafters
like a verdict of shame.
His big secrets
are there too,
perched on the mantle.
They tower like a dollar store trophy.
Let this be a lesson to you:
there is always a man behind the curtain,
and a density greater than doubt.
All you Don Rickles out there
put your rapiers away.
Let’s make a bargain right now, shall we?
I’ll sleep and dream in your skin
if you sleep and dream in mine. 
Then maybe we’ll wake in the morning
staring into oceans,
where once we saw only caves.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

RACONTEURS

So many words.

So many circumlocutions. 
Stories chasing their own tails.
Histrionics and hyperbole 
that always crowd us out.

What if we pared it all down
to the essentials, to symbols and gestures
we'd learn and practice
with the help and studied patience 
of pithy primatologists?

What if we found our way back to basics,
by aping our way into a new kind of affinity
of really being together,
where comfort was cultivated 
through life’s simple preenings:
in the mites we might we’d feed each other,
in each moment's subtle proteins 
we'd harvest and savor?

Maybe this kind of intimacy is 
the only necessity we'd need to know.
And in the knowing it we'd finally feel
like suitable companions,
like the new age raconteurs 
we were meant to be.
                                                          

Thursday, September 4, 2014

LABOR DAY

Cloudless.
Holiday-hot.
Barely a breeze.

Picnic-time,
in a graveyard.
A tension in the air—

and a squirrel
or a ‘pecker
at work in the Maple,

we think. This grubbing,
the only sound
around,

other than
what we are
saying…

Until we hear
what we hear
sharply turn to

a creaking,
a cracking,
a tearing:

a broad branch,
above our heads,
gives way,

swings down,
falls
against itself.

We are up
on our feet.
Stumbling. Stunned.

Strange.
No apparent cause,
that we can see.

It’s just us, here.
Only us
and what

we are saying, trying
so hard to say
and make sense of

in the sun
among
the epitaphs.