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, October 30, 2014

THE LURE
      for Harvey Rosen

to find the tuna
follow the porpoise

run and gun it
turn your engines off

yards from the school
the trick: to get your bait in

as the boat drifts
forward, on the slide

when you hook one
rest the rod on the rail

sit with all your weight
on the end

time your reeling
with the rocking

when the boat tilts down
you reel down

reel to the beat
of the tail

crank
to the slack beat

grind the fish
an inch at a time

the trick: to live life like this
some can, some can’t

some have no choice
the thrill of the fight

has had its hooks in them
from the start

Thursday, October 23, 2014

PARADISE

And the mirrors came
From all directions

On the Sabbath
To make a circle, in the shade

To form a question:
What has been given?

From the glass 
Each listened

Among the leaves
The sails, the bridges,

The waters, tearing
To the sound

Of love and a candle
Catching itself on fire.




Thursday, October 16, 2014

THE STINK

Which are you: coyote, wolf, badger or bear?
It actually doesn’t matter.
It’s your fault, regardless of the shape you’ve taken.
You are the threat
that’s all there is to it – ‘cause
something you did startled.
And so up went the tail.
It's not long before the whole evening is
consumed by the blast,
covered with the stench of fear.
You hobble back to your hovel,
feeling defiled, and it follows, 
it clings to you like a lost child.
Your work now is to figure out how
to get the skunk out 
of everything
it got its stink into.

Thursday, October 9, 2014


THE CONSPIRACY

You can say 
I don’t do that.
I don’t know how.
I'm not...whatever
you think your not.
But that only incenses them,
causes them to conspire 
more fiercely against you.
Or for you, actually.
Their will is like a pulley,
a block and tackle.

You see, it's nothing
for them - let’s call them spirits -
to take a carpenter and turn him into a crooner,
or make a seaman a rhyming mariner
or replace the crone’s rancor with a wry smile.

If they can work this magic
then why couldn't they, wouldn’t they 
give you a purpose
you didn’t know you needed.

It may enter you like a sliver, quick.
Or surprise you like a sucker punch.

Whichever it is,
once the sting has subsided
and you’ve caught your breath again,
you’ll know
that the anchor was only a dream
and the rigging was always love.

And the music is in you too.