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, April 30, 2015


The alloy doesn't know 
it's been sold 
and for less 
than what it's worth. 
But you do.
When you've paid a visit 
to the pawnbroker.

Thursday, April 23, 2015


The newborn that rejects its mother’s milk,
the venom pooling around the snake’s crushed head,
the barber’s wet blade across the lathered skullcap,
the plumbing miracle that’s a drop 
in Drought’s deep bucket,
the father’s I love you spoken for the first time
over speaker phone during a chemo IV drip,
the body and the acid it can ooze,
the thirst of orphans quenched in a dream,
how swallowing becomes a pain like no other…
saying all this and more,
over a box of Trader Joe’s Thai noodles,
microwaved, no water required,
is one way to anoint the self,
to ordain one’s own life,
through the telling,
through the tears.

Thursday, April 16, 2015


Even the most
ordinary occasions
deserve ceremony,
a blessing, the words
godspeed or thank you.

Package this missive.
Send it as a gift to self.
Let it envelope
the what is
with the what has been.
Carry it.
Treasure it.
Receive and send it.
Again and again 
and again.

Thursday, April 9, 2015


     Create a white canvas and dream into it
     a world of beauty and grace.

                                    Alberto Villoldo


A hulking shroud,
gauzy and black, hides
the scaffolding behind,
conceals the work in progress:
the transformation of a façade.

If you were on the inside looking out,
through the metal bars and planks,
through the sighing, somber veil,
you might say
it was a prison’s view
and miss the Easter rain
and its subtle serenade.


Ninety years old,
in an assisted living facility,
deaf and blind,
two weeks from death,
she sits at a piano

When her hands meet the keys
every song her body knows
wakens, heaves through her fragility.
Every note is true,
though she can’t hear any of them.

Is there anybody listening,
she asks.
Yes, many!
And more are on the way.

She plays until her hands stop.
She stands,
utterly spent,
thinking she is done.

Then remembers
with surprise and delight:
Wait, there’s one more!


A shed of a room,
dark, narrow,
window painted over,
not much wider than a man’s shoulders,
lined with the saddest wallpaper one could choose -
so dated, faded and peeling.
A pathetic table for patients
cowers against the wall.
Toy speakers at the ceiling
turn the sound of the surf  -
an attempt to calm -                                     
into incessant traffic.

This is where the tiny man,
God bless him,
administers, with thin needles,
his ancient medicine
into the body’s tender sheath.

This is where he preaches, in pigeon English,
what he knows, practices,
with a Buddha smile.

All his broken words…
a strange music,
a happy exhalation,
amounting to nothing more than this:

I help quiet the argument inside.
If no argument inside,
no argument outside.

Thursday, April 2, 2015


coiled about itself
like an ouroboros

dead inside
a zip lock baggy

in a freezer
so much more

than a reptile
on ice

look at it

touch it
touch it!

pick it up
hold it

you don’t get it
do you

you don’t see it
do you

the overwhelming

how everything
is urgent and matters

road kill

how can you 
when your brains aren’t scrambled

and time
hasn’t come unhinged

when you aren’t standing
nearly naked and shedding

in the middle
of your own life

while a killing cure
snakes through your veins

how can you
when the road you’re on

isn’t crawling with
unexpected switchbacks