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 29, 2016


between stations.
Radio static.

Finding the right
may have less

to do with
the dial
and more

to do with
the listening
of the listener.

Thursday, September 22, 2016


An invisible veil 
clings to 
every contour,
every wrinkle,
every strand
of the story being told.
The fabric moves imperceptibly
with every twist and turn
of the unfolding tale
like cambric or silk
over an undulating body.
It’s a story
like any other
until what you are waiting for 
happens: a stitch breaks loose.
And that’s when
the warp and weft
of the weave
shows itself
and the fray says:
This is the thread, take it!
So you do.
Because that is 
what you do.
The rest is conversation,
a quest. Story 
ceases to be story
and the telling
becomes the teaching.

Thursday, September 15, 2016


In the density of the night
the darkness has many arms.

Pick up any fallen thing
and use it to reconnect to the world,
because you have forgotten how.

A fallen branch may be your proxy.
Take it, thrust it into the dark,
rattle its thick lattice
until something falls free,
drops to the earth
like a heart beat.

You might be hungry
but that is not why you
bite into the fruit,
the forbidden.
You do so to end
the mind’s mastications
with your mouth’s.
And you know this
though you don’t know you do.

Only after the sun has risen,
and your back’s against a redwood,
is sleep possible—
because an owl, who
had hooted all night long,
is now the same angel  
watching over you
from her nest, a cavity
created by a fallen limb.

Thursday, September 8, 2016


Wake to find
it is a beautiful
night to be born.

Ride the red pony
it is time

to fall upwards.
Irony and paradox
are your shiny apple,

your thunder dream.
Do the opposite.
Make your curse

your calling,
pin the sheriff’s badge
on the criminal inside

and cuff him
to Truth.
Get comfortable

with discomfort.
There is a heyoka
in every one of us,

a sacred clown,
a contrary warrior,
who is looking

to find peace
in the blue of the house
in the dark wood,

where our lost child
is waiting to finally
parent us.

Thursday, September 1, 2016


Not everything that can be counted counts,
and not everything that counts can be counted.

— Albert Einstein

On fingers
or with numbers.

An abacus or a slide rule.
Through theorems or calculus.

What if these methods
won’t work?

What if
what is really worth

can’t be counted,

because no manner
of measurement

or calculation
is fit to the task?

This is the way it is with
trust, love and gratitude.

They are unquantifiable.
There is no integer or derivative

that will equal
the sums they carry.