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, December 27, 2018


I am in a nursery
surrounded by

plants, trees and vines.
Winter blossoms.

I am waiting
for a poem

to find me
in this Garden

of Eden
in my neighborhood.

But what comes
is the light

and wind—the rapture 
of so many shades

of green, so many
translucent leaves

dancing against
an azure sky.

Maybe this is all
a poem is:

sunlight and leaves, 
a breeze,

swimming in
an infinity of blue.

Thursday, December 20, 2018


Don’t dress it up
in a bear skin coat,

galoshes. Strap it into  
a corset or chaps.

No special garb’s
required. It wants only

to be wading in
a lagoon buck naked

at night, clothes strewn
about the bank.

To be swaddled 
in alabaster waters 

and draped in silver
light. Wading until 

the moon’s milky image
and the body are one.

Thursday, December 13, 2018


We are all waiting, more or less,
for the day when the gig is up,
and our cover’s blown–along with
the proverbial whistle: when we are
found out for being the frauds
we think we are.

That we are nothing more than
ne’er-do-wells is an insidious soundtrack
that plays like a high-pitched whine
almost imperceptibly in our minds.
The music's shrill messages is:
we are not and never will be good enough. 

What we listen to, and yes,
silently tell ourselves,
can become our masters,
if we’re not careful.
And, if we believe everything we hear,
we are no better than
the dog that gnaws the bone.
But what this pooch doesn’t know,
because it’s too busy being obedient,
is that the limb it's noshing on is its own.

Thursday, December 6, 2018


Emotions...we feel them
and yet we wonder

is their signature real
or just the handiwork

of our imagination.
The need to be needed

wanted, loved
is so strong

that we can easily
tell ourselves

their ink 
is indelible

as it's drying
when it's actually 

disappearing before 
our desiring eye.

Thursday, November 29, 2018


I want my days
to be like gardens
where I collect cuttings
for lithographs
I will make.

When I am gone
and in the ground,
please, now and then,
open the book
of botanicals
I’ve left behind.
Leaf through it.
Share it with a friend,
a stranger,
and remember me.

Thursday, November 22, 2018


In the clouds,
the surf and sand,

the driftwood
along the shoreline,

the flight
of low flying gulls,

the wind in the shorepine
and beachgrass,

the rain streaking 
across the windowpane.

Pause long enough
to see 

the pattern
each is tracing.

Then look inside.
Find the joy and gratitude

life's bestowed
upon you.

God's fingerprints
are on everything.

Thursday, November 15, 2018


What I hold on to
that keeps me climbing,
prevents me from falling,
and leaves me dangling
somewhere in between.

Taught attention.
A false sense of

The grip I bring
to anything
I grasp at.

The braid and strand.
 The binding 
that tethers will
to way—
twists obstinance 
into being.

made of fear.

The hauling and the lifting.
The busywork
that distracts and ensnares,
and, for the life of me, 
I can't let go of.

Thursday, November 8, 2018


An oddity of nature.
Standing in a stand of giants.
Frosted in an unreal glow, a dull glaze
that could be faux snow
or sunlight’s dappled brushwork,
but is not. An albino
redwood, a dwarf tree,
is what’s there—a startling 
anomaly in this forest.
Does it think: I am not
like the others,
grand and evergreen?
It does not.
It is simply a tree among trees.
A brother among brethren.
Nature has so much to teach us
about how to be with ourselves
and our own kind.

Thursday, November 1, 2018


Story permeates our beings,
our very bodies.
In other words: how we
hold and carry ourselves
in the world
is no small matter.
What we tell ourselves
about ourselves
is an attitude, an air  
we wear like a musk.
It is in us, on us, and all around us.
It perfumes everything and everyone
we come close to.
It is how we attract what we attract
and repel what we repel.
If we remain suffused
in our state of nonchalance
we might as well go about our business
like skunks in the night,
scavenging for our next meager meal,
while the dark keeps getting darker.