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 26, 2018


I make ghosts.
From the things

I won’t say.
From the things

I haven’t given you
a chance to say.

They look like us.
Walk and talk

like us. They are
us. They are

in their silence.

Shadows emptied 
of song.

Thursday, April 19, 2018


There is a music in me
that needs to be tempered.

It's too strident, 
too brassy.

If I was Miles Davis
and the song was

“My Funny Valentine,”
I’d know what to do: I’d mute it.

That’s the tone,
the timbre I’m after.

A quiet kind of blue.
Strength in fragility.

Thursday, April 12, 2018


It dances in the air.
Twirls and flutters.

It entrances, casts its spell.
A wild frenzy ensues—

all because of a talent
to tease and toy.

What did Emily Dickinson say?
Hope is the thing with feathers.

There was hope, at first,
until the illusion wore off

and all that remained was
a few paltry plumes,

a string and a stick.
I am the cat

in this story.
There was never a bird.

Hope molted before
my desiring eyes.

Thursday, April 5, 2018


Begonia blossoms,
butterflies at dusk,

eggs inside of Armadillos—
this is a fertile world

filled with premonitions
and civil wars.

Let’s pit lovers against poachers
to try to keep it safe—

and then go on watching
the memories we haven’t had yet

from underneath flimsy umbrellas
in a century of rain.

And the rooster…we mustn’t forget
to set it free

before the gamblers come
to cart it off

to the cockfight.
All we need is

an ingot’s worth
of imagination

and some parchment
to translate

nocturnal sweats
into couplets of grace

penned with the poison
from a scorpion’s tail.

Time is nothing more than
learning to foxtrot in iron shoes.