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, 2020



CAMEO

Dear reader,
if you had been there
on the forest path
a friend and I were on
lined with redwoods
and in the conversation we were in
about hearts and how
they appear sometimes
in the unlikeliest of places
you would have been amazed
also, I think, by the synchronicity
of seeing what we saw: 
another heart.

It was as if the little cordiform leaf
bounded out of its dilapidated dressing room
just as my friend
in the middle of her story, said:

Oh, I see:
You’re love.

No cameo was
better timed.

Reader, will you make 
your cameo now
and please recite these words 
with me:

Hearts, wherever you are,
may you continue to always employ
the element of surprise.
May you remain ever green.

Thursday, April 23, 2020

THE LAW OF CORRESPONDENCE

1.
As Within


The tiniest cathedral,
the color of bone.
Doves inside
shuffling and cooing
from the rafters.
Every votive’s ablaze.
A choir of light.
Souls in white suits
pack the pews.
An alabaster bowl
on the altar
gleams, is ready
for its next christening.

All this lives
like an egg
inside a man  
on his way
to an opening.


2.
So Without

A Hollywood premiere.
Hoards line the streets.
Fanfare’s everywhere.
All the stars are out.

A kleig
lights up the sky.
Its beam reaches
for the mirror
of the moon, dreams
its way past
the celebrity
of the sun,
beyond the milky firmament,
beyond the billion-odd galaxies,
back to the beginning,
to the earliest aperture,
no bigger than
Galileo’s eye,
to the birth place
of the first great flash,
to light itself,

to the great anointer.

Thursday, April 16, 2020

PREGNANT PAUSE

Inside the belly of Time
I hold my breath
not knowing

what got caught,
or what’s waiting
at the delta door,

or how deep
the shallows are.
I twist around

a pain that lives
inside like a fist,
swollen and fetal,

braided by loss,
death, and birth
strand over strand.

A voice, umbilical,
mute, sounds only
when I cut the chord

with my listening. The ocean
of the world welcomes
its river-child home.

Thursday, April 9, 2020

THE QUARRY

What if we called the times we’re in a quarry?
And what if this quarry were the place
sculptors came to to find the slab from which
they’d make their next work?

And what if the rock they chose
was the same hulking mass given to Michelangelo,
the mediocre canvas, twice rejected,
from which he made his masterpiece?

What if we are the artists we’re talking about
and the job before us now is to cut away the chaff
from the weighty and confining times we’re in
in order to rescue and reveal what’s most essential?

And since we're calling these times a quarry,
why not also christen what we create, David?

Thursday, April 2, 2020

SCANNING THE SAVANNAH

      darting
 to the      edges

   eyes survey
     a scene

     flattened
          by fear

     when predator is
on the prowl

    bodies outside
           breathing

crave a calm
    that acts as

cover
when the canopy

          sparse and spare
     cannot   

           sometimes 
   the Serengeti

          feels too close        
      for comfort