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, February 2, 2023

AN AGORAPHOBIC WALKS OUT OF AN ARENA...

There is a space within
that terrifies him.

It is a potentiality– 
as large as the Astrodome– 

too enormous to bear.
So he makes the world 

outside his door
his enemy 

and locks himself inside
his ramshackle home

and becomes a shut in
thinking, behind 

his windows and walls  
that he is safe

from all and any potential 
danger, by being a recluse.

Little does he know 
his fear of going out

is really the fear 
of going in.

So the joke’s on him:
his own company

is his confinement,
it the bones on the joke.

.


Thursday, January 26, 2023

A TWIN INSIDE 

I have a twin.
It hides inside 

the medicine bag
of my body, 

as a fake seed
a false self,

a ghost child, 
an empty echo,

a mockery 
of the very thing 

it mimics.
It carries no cargo 

of its own
and yet pretends 

to be seaworthy.
It is a stowaway

that rides for free
and is an excess 

that occupies 
but adds nothing.

I have always made
more of things

than I should 
from the lack 

I have felt within.
Have I done this again

with this twin –
by grafting 

the appearance
of yang on to yang,

by doubling up 
my dominance

on one side
more than the other? 

Oh twin, you are a presence 
that walks with me

but blocks my every move.
You are a pain I can

no longer carry.
You must go.

You don’t belong here.
It is time to release you.

I must clear the way
for something new 

to grow,
to blossom.

My body is ready to take 
its balance back.

It wants nothing to do with
imposters or intruders 

anymore. Flow is what 
it’s meant to know. 

Fluidity is the new power
that will run through me

like the River Jordan 
runs to the Sea of Galilee.

Thursday, January 19, 2023

THE SEED

There is a pool within us
in which we may find 

another. It is easy to 
mistake the image we see

for our selves.
But the image is not us.

Who is it, then?
Who is mirroring our gaze 

in those mythical waters?
There is a buoyant seed 

in this question.
If we steep in it

and let its roots reach deep,
an attention and affection,

a grace and care, will artfully 
open from this seed, 

will arise, blossom up and out
of the alluring waters

to show us that beauty 
and transformation, 

acceptance and love
are bigger than

the surface of things:
that Nature is forever

replicating itself, and is
a visible invisible 

flowering 
in all things.

Thursday, January 12, 2023

INVISIBLE FENCES

A friend was randomly telling me 
about how their mother worked for a company 
that created and sold wireless systems 
that contain canines inside set boundaries. 
They do this via transmitters, and receivers 
in dog collars. When a dog moves beyond 
the range of the collar, the signal breaks 
and the collar beeps, vibrates or shocks the animal. 
These systems are called: Invisible Fences.

When this phrase entered my ear,
it was like I was hearing a high-pitched whistle,
it was like the hackles on my back raised up –
which told me I knew something 
about systems like this.

I have one. It was installed long ago
as a complex structure of limiting beliefs.
I am in the process of dismantling it.
Hidden inhibitors and restrictors 
have no place in my house any more. 
Containment is no longer a creature comfort 
I want any part of. I am ready to roam free.
The collar’s coming off.
I am done with receiving signals 
that tell me – go no further  
that shock me into submission.

This pup is going off leash.
I am installing a new system 
that cancels the cancelations.
No more broken signals, for me. 
It is all open field and wild play 
from here on out. Woof!

Thursday, January 5, 2023

BREAK BETWEEN STORMS

                                            there is 
                                       more space

                           between 

                                     things 
                                  than we

                                  know, breaks 

                                                between 

                                      storms, time

                             than we think
                            after the call 
                                       and before
                                     the response


                                                                                


Thursday, December 29, 2022

REMEMBRANCE

as if the evanescence 
of birds leaping

intermittently 
from a bush

were what made
the green slick leaves

shudder and bounce
on their jangle of branches 

but there are
no birds

there are only 
the droplets 

falling down from 
the towering trees above  

in this way 
the sudden downpour

of a storm 
long passed

is remembered
and a rain 

is raining 
more mindfully again



Thursday, December 22, 2022



THE BOX BETWEEN
     after Diego Rivera’s “Seated Girls”

I have never heard and felt 
so much silence before
while looking at a painting.
The silence was overwhelming. 
Almost unbearable.
I have never felt so on the outside 
of something, so shut off
and cut off as I did
while standing before that painting.
I desperately wanted to know
what those girls were saying.

The longer I looked at the painting
the longer I had the unshakeable sense
that the box between and on the table
behind those girls
was the visual representation
of the conversation they were having 
that I couldn’t hear.
The box was almost like a miniature 
version of the painting itself
whose contents were 
completely hidden from me.
The painting’s silence 
just kept growing and growing
as I looked at it.
It was a silence comprised 
of so much artifice.

I realized that I had boxes 
like this one in my life.
Boxes that contained the things 
that I and others weren’t saying.
Things that got covered over
by the things we were saying.
The things we wouldn’t and couldn’t
share, the things we were
too afraid to share, for fear 
of being hurt more
and made more alone 
than we thought we already were.

And then there were the boxes 
we kept from ourselves
that we couldn’t open because 
what was inside was
too unknowable, too unnamable to name.
They were the conversation
we were all longing to have with ourselves
but to have them meant 
sitting in a silence we did not think
we could sit in, because
 the silence might be too
inconceivably inconsolable.

And then I realized
there would always be boxes
we’d never get around to opening
and that was just the way it was 
and would always be.
And that was fine. Just fine!

Like looking at a star in the night sky 
and knowing we’d never visit it.
Or like thinking about a pearl
gleaming at the bottom of a vast ocean
that we’d never dive to find.

Or like looking at a painting
and realizing we'd never really know
what the artist meant
by putting the pigment 
where he or she put it.