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 28, 2023


They spin
inside me,

the chariot wheels.
I am racing now

to meet the sun,
to merge with it,

to meld with the divine disk 
of sovereignty.

Sometimes it takes an invader
a darkness from the outside

that enters
to release the king within,

to set the wheels 
in motion,

for the spokes to cycle into 
the whirling wells 

of light 
they have always been.

Thursday, September 21, 2023


There is a cabana
that can be hard to find.
It is on a remote island
surrounded by
an ocean
vast and deep.
Its beach stretches
as far as the eye can see.
Here the sun is 
always shining.
This cabana has a name.
It is called self-love.
It has a color also.
It is blue like the sea.
Tropical. A blend of
say aqua
and azure.
I know a man
who knows this cabana well.
He is not afraid to wear
its color. He has painted
the nails of his toes with it—
the part of his body
he finds least attractive.
And yet with this paint
he makes his feet
that walk him across the sandy earth
in stride with his dignity–

as beautiful and as sacred 
as the rest of him is.

Divinely adorned and anointed 
with the color of love

as his pedestal
he stands like an Adonis 

attentive and waiting
ready to be of service.

Thursday, September 14, 2023


Even the lamp posts

in the light 

and heat of day

have their ghosts

in New Orleans. 

So many eyes, angels and halos 

hover above 

as the little creatures below 

enact their armored antics. 

Human beings 

really do try hard 

to be saints 

when they're not being devils.

Thursday, September 7, 2023


A man stands 
like a Corinthian column.
Ancient and eternal.
He is naked
before a full length mirror,
a mirror haloed in light. 
He is breathing.
He is being his own breath.

His gaze is sharp and clear, 
an arrow aimed at infinity
as if it were a single point of light.

He is looking at himself, looking 
at his body, at himself studying it.
Every inch is inked
in tattoos, with images 
of men, faces of men 
lined, written over with questions,
with stories, well-worn stories.
Each face is a different portrait 
made by a different artist.

As the wounds of this man 
awaken, as if from a dream, 
to the healer within him,
his breath finds its deeper rhythm.

He vibrates, and he sees 
that each illustration is now 
transmuting into flower,
a lotus blossom blossoming.
No two sets of petals are the same.
Each has its own shape, size and color.
Each is a whirling, swirling wheel, 
a pulsing vortex of light.
An arrangement of exquisite intricacies,
emanations and incarnations
rooting and ascending
at once.

Every male face, every tattoo
gorgeously arrayed on this body,
is constellating on and in it.
This man is a living cosmos, 
an epic and elegant astronomy.
A star map made flesh.

This man stands not as a Viking 
admiring his own armor
but as a Guardian
of muted energies 
that he stewards into song. 
Into anthems.

He is a space maker. 
A peace maker. 
A love maker.
He has so much to say.
So much to give.
He is humming and buzzing with
potential, purpose and passion.

He knows it is time -
time to manifest, to deliver 
the cargo he carries.
He knows this like
he knows his own heart beat,
the sound of his own voice, 
the sound of water, wind and flame.

He sees – and maybe for the first time – 
in the mirror, his beauty, 
his masculinity looking back at him. 
It beholds him, with tears in its eyes.

Breathing still, 
his breath on fire, 
he steps forward
and walks through the glass,
the door into his divinity
with gratitude and grace
as the newly formed wings on his back.
And the world 
gasps with joy.
It has been waiting for him. 
It has been missing him.
It sighs, because,
he has finally and fully 

Thursday, August 31, 2023


When you crash-land in a wilderness
and are lost and all alone

When your engine is
in desperate need of repair

When there is sand for miles
in every direction

When hope and trust are as arid
as the dessert wind

When you are roused at sunrise 
by a small odd voice

asking you to do something 
that makes no sense at all

Do what it says
Draw a sheep!

Performing this simple task 
will awaken a sleeping beauty 

Connect you to a sensitivity 
and an intuition

you knew when you were young
When you were pure at heart

When everything mattered
and was of great consequence

Remember this knee-high nobility 
It still lives within you

Let it tame you now
And you will fly again

*Inspired by re-reading The Little Prince

Thursday, August 24, 2023


A presence,
a silence

that makes space
for all that comes.

A grace and
a gathering

that receives 
and collects 

what’s shared
into its deep well.

A listening
that holds 

and evokes
grief, anger and love.

A mirror
that shows 

every face
what it most 

wants to see:
itself as golden,

as seen. The rays 
of the sun. 

The spectral hue 
of leaves.

An August
fired from Winter.

Thursday, August 17, 2023

for Alfonso Benavides

Dry dirt. 
Dead grass.
Scorched leaves.

In this arid landscape
there is one among the tree's debris,
though fallen,
that lies buoyantly beaming 
its ribbed gloss and gleam
beneath the beating rays
of the mid-day sun. 

Like a broken vessel
after a storm
 it waits 
in a vast and placid sea
for the wind 
to catch its weathered sails again,
for a new course 
to manifest destiny 
 into worlds of 
unimaginable discovery.