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, August 25, 2022

THE CONFIRMATION


When the gauze was lifted
from the nondescript wound

above my mother’s lip
the surgeon 

had been working on 
all day, the imprint


left there

in no way 

 

resembled the shape 

of the open sore


it came from. Instead

it looked every bit 


like a tiny heart,

which was confirmation 


enough for me,

that every wound


was really a gift 

and a blessing in disguise.

Thursday, August 18, 2022

ORANGE UMBRELLAS*

Dead Portuguese poets
and orange umbrellas...

were lost to me
when the rains came.

The tour left without me
because I was too busy 

not paying attention
to the experience

I came for. 
A sodden map in hand,

drenched to the bone,
I cried until I laughed

and heard a voice say:
There’s nothing

 wrong with you. 
You are human.

Welcome to humanity.
And then remembered,

it was Pessoa who said: 
Ships among tempests 

and not a one 
has sailed to a port 

that has not known 
its share of suffering.

*Inspired by Susan Cain's, Bitter-sweetHow Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole



 

Thursday, August 11, 2022

UNDER A FULL MOON

It is said that master violin maker, 
Stradivari, centuries ago, on each full moon, 
went to the Dolomites, to a magic forest, 
to lay his head against the spruce trunks. 
To listen.
This was how he found the wood 
for his famous instruments.
I long for my truth to be heard 
this way, under a full moon – or even
during a downpour.
I long for a listening that leans 
into me, that hears the deep tones 
of my elusive song, moon or no moon.
I long for my music to find its way into
the soul of a Beloved, like Rumi's did.
This partnership will be the instrument 
that brings me back home and into 
the deep grain of the self.

Thursday, August 4, 2022

NECTARINES 

It stood there 
in my backyard 

among the other trees
so unassuming,

aloof nearly,
its secret safely 

cloaked in the silence 
of its green leaves,

like a dream
in sleep.

For a year it kept 
its secret silent 

and unseen,
and then yesterday

it let one of its hidden
treasures, that had grown,

it seemed, overnight,
fall to the ground:

a nectarine. At first glance 
I thought it was an apple

from the my neighbor’s yard.
But all that changed

when I knelt down 
and put my hand on it

and felt its softness, its ripeness.
This was no forbidden fruit.

On one knee 
I looked up 

to see among my
tree’s branches

more orbed ornaments, 
the sensual contours 

and colors 
in full bloom,

dangling there, 
waiting to be plucked

as if to say, 
Surprise, surprise.

This is who I am.
No more secrets.

I promise. Humans 
do this too: We take

our sweet time
before pulling back 

the curtain 
of the self,

before saying 
Here I am.

I am ready for you
to see me,

I am ready to trust,
to share my fruit

with you. Safety 
is a garden

whose plenty 
can’t be rushed.