Tim Pilgrim

Stick horses

We rode together on wooden molding
dad had not nailed to the dining room wall --

spirited knotty-pine appaloosas --
eight-year-old team of do-gooders

snaking through trails of flowerbed,
garden, lawn. Leather shoelaces

as reins, toy pistols strapped on,
red bandanas around necks,

we never got bucked off
on patrol of weed-covered lots,

bandits caught in thicket, jailed
in shed just before we were sent

to bed. I cried all night when my pony
became baseboard in the den.

(previously published in Cirque)



300 streams of memory

I dream about time
and the distance between us,

how age settles like silt
in a Montana stream,

replay wounds of cutthroat
laid side by side for gutting,

out of the wicker creel,
where they gasped in unison,

each hoping to see water again,
feel comforting coolness,

dart down to a pool, deep,
lie healing, until time to feed.

(previously published in Cirque)



Deserted advice

Believe me, now is the best time
to hope. Forget your loneliness. Suspend
all gathering doubt, bind your wounds,

embrace change in its run to shore.
At dusk, gaze into a tidepool.
Find the resolve to search for purple.

Give yourself your word. Kindle seaweed
on the beach at midnight. Without warning,
send this note in a bottle to your lover.

(previously published in Kumquat Poetry Challenge)



Timothy Pilgrim, associate professor emeritus of Western Washington University in Bellingham and a Pacific Northwest poet with a couple hundred acceptances by dozens of journals (such as Seattle Review, Windfall, Cirque and Thick With Conviction), is co-author of Bellingham poems (2014) and included in Idaho's Poets: A Centennial Anthology (University of Idaho Press), Tribute to Orpheus II (Kearney Street Books), and Weathered pages: The Poetry Pole (Blue Begonia Press).

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Taylor Emily Copeland - Two poems

Image
Kala gives a tour of hell This is the metal box he locked me in. This is the chain he used to keep me bound. This is where he shot Charlie three times in the chest. This is where he buried him, like a dead animal. This is where I was allowed to walk around, like a dog, to smell the air, to hope for release. This when we hear about how likeable my captor was, how he was a great boss, a model citizen, never the type to do this. This is when I don't talk about my bare back against a metal floor, about tasting his scent, about the thumping sound in closed in spaces, and how it echoes in my teeth and eyes. This is when you can read about the fourteen year old that he bound and forced, about how they released him, gave him the chance to step up his game. This is the hole a gun makes, a shovel makes, a void makes when someone you love dies. This is when I give the story an edit, a heroine. When someone asks me what its like to kiss another girl It tastes like cotton candy,
Read more

Alla Vilnyansky - Two poems

Master Class: Cinderella Practicing Violin It takes special skill to acknowledge that almost anything may be mended. My mother plays the piano, beats her knuckles against the black and white keys—welds sounds together. Fingers thick; nails painted crimson not the typical hands of a concert pianist. Above her depicted in a Victorian dress—the instrument serving as her accessory; her captive audience. Who unhinged the gate through which her carriage, was set to arrive? (previously published in Zaum) On Lenin’s Mausoleum and Love After Jenny Browne Not every glance is capable of conveying all things at once: love, anger, frustration. I remember your mother’s house the inside of a ship. I know you thought things would be alright turning to sand, all of it coming down. In “Love Letter to a Stranger” you’re always you and I’m always me. A body you’ll do anything to preserve. (previously published in Scryptic) Alla Vilnyansky was born in the Ukraine and came to t
Read more

Jonathan Dowdle - two poems

3 AM Insomnia Perhaps, my darling, The most intimate thing we can do Is give another our sorrow, To be open, split, and vulnerable, Even while knowing The wound might not be sealed, But left open, and crying, The way a child does, Without shame, or reprimand, But merely To have the hurt held As though it were just another Part of us. Ache You beat until you bruised my heart, You don't get to ask Why it's gone black.  Jonathan Douglas Dowdle was born in Nashua, NH and has traveled throughout the US, he currently resides in South Carolina. Previous works have appeared or are appearing in: Hobo Camp Review, 322 Review, The Write Place At The Write Time, Blue Hour Review, and After The Pause.
Read more