Thursday, July 14, 2011

Timothy Pilgrim

Timothy Pilgrim (a journalism professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham) is a Pacific Northwest poet who has published over 100 poems, mostly in literary journals.

Count ravens

Together, we maneuver a steep hill
then a loop. I drop you off, 

head three streets down, 
turn into a cul-de-sac, mine,

crawl up the walk, through door,
go blind, die. Later, I  count ravens

mourning out back. They form
a long line over my grave, caw out

in unison, weep. I kneel, pray,
rise, drive away, intent.

We tend to make death
more important than it really is.

Timothy Pilgrim

  Accidental dawn

I fall asleep in some old barn,
drift away on heaps of straw. 
A lone rooster awakens me,
crows, "rise, open eyes."

It is curious how things,
like cocks, can be so familiar: 
combs, red, feathers shine, 
eyes beady, yet intent.

Nestled back in golden nest,
I urge the rooster to complete 
its song  -- join in, sing along,
face another accidental dawn.

Timothy Pilgrim

    In my dream

we stand together, 
naked, on our bed.
The fire licks red.
I reach around, make you

excited. We bounce upward,
together, heads slap ceiling
until mattress and frame break.
I reach out, grab the headboard,

try to steady us
so we can stay together.
You push the wood stove over,
it falls into pieces, no coals glow.

I throw one fire brick
at the lamp, break its glass.
Shade still on, it lands upright.
The yellow bulb burns bright.

Timothy Pilgrim

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