Timothy Pilgrim

Bio:

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