Five Poems
by Timothy Pilgrim
Vacuuming your cat
Begin with a long hose
canister in closet, door nearly closed.
Overcoming hatred takes time.
Use the nozzle meant for blinds
bristles black like Hitler's hair.
Or don't. Your hose alone
will scare her. Sidle up
as if searching for a spot
to wash yourself in morning sun.
The hose will appear more normal.
Pet her side with a free hand.
The vacuum should be running.
Sneak in a single stroke
with the Hitler wand. But only one.
If the cat remains, watch her tail.
Swishing may mean trouble.
Repeat daily even it it rains.
Pretend to be looking for a place
to stash your hose for good.
Consider yourself lucky if she is fooled.
Keep at it, without variation.
Remember, Darwin had no clue
as to why cats hate vacuums.
After a week, you may break through.
If so, stroke both her sides,
maybe tail. But, do not vacuum ears.
And, don't misread your cat's purr.
We all have growls for things we fear.
*Originally published by Jeopardy Magazine, 2009
Ken Burns effect
I'm writing by candlelight from my tent
next one over from Odysseus,
journey going on eight years
nearly forever. Each day
we scan the sea, look leagues east
almost back to Troy. The men mutter
we should be home now
complain about the weather
want more wine, more sheep.
They fear our next adventure
will be worse than Cyclops, Sirens.
If gods were filming this voyage for PBS
they would likely zoom out
show campfires, beached boats
the whole island hopeless
gauzy mist covering all light
pan to one side, there in darkness
Penelope, alone, unraveling night.
*Originally published in Poetry Quarterly, 2013
The deadhover
“There is a little dead child in the pond --
one that has dreamed itself to death.”
Hans Christian Andersen, "The daisy"
I begin to small against my lost life,
believe it time to fish at sundown,
mingle with black moths
whirled white in graying light.
Trust rod, line, fly to provide
cutthroat stopped mid-gasp
in tall grass. Slide a bright blade
along red bellies as growing black
covers bad memories stuck
in pooled blood. Wash the dead
in deep river, fling entrails, hearts
into night. Try to forget why
the hopeless call this place
a burial ground for shadows.
*Originally published by Sleet Magazine, 2018
Empty
The ultimate truth is the truth that everything
is empty of essence, including emptiness itself.
— Nāgārjuna
No wind whirls in my dream world
no gust stirs darkness at dusk. Nothing
slices this stillness. No cosmos bend
no lilies sway, no aspen shake.
No midnight breeze, no whispered dawn
no gasp, no sigh. No breath beside me
leading me back. Hollowed end
without hope sifted in. Empty life
with nowhere to go. Like being
in an empty vagina, alone.
Shadowcide
Rod, reel, guilt-filled creel
high mountain meadow, I hike in
deep. Maze through tall grass
seek the wild stream. Creep
to mossed berm, cast bright fly
my long shadow arced
close behind. They join, eddy
whirl till dusk, finally swirl free.
Float over the high falls
somewhere downstream.
BIO: Montana native Timothy Pilgrim has over 675 acceptances from U.S. journals such as Seattle Review, Hobart and Santa Ana River Review, and international journals such as Windsor Review in Canada and Prole Press in the United Kingdom. He is the author of two books of poetry.