“When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations.
When power narrows the area of man’s concern,
poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence.
When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.” — John F. Kennedy
Boris Schleinkofer, poetrywatch editor
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Ending the End
by Tim Pilgrim
It arrives near dawn — post-stormy ride
through quantum night, past black holes,
not to mention Dark Energy, with its mission,
destroy all time and space — she doesn’t recycle,
speaks no vegan. I try to text move in,
universe trashes my phone, strong message
to dissuade. Likely still on Twitter,
later X, thinks Facebook cool,
climate change, fake. I switch-gear dream,
bike to Boulder, hang out at Naropa,
play Karmic Twister, sop up verve
from the mother lode of modern mindfulness.
Doesn’t erase knowing I’m going down
for good in the coming end.
I drool myself awake, sponge off
all the black. Toss out thoughts of affair
with classic religion, all having one tenet
in common: life will get much better —
I’m dead.
Timothy Pilgrim, emeritus associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University, is the author of “Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems” (Cairn Shadow Press, 2021). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org.
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Bones of the World
By Jerry Dale McDonnell
The chill of an east wind
rolls down off Mount Baker
swaying the trees,
scouring the valley,
announcing autumn’s return.
I should be splitting wood,
yet I sit and watch.
The walnuts, birches,
and the one madrone tree
drop leaves of gold to
salt the ore of spring
and soon will stand bone-bare before the world.
The redwood, the giant sequoia,
the more modest pines, firs and cedars
drop needles while growing new
like changing costumes on stage,
never having to stand bone-bare before the world.
Under the tin roof
of the log shed, squirrels
mine the gold of fallen leaves
remodeling their nursery nests
of summer for winter’s coming.
I shall winter over with the trees
counting my worth against the
centuries of redwood and sequoia,
against my rapid reach of years,
against my unsolved mysteries of the world.
The axe rooted in my hand,
I judge my worth against
the industry of squirrels and
the resilience of redwood and sequoia,
knowing I’m nor green or gold,
knowing my bones can only bleach in the world.
Jerry Dale McDonnell followed his grandchildren from Alaska eight years ago and now lives near Deming. His book, Out There In The Out There, is available in the library, Village Books, Cirque Press and (of course) Amazon.
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Subject matter is unlimited, but poetry featuring or specific to Whatcom County and issues addressed by Whatcom Watch (government, the environment and media) will likely get first preference.
Please keep it to around 25 lines; otherwise, we might have to edit your work to fit. Don’t make yourself unprintable.
Send poems and your short, two- or three-sentence bios as a word document attachment to poetry@whatcomwatch.orgpoetry@whatcomwatch.org .
The deadline is the first day of the month.
Please understand that acceptance and final appearance of pieces are subject to space constraints and editorial requirements. By submitting, authors give Whatcom Watch permission for one-time publication rights in the paper and electronic editions.
