Tim Pilgrim
Never wrong
Let’s canoe to the island,
more stable than a raft.
I’m certain my girlfriend
hates to dance. Text me
from work, your boss
won’t mind. Cut down
the tree, it won’t hit
your home. I date
her friend, she’ll never know.
I’m really sober, plenty good
to drive. No texts for days,
she must want me back.
It’s best to eat steak, salmon
puts on fat. These jeans
are clean, my breath
smells great. Still no text,
she must be depressed.
No need for a coat,
I’ll never catch cold.
I prefer being alone,
am happy she left.
It is what it was
Trite after a while, the phrase,
it is what it is. Means no choice,
frozen, stuck. Allows no way
to act on where we've been,
improve the future, give it sense,
spruce it up. Even caged geese,
by accident, beak latch,
open gate, give grass a scratch,
learn to re-beak, escape,
swim, splash. More wise to glance
behind, let the past teach. It is
what it WAS— a mirror beyond
the black. Green light reflected,
ahead, down the road a bit.
Timothy Pilgrim, Bellingham, Washington, U.S., has published several hundred poems in journals such as Seattle Review, Windsor Review, Otoliths, San Pedro River Review, Toasted Cheese, Third Wednesday and Sleet. He is the author of Mapping water (Flying Trout Press, 2016).
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Never wrong
Let’s canoe to the island,
more stable than a raft.
I’m certain my girlfriend
hates to dance. Text me
from work, your boss
won’t mind. Cut down
the tree, it won’t hit
your home. I date
her friend, she’ll never know.
I’m really sober, plenty good
to drive. No texts for days,
she must want me back.
It’s best to eat steak, salmon
puts on fat. These jeans
are clean, my breath
smells great. Still no text,
she must be depressed.
No need for a coat,
I’ll never catch cold.
I prefer being alone,
am happy she left.
It is what it was
Trite after a while, the phrase,
it is what it is. Means no choice,
frozen, stuck. Allows no way
to act on where we've been,
improve the future, give it sense,
spruce it up. Even caged geese,
by accident, beak latch,
open gate, give grass a scratch,
learn to re-beak, escape,
swim, splash. More wise to glance
behind, let the past teach. It is
what it WAS— a mirror beyond
the black. Green light reflected,
ahead, down the road a bit.
Timothy Pilgrim, Bellingham, Washington, U.S., has published several hundred poems in journals such as Seattle Review, Windsor Review, Otoliths, San Pedro River Review, Toasted Cheese, Third Wednesday and Sleet. He is the author of Mapping water (Flying Trout Press, 2016).