Timothy Pilgrim - Two Poems

My Last Professor

 (with a nod to Robert Browning)

There, see his portrait on the wall. 

I believe him to be the exception,   

not the rule. He lasted fall, winter, 

almost till spring -- persevered, gave,   

shall I say, not just light,  

but hope – inspired a bit of love  

to begin. Then new semester --  

classes in lit, stats, chem,

attraction ebbing, new interest,  

same pattern -- learning, powerful men.   

Notice this photo, though, coup d'etat,  

prize-winning biology prof   

making dissected frogs  

jump high again.


Light Found to Have Weight

Rod in hand, sun about to set,

I've found it heavier than flies --

even affects the cast, slows line

looping through red sky

toward foam on the dark, far side.

At times, light seems to force

a ribboned splash, scatter rainbow 

before my Black Ghost touches down.

At dawn, I have seen it rise groggy,

barely able to clear meadow grass, 

likely from carrying all that dew

layered on by summer night.

The dying know, too, full well

it's true, cease to resist,

succumb to light heaviness 

holding down gray eyelids. 

They willingly give up fishing,

having reached their limit. 

Timothy Pilgrim, a Pacific Northwest poet and emeritus associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University, has published over 300 poems -- with acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, Windfall, Cirque, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday and Carcinogenic Poetry. He is author of Mapping Water (Flying Trout Press, 2016). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org.