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June 2017

I’ve become an annoyance of late,

drawing on space and time it seems

I oughtn’t, there and then,

thinking too it’s little to do with me,

but annoyed with it anyway.

Out the window in the shaded courtyard, 

a hummingbird, blossom to blossom,

and everything in between. 

**

It’s Father’s Day at home, here 

in Spain too.

Once it’s got you, well,

maybe you know…

**

“Language wakes up in the morning…”

                                  —Jane Hirshfield

Bilbao

Thinking this morning at day-break

along the boulevard, small groups 

of those 

who’ve not yet slept 

last night’s sleep, 

thinking how much a day’s first words 

can mean, even 

when not spoken aloud, how 

grateful one can feel 

anyway, at all that’s said.

**

Segovia

Antonio Machado, the poet

lived here, and you would know that

if you did too, hung his coat

on the wooden hooks 

across from the window 

overlooking curve-tiled roofing 

crumbling now, splotched 

with matted moss 

growing delicate bouquets 

of small white flowers.

Ethics and aesthetics are one,

he taught—the inner guide

to goodness: make it beautiful.

Mindfulness, for the world—why 

I turn to the poets.

**

“How hard it is, when things 

             are lowered, not to be lowered.”

                          —Antonio Machado

To be american these days and not diminished 

means acknowledging what we’ve allowed

the world sees as surely as 

unravelling self-infatuation brings us here—

heroic action defines itself most clearly 

with the demise of the disfunction

it replaces.

**

Cordoba—07:00

Close enough to hear from the sidewalk cafe,

traffic chimes

calm the round-about 

between the bridge and the end

of Calle San Fernando, swallows

circle, ducks skim, 

a breeze lifts skin to cool

and soft tones float 

the musical tongue

that carries this country.

**

Granada—08:30

The cafeteria machine whirs

“coffee long,”

tall birch trees flash their leaves 

on an unseen breeze

and the heat waits, quiet 

beneath 

the pleasing lie

of morning shade.

**

Sevilla #1

elevator music

blocks silence morning brings,

mutes the clink of spoon to cup,

abducts every thought—

only the quiet rise and fall 

below it all remains 

at all its own

**

I’ve been thinking a lot of late

of the free-ranging possibilities

and grace of old age,

where future takes care of itself,

its own pace, where sustenance

comes in small sips,

unexpected stops, and memories

continue snatches

of wisdom

just not available back when—yes,

I’m going free range wanderlust,

infected with gratitude

for time received, for all it brings

and for the gladdened nuance

of all that’s left behind.

**

Sevilla #2 

The sun collects gold

on the building front

across the street,

throws pools from there

to here 

through glassed

doorways

onto the foyer floor

we’ve managed

for days not to see,

suddenly so unavoidably legitimate

our fickleness breaks

winds of self-appreciation,

tries to conceal shaded layers

of profound inattentiveness

to the continuing gifts

light brings.

**

Does quiet descend,

or rise dust-like

in light then seen, 

both having always 

been there.

**

Poems sparsely spread

count fewer pages

than days breathed; 

but neither has yet to 

let me down, nor 

yet let me go.

**

To Madrid

Contemplative quiet rises, 

track-gliding movements 

transitioning landscapes.

First stop reveals a different me.

With two more to go, how will I know 

who will arrive,

when?

**

Plaza Porta del Sol

Madrid’s center draws the entire country,

every clicked degree, all the myriad places 

calculated from here, to there, each

at the same time showing its own 

unfolding abundance of chance—you know, 

the crooked, sometimes line-less lines 

of sensed encounter. 

You know, the living beneath the idea.

**

“It is important that we die

        only to show its unimportance.”

                                       —William Bronk

Our most important legacy, 

our ordinariness, is not really ours

to leave behind.

**

Naturalness: not wanting

anything you have to wish for

and allowing the wish the room

to be as it is.

**

Calistoga—Franz Hill Road

The deep chill a country road can hold

is only like itself, but uphill climbs

build heat that do a body well.

Two older guys pass with smiles 

and a lifting sky offers upturned eyes 

the grateful strokes of herons, 

two that glide and circle and alight

the tallest of the trees, to watch, 

perhaps,

the curious goings-on, there below, 

on that frozen stream.

July 4th