The hill to enter winds downwards:
Fragments of scenes intervene,
As if return, again the same but not.
A peacock screels a wild meow:
Its mating call awry in the park’s
White haze of spring pollen.
Along the White Hall of Peace
A bronze goddess begins,…
The size of my thumb, blue, green.
Footsteps crackle on glass floors.
Feet burn over Guernica’s rubble.
A saint in Picasso beret,
His uniform containing still
A faded blood stain inside
The glass frame, stands beside me,
93, old man on the hill with a tale
To tell, loss, betrayal…Our Lady?
The husk of the nine hundred year oak
That survived the bombing, preserved
In an iron pen, in a small column temple,
Seems to glare a stare for yet defiance:
A baleful ghost this sunny afternoon
Amidst the flowers of Plaza de Arbol.
I visit Guernica & Museo Gurgenheim:
Our Lady in her labyrinth of plastic shrouds.
I just got back from Bilbao.
Poetry Life and Times
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|Reviewed by Rafiriio Daniels
|Nice work, this truly will help keep peotry alive!|
|Reviewed by Flying Fox Ted L Glines
|Nicely written thumbnail tour of Bilbao! Now you have made me want to go and experience it for myself! Nice one, Poet.
|Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner
|All of the senses are brought into your scene, that you vividly pen. Excellent, Robin, my favorite stanza (out of many) is:
A peacock screels a wild meow
its mating call awry in the park's
white haze of spring pollen. GORGEOUS!!!!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
|Reviewed by Karen Vanderlaan
|i enjoyed this little look t a place i havn't heard of|