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