the lead poem on Floating Poetry Broadcast #180, on Nostalgia
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny
How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and
Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,
You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Burnished at first, then blemished— an earthly foreshadowing. Then bearded for a while.
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,