Slavs Are People of Bread

What’s good old golden bread?
A charm’s invocation,
finest common
magic spell.

Warm, fresh,
handmade,
ploughed field
and living breath.

Its ancient keys—
Пожалуйста! Будьте добры!
in Russian,
Молим вас! Будите љубазни!

in Serbian,
Prosím, buďte laskaví!
in Czech—
please, a code
of love,

unlocking
hearts and homes,
bridging shores—
be it seas
or Donbass steppe.

Bread,
a tender flame,
crust and shape,
mellow aid,

born of flour,
water, light—
of Heaven
and Earth—

ageless form
of mother’s
touch—

its throne—
a polished plate
on tablecloth
in calming ease.

Back in Czechoslovakia, At the Heart of Sorela

 

From that flat’s

balcony,

narrow-doored,

I’d muse on Orion— 

 

his gladius

below his belt,

three stars

perfectly aligned. 

 

I didn’t know

he hunted Pleiades,

clutching

the Bull’s mane, 

 

or at his heel,

Isis as a dog

barked,

seeking Osiris. 

 

Below, a plaza

named for Peace

taught sanctity

in solitude.

Wasn't God of the Bible originally Persian?

Was God
Persian first,
shaping
Paradise?

Gardens were
works of art
when nature
meets a thoughtful mind.

Is that how we pair
heart’s lost and found—
a kiss you meant,
scented reward for a dish?

Pleasure-shelter,
divine treat—
a song’s pen,
nectar in her
rubescent lips:

if there’s a garden,
let her craft
delight and ease
in timeless pause.

Chinese Emperors Used to Have Poets for Advisors, Though Less And Less Understanding Why, Less and Less Then Knowing Of the Spirit’s Universal Sound

The flute, a dead wood piece,
can still return a sense
of grace with mere sound
as it did for Chang Yueh:

winter’s leafless woods,
disturbed and roused
by their blushing buds,
swayed alive

with the wand
of changing times
that cannot but follow
reasons and rhythms

of which mortals
barely or dimly know—
that’s how greater
and deeper

they are, those
cosmic decrees,
ever holding all,
even what we missed.

No One Grasps Now Whence That Strange Soviet Ideal Beat Nazi Grim

 

The USSR—three S’s, 

one R, not Russia’s— 

laundry hung outside, 

none thought to steal 

or soil, like many 

our hearts. 

 

All knew their street, 

their block, gave salt 

or thought when asked— 

 

On a packed bus, 

when you saw 

a veteran—woman 

or man—from 

that Sacred War, 

 

coming through 

the door, all 

rose, gave respect, 

seat, heart-felt smile.

A Variation on a Granada Romance

 

Out there in this world

there lives and rings

Frederico (Spanish

for Vladimir) García Lorca

through Sleepwalking Romance.

 

There what a ship is to the sea

a horse is to a mountain,

and a shadow dreams

of a woman’s waist,

and the waist of a balcony,

 

and the balcony of one such waist

and its shade coming to oblige

beauty like a veil, and that’s why

the wind too will turn as fine and green.