On Early Summer Elderwalks

Athens, GA, June, 2023

I hike through my neighborhood 

in the guise of an old man 

with just a hint of a gimpy hip.

Gripping a gnarled walking stick, 

I’m out before the heat, 

huffing up hills, 

passed by young runners 

and mothers rolling strollers.

They nod in my general direction 

or smile past the half-seen elder.

We share the same street 

but live in different worlds.

I walk as much in memory 

as in the searing moment.

I slip through years, 

misplace whole decades.

I zig-zag through shadows 

and pause in a pool of shade. 

A warm breeze sifts the mimosa 

and I breathe its pink sweetness. 

I scan the borders of ragged lawns 

telling sumac from senna,

cats-ear from dandelion, 

wild petunia from woodland phlox.

Stopped by calls of 'Hey Mr. Bob' 

from a yard full of children at play, 

I watch their beloved Wally 

snatch a flying frisbee in stride.

As morning warms, a low drone fills 

the distance. With sun high on my back, 

I saunter home through the green 

aroma of fresh-mown grass.

On the other side of sunset, 

I watch a field full of fireflies 

tracing seductive J-shaped loops 

as signs of love in the failing light. 

In the spell of affection, I nudge 

a young snake with the tip of my stick. 

The copperhead coils, then flows 

off the asphalt into the night.

In the Divine Arms of Unfolding Earth

A medley of poems* by Gene Bianchi, selected and lightly edited by Bob Ambrose for his Celebration of Life

Is my kitchen window a glimpse into the other side?

At dawn a rare red fox appeared on the path below 

to lead me into dark conifers at the far edge.

Now it's the red-tinted chest of a hawk 

sitting still as a Buddha, 

soaking up divine rays

on a branch almost arm range, 

like cat Tony behind me

fast asleep in a patch of sun, 

both in contact with the source.

I watch an oak leaf float by 

still red, yellow and green, 

drifting to its final rest, 

waving its colors 

as it accepts a career in mulch

to build its new arbor home.

Nature is powerful 

but doesn't demand dominance.

Her cycle is simple and complex 

dancing from life to death to life.

In the beauty along my driveway

I sense a penetrating oneness,

immersed in a cosmic divine, 

closer than dolphins to their ocean

and flowers to their roots.

We are unfolding earth 

now and forever.

In blessed instants I see a peaceable kingdom, 

all seekers eating and drinking from the source, 

and under it, a quiet convergence. 

In silent unity, spirit moves in and out, 

and draws me smiling into the stream of now.

With Brother Francis I see the divine 

in every molecule of the cosmos –

sun, moon, stars, even in dust 

returning to dust as sacred, 

in death as destiny within our temporal run.

Now the reflection of a barred owl 

skims the water, moaning 

like a wounded herald 

announcing my own return apace, 

ashes to waves in the ocean of beginnings.

Here on another Ash Wednesday, 

I feel cat Max purring on my lap, 

see first hyacinths blooming, 

and sense the world's renewal.

Take heart, my friends – 

brothers, sisters, strangers, beloved – 

our common resting place 

is in good hands.

• Stanzas selected from “The Hum of it All – Poems from a Personal Journey.” Poems include “Red Hawk Teaches Meditation,” “Oak Leaves and a Puzzled Deer,” “Bringing Earth to Heaven,” “An Inward Olympics,” “The Oconee is Agitated,” and “Death as Destiny not Defeat.” 

Gene Bianchi, photographed by Penny Noah: