Roadside ditches

roadside ditches

brimming with dark water

after the rains 

even they can shimmer

with the right touch of sun

—The Right Touch of Sun, 2017 TSA Members' Anthology

Pleased that the editors of the 2017 Tanka Society of America members' anthology, David Terelinck and Margaret Dornaus, were able to use wording from my tanka for the anthology title. I wrote "roadside ditches" during the wild rainy season of Spring 2016; my mother passed away at night as our region, in southeast Texas, experienced the first bout of torrential rain. Ironically, I submitted "roadside ditches" to the anthology editors 2–3 weeks before Hurricane Harvey struck in late August 2017. I'm a native Texan and have lived for the bulk of my life in Houston (or not too far away from Houston). I'm used to rain—and, conversely, also to drought—though not to such extreme amounts of it. 

Near the dunes

near the dunes 
search-and-rescue shifts 
to 'recovery' . . . 
how can a life 
vanish so completely?

—GUSTS 25, Spring 2017

While my niece was staying here with her family in August 2015, she learned of a good friend's swimming accident. The other two in the group survived. 

Tanka Sequence (Set)

Clothes

sunflowers
splashed all over
my dress—
bare-armed, I scattered
the seeds of childhood

for so long
she draped it around herself
the same thick cloak
that near the end
slipped off her shoulders

—Skylark, 5:1, Summer 2017

I say goodbye

I say goodbye

to her camellia bush—

its bounty

of new pink blossoms

as if nothing has happened

—Frameless Sky, issue 4, June 2016

A cardinal

a cardinal

darts in and out of the woods ...

my mad dash

to learn about life

before it's time to die

—red lights ("meditation"), June 2016

Haiga: Ordered

For information about this memorial, please see KYSO Flash, issue 6, Fall 2016.

Tanka Prose

Happy this tanka+prose piece was picked up for reprint in the current issue of red lights. I assumed I had posted "Circa" to twigs&stones earlier (two or three years ago), but I guess I didn't. So here it is:

Circa 1830

For me, it's the most memorable of all the cultural artifacts in the mission's collection. The lacy, shawled garment has a flamenco flavor to it. Sequins, which would have been expensive in that day, further adorn it.

no flash allowed

inside this museum

the blackness

of a widow's wedding gown

preserved behind glass

I read the small sign posted nearby and learn that, according to Spanish social custom, white wasn't an option for widows who remarried. (In fact, I later determine that widows were to wear black for the rest of their lives.) I can't help wondering if there were any particular dictates for widowers.

—first published in Haibun Today, December 2013

A dollop; grouped by class

a dollop

of clotted cream

on my scone—

the pleasant taste of things

I once avoided

~afternoon tea, cruise ship

grouped by class

while on the Titanic

though just one

set of numbers

for all their gravestones

~Titanic cemetery, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

—both of these published in Atlas Poetica, 22, Summer 2015

Tanka Sequence

Homegrown 

for Sandy 

for years 
she couldn't venture 
into the garden— 
there, on the paving stones, 
is where she found him 

resurrecting 
the raised tomato bed 
plant by plant, 
she sinks her fists deep 
into dark compost 

Lily, 
her gardening dog, 
at her side ... 
a bounty of earthworms 
and a small patch of peace  

—Skylark, 3:2, Winter 2015

Collaborative tanka sequence ("tanka pair")

I'm pleased to post this tanka pair, a collaboration with the talented Jo McInerney:

Mementos 

Janet Lynn Davis, USA ("what to keep")
& Jo McInerney, Australia ("we repair")

what to keep, 
what to throw away ...
tiny rhinestones 
missing from the wings 
of her butterfly brooch 

we repair 
her diamante bow 
before pinning it 
to her burial shift ...
the hope of resurrection 

—Skylark, 4:1, Summer 2016

From Jo:
The woman for whom this tanka was written was Mum's oldest sister and outlived her by 27 years. She was my daughter's surrogate grandmother and my second mother. When she died I felt as though I had been orphaned again. 

From Janet:
This is my first Mother's Day without the earthly presence of my mother, Joan (pronounced JoAnn), who passed away on April 20 after a lengthy, debilitating illness. The world feels a little silent now. (I did, of course, keep the butterfly pin.)

Joan 

Clergymen

clergymen 
wearing loud neckties
that once were his— 
he always wanted 
his funeral to be fun 

—Ribbons, Fall 2013

A year this month that he's been gone, a longtime friend's husband, after a several-year battle. 

Tanka Prose

Fine roots

"No more hurting people

Peace" *

with pebbles

I prop them back up—

my lavender

barely past seedling stage

uprooted by wind

April 15, 2013, mid-afternoon. Staring out the window, I notice that some of them are bowing heavily, a few others passed out. Just a couple of days ago, I had planted them carefully in a neat row down the center of the bed. Now, I must painstakingly tuck them back in.

After I return inside, I learn that a horrific attack has occurred at the Boston Marathon. Much more news would follow: so many serious injuries, a child among the dead. What do parents say to their children, even those not immediately affected? 

________________

* Words on a sign made by Martin Richard, eight years old, one of the three people killed.

—LYNX, February 2014   

"with pebbles" first published at Haiku News, August 2013. 

Wishing you peace.

A cutting chill

a cutting chill

till the last rose is placed ...

through the ether

he breathes words into me

for his death poem

—Ribbons (Tanka Cafe, "The Afterlife"), Spring/Summer 2013
Posted recently at Haiku-doodle, the blog of poet Margaret Dournaus, as part of her All Souls Day/Day of the Dead series

This tanka refers to a longer poem I wrote several years ago about "his" (my grandfather's) death. Or maybe I should say, "we wrote," because I felt I may have gotten a little help. 

Pine-needle nest

pine-needle nest
with an unhatched egg ...
I carry it
to the edge of the woods
where birdsong is thickest

—Skylark, 1:1, Summer 2013

Sky-high pines; this buzzard

sky-high pines

chain-sawed

to the ground—

are the night cries

more plaintive now?

this buzzard

statue-like atop

a dead oak . . .

nothing between us

but the country air

—Atlas Poetica, #13, Nov. 2012

Pictured, the buzzard's oak.

Couldn't touch them

couldn't touch them
with my small-child fingers—
the handkerchiefs
she once gave me
held the scent of death

—Presence, #47, Dec. 2012

Not another death poem

—for Judy

This poem is not about death;
there are too many of those.
It is about everything else:
the long discussions of when
we were seven or twenty-two;
how we fancied being “great writers”
(both of us, even then);
how we were otherwise unalike,
you protesting in the streets,
      me watching,
you flirting with any and all
who would flirt back,
      me blushing,
you with the wild hair and umber eyes. 

It is about anything but now;
anything but the slow fading,
anything but the white lilies
that will cover you before
the next hint of frost on the meadow. 

—Loch Raven Review, Vol. 1, No. 1, Fall 2005

This poem was republished in January at Juliet Wilson's Bolts of Silk; check out her fine 'zine.

Judy, who served as inspiration here, was a spirited "hippie" and somewhat-tragic figure from California; I got to know her a number of years ago at an online health-related forum. We had conversations about all sorts of things via e-mail and a time or two by phone. She grew up around music and had been a freelance writer (among other professions) who sometimes covered the L.A. music scene.

Judy helped and encouraged me with my first serious attempt or two at poetry. She said we'd have a fun time if I were there. However, she died too early, from an excrutiating illness—before, it would seem, she could finish living. (Neither of us, of course, turned into "great writers," but dreaming is easy!)

Ekphrastic tanka: break, break, break

The subject of my tanka here is a Monet painting (see link to painting underneath poem).

break, break, break,

a cold sea’s crashing waves . . .

the grief

painted into

these rocks at Belle Île

Allusion to Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem “Break, Break, Break”
Claude Monet, “Rocks at Belle Île (The Pyramids of Port Coton),” 1886

—Atlas Poetica ("Ekphrastic Tanka" special feature), Nov. 24, 2012

Read about ekphrastic poetry at Atlas Poetica and The Music In It: Adele Kenny's Poetry Blog (which focuses on the craft and enjoyment of writing poetry).

The Vultures

Only a yard or two and a barrier
of extra-strength window glass
separated me from them
as I managed the obligatory
post-surgery stretch down the hall—
the diseased organ ripped
from my body just hours before.

They were two elderly men
on a low corner of hospital roof,
hunched beneath overcast sky,
taking a smoke between courses.

We revile them. Winged warlocks,
we call them, these other-world scavengers.

Yet we revere them. They sense
the nearness of death long before
     the white coats do.

—Tryst, issue X-XI, 2004  

Not the right thing to see after surgery? It wasn't the painkillers, really.

Just got back home after a short stay in the city, where I had a somewhat-dreaded medical procedure involving anesthesia. I typically try to stay away from medical establishments, however.

The outline

the outline
of its wounded body—
this fit of rain
not bold enough
to wash it from my mind

—Modern English Tanka, Autumn 2008

I still can see it.