Tanka Prose

The Art of Gift Giving

For so long, it seemed, when our monetary wealth consisted of no more than a few coins, the Christmas presents we gave our parents were handcrafted. Such as the repurposed plastic face cream jar decorated with a broken string of costume pearls—brainchild of my kindergarten teacher. The macaroni wreath I spray-painted green and gold according to another teacher's instructions. And the wreath my brother patiently fashioned from a plain wire hanger and dozens of red-and-white peppermint candies.

the mistletoe ball
he made as a child
. . . then the way
he always resisted
his mother's kisses

Later, they took to telling us exactly what to give them. More than once from me: a dollar-size bottle of green Williams Lectric Shave for my father and, for my mother, Jergens "extra dry skin formula" lotion. Secretly, I longed for the day of impracticality, of fancy gifts, things fragile and unneeded.

Eventually, that wondrous day arrived. On an early-December expedition to a popular shopping center, our parents dropped us off at a department store where they allowed us, for a short time, to roam around on our own.

Suddenly, there it was—angel bells ringing—prominently displayed on a table. Made of glass, the sort of present I had hoped to find. And miraculously, according to a sign, the price was just five dollars. My brother, a nonshopper to this day, immediately went along with my idea. Heaven knows how he was able to carry such a hefty box all the way to the car and how we managed to disguise it as well as find a sheet of wrapping paper at home that was large enough to fit around it. But in any case, when our mother and father opened the package that Christmas day, to my barely 10-year-old eyes they looked surprised.

their punchbowl set
neatly stowed away
in a closet . . .
those festive parties
we hoped they would have

---

Author's Note: That punchbowl set is now packed away in my own house.

—Haibun Today, Vol. 11, No. 4, December 2017

M E R R Y  C H R I S T M A S ,  H A P P Y  H O L I D A Y S !

Tanka Pair

From a seedling

on one branch

early slaveholders, 

on another 

an abolitionist . . .

the shades of my forebears 

beneath the ground

the remains of a tree—

till I phone her

she doesn't realize

it's Mother's Day

—Skylark, winter 2016

I had intended to post this here in time for Mother's Day. I believe "beneath" was written in May 2015.

The abolitionist refers to a colorful, English-born great, great grandfather of mine who was acquainted with the well-known antislavery figure John Brown. Luckily, he didn't ride with the gang that fateful day to Harper's Ferry. Other ancestors of mine, from another line, settled in Virginia Colony from England around 1650. It appears that ancestors on that "branch," early on, were landholders and possibly surveyors. And, yes, apparently at least some of them had a few slaves.

I gather

I gather

clumps of aloe vera

for my neighbor—

life spreads hither and yon

from my mother's garden

—Earth: Our Common Ground (a Skylark Publishing anthology), 2017

Crows and clocks

crows and clocks,

clatter in the kitchen

from my husband ...

how active the world is

while I'm inclined to slumber

—GUSTS, spring/summer 2017

Long kidskin gloves

long kidskin gloves

she wore in the ʼ60s—

on my bare arm

is this just a freckle

or another age spot?

—Moonbathing, issue 15, fall 2016

She seemed to me to be quite the fashion plate back in the day.

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

Tanka Prose

Welcome

We knew it could happen at any time…. But the manicured evergreens, that stately magnolia tree, no stray leaf or seedpod, said otherwise. As did the covered porch that sheltered us, its graceful rocking chairs always occupied on best-weather days. And the soft whoosh-click of the automatic glass doors. Then once inside, greetings and smiles, swirls of life in the aquarium down the hall, sunlight squeezing between the slats of venetian blinds.

We knew it could happen at any time…. But Christmas came as usual, though this was the year we thought it might not. And each day, comfort-food aromas arising from the kitchen, a subtle soap scent from the laundry. Cheerful floral carpeting that muffled the brisk steps of workers and visitors. The nameplate affixed on the wall by her door. 

We knew it could happen at any time....

without fanfare

residents disappear

from the home

when their time is up—

rooms tidied and swept clean

—Ribbons, Fall 2016

Tanka Prose

Artifacts 

This vintage box from London, dusty enough for me to draw on with a finger, holds more appeal for me than what's inside it. I wish the circumference of my sister's head were smaller so she'd claim the hat for herself, as she did in the case of our grandmother's mink stole, which I also didn't want. That would be the simplest thing, and I wouldn't have to hear the tone of disappointment in my father's voice when no one takes it.

fur,

glorious fur,

once 'the rage'—

my ever-so-quick touch

as if it might bite

I'm almost a stranger in the family house, which as it turns out is a cross between museum and antique store. I want little and need even less. Yet every now and then, while sorting through and emptying the house's contents, I feel my face positively gleam. As soon as my brother removes the decorative plates from the rack up high in the kitchen, I grab the blue-and-white one with the charming, homey winter scene, always a favorite. But my silent groan as I take a closer look: small figures on a mission to catch a turkey, kneeling in pure snow, yanking at tail feathers. (I remind myself that I have eaten not one bite of Thanksgiving turkey for twelve years.) And then, that elaborately etched serving piece: proper country gentlemen on their proper horses, accompanied by, yes, a pack of hounds. A fox chase. How did I, averse to all things gruesome, never before notice that?

I pause to consider how I came to be this way—this supposed bleeding heart, a label my brother boldly slapped on me when I was only a small child. (It would be years before I would understand the term, however.) After a few moments of hesitation, I decide to bring my bounty home, in the hope that at some point I will forget what I have seen.

her hostess tray

of hammered aluminum

always looked old . . .

now that it truly is,

I clean it to newness

—Haibun Today, Vol. 10, No. 4, December 2016

The thin ring

the thin ring
she won't let anyone
remove …
even though she's long past
recalling its history

—American Tanka, August 2016: Issue 27

Holes; I smooth

holes 

in the ceiling and floor—

my father

still clings to the walls

of the family house

—Ribbons, Fall 2015

I smooth

soothing gel on his skin

…...the rash

of old-age uncertainty

more difficult to quell

—Ribbons, Spring/Summer 2016

The sale of the house is scheduled to conclude next week!

The still life

the still life

I painted at sixteen

...  all this time

hanging in my parents’ house,

soaking up their hues

—Atlas Poetica, 22, summer 2015

Now it's hanging in my house. (Don't tell anyone, but my teacher helped me a little with the fine-tuning.)

Finally, a year after moving our father out of his large old house, going through it with a fine-toothed comb, then spiffing it up and listing it, it looks like we are close to a sale, crossing fingers.

I'll miss you

I'll miss you,

her thin hand interlocked 

with mine …

scars from childhood

begin to soften 

—red lights, June 2016

Collaborative tanka sequence: Ash and embers

Many thanks to the magnificent Susan Constable, poet and tanka editor for A Hundred Gourds, for working with me on this collaboration: 

Ash and embers

Janet Lynn Davis &
Susan Constable

grass clippings 
still heavy and slick 
from a downpour— 
the last bits of summer 
clinging to their source 

the biggest bloom 
in the dahlia garden 
fades and curls … 
a friend in palliative care 
turns away from us all 

pale gray walls 
becoming grayer ... 
at ninety         
my grandmother
says she wants to die  

I touch the stove 
warm from ash and embers            
this morning 
the first shoots of daffodils    
poke through melting snow   

—Ribbons, spring/summer 2015  

Note: Susan's tanka are "the biggest bloom" and "I touch the stove."

A gleam

a gleam

when she notices

the "Grandma" mug

now too heavy

for her to hold

—Frameless Sky, Issue 3, fall 2015

The one time

the one time
my father saw his father
…….... from afar 
too hard to decipher
the character lines

—A Hundred Gourds, 4:4, September 2015

Tanka Prose

The Breezeway

rest home residents

sedate in their wheelchairs

… as I pass by,

that age-old feeling

of being the odd one out

When the weather is decent enough, patients (both short-term and long-term), as well as family members, caretakers, and miscellaneous workers on break, line both sides of the covered walkway leading to the main entrance of the facility. We often join them there. Swirls of air from the overhead fan graze our faces.

laundry's lost

as often as names

are forgotten …

today my mother

calls me her sister

A magnolia tree, its base wide and its spire reaching well above the rooftop of the adjacent building, usually captures her attention—and mine too. But right now, and for the past week or so, she appears to be particularly fascinated by a certain row of windows on the topmost story. With a voice that more than anything is gentle and hopeful, the one who decades ago carried me into the world advises, "Maybe you'll want to move here, on the third floor."

Within a few seconds, I hear the half-whisper of a woman seated across from me, as if she could read my mind. "It's the view," she offers. I simply nod. 

_______________

Pleased to tie for third place in the recent Mandy's Pages Where the Tanka Prose Grows 2015 challenge! 

Note: A slight edit made in the first tanka—"walk" replaced with "pass," the word I used in my original draft. 

The one time

the one time
my father saw his father

       ... from afar
too hard to decipher

the character lines

—A Hundred Gourds, 4:4, Sept. 2015

My mother

my mother

barely converses

……the tangle

of bougainvillea 

has spread to her mind

—Ribbons, Winter 2014

My poor mother now, a fading blossom in need of special care.

Tanka Prose

Preservation

I must have learned to stand up for myself at an early age. As if it happened just yesterday, I see my mother marching back to the market to wave her purchase in front of the manager.

how things gel

into long-term memory—

the leggy insect

suspended inside

a jar of marmalade

—Haibun Today, June 2014

December sky

December sky

sifts through the charred forest—

over the phone

my brother and I

resurrect our ghosts 

—The Bamboo Hut, vol 1, no. 2

This one was written in December 2011, three months after the second, and most destructive, set of wildfires of the year swept through our region. Flames were practically at our "back door," and we had to evacuate (right after we'd relocated there) for eight days. In this same time frame, one or two additional fires apparently were deliberately set at the front of our little community.

On a very different note:

H A P P Y  N E W  Y E A R !