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

Tanka Prose

Genus Dianthus

In my hand, a memento I consider purchasing from the little shop at the botanical gardens. "Do you know what flower this is?" I ask. The kindly man at the desk seems eager to help me. "Hmm, it appears to be a pink. Not all pinks are pink, you know; some are red, for instance," he offers. "And are you aware that the name pink comes from pinking shears—the serrated edges similar to the edges of the petals?"  

(Can't say I am. Ever-the-novice gardener, I don't even realize at this moment that I have variously colored clumps of pinks, which I have only ever referred to as Dianthus, in front of my own house.)  

I putter around the shop a little longer. Then the man shows me a page in a thick reference book, enthusiastically pointing to an illustration that bears a resemblance to the petite flower on this souvenir. "Look!" Before I leave, back to my life far away from shaded trails and lush displays of flora, I remind myself that attentiveness like this doesn't exist just anywhere.

painted

by a local artist

a dish so small

it holds nothing

but a memory

—Haibun Today,  Vol. 10, Number 3, September 2016

_______________________

The location: Asheville Botanical Gardens.

How sunflowers

how sunflowers 

could grow taller than me— 

in first grade 

the blurry border 

between fairy tale and fact 

Mariposa, 33, fall 2015

I feel like growing sunflowers. Maybe next summer.

Short green tufts

short green tufts


are all I can see—


crocus blooms


snipped off by wildlife


eager to taste spring


—cattails, May 2016

No crocus blooms this spring,
but we saw several in March 2015

On bare ground; I consider

Here's a repeat, my second twigs&stones post. It almost feels like a "signature" poem for me:

on bare ground 
I sprinkle small seeds
with abandon
as if growing wildflowers
requires a lack of care

—Notes from the Gean, June 2011; Take Five (vol. 4), 2012

And another repeat (though I decided to make a small edit here):

I consider
buying a lily
this week,
my deluded body
clinging to spring

—Simply Haiku, Autumn 2006

To all who celebrate the holiday,  H A P P Y  E A S T E R ! And  P E A C E  to all.

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."

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.

Silence; by my knee

silence

follows me around

at my heels

in midday sun

a field of white stars

—Moonbathing, 12, June 2015

by my knee

a soft thud and rustle—

I pause

to take another look

at an ugly brown bug

—Skylark, 3:1, Summer 2015

Pale yellow blooms

pale yellow blooms

on the evening primrose ...

I learned

not to open myself 

in morning's full light

—A Hundred Gourds, 3:3, June 2014

First Missouri primrose bloom of 2015!

Wild pansies

wild pansies
infiltrate
her perfect garden—
lanky, jagged-leaved,
grins on their faces

—A Hundred Gourds, 3:4, September 2014

Here in southeast Texas, pansies may survive the winter, but cottontail rabbits seem to love the taste of the blooms. 

She asks me the name

she asks me the name 

of her flowering shrubs,

my mother

who in greener days

was a garden wizard

—The Bamboo Hut, Jan. 2014
P.S. Am speaking of rose of sharon.

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. 

A clearing

a clearing—

without this camera

the flock

of black-eyed Susans

I might have missed

—GUSTS, #17, Spring/Summer 2013

The "flock," huge, but it never returned this year!

Reading tanka

reading tanka
and yet more tanka
about cherry blossoms
how I crave 
the top of a sundae

—red lights, Vol. 2, No. 2, June 2006
Note: Removed all the punctuation from the earlier version. Am happier now. ;)

It's been years, maybe decades, since I've had a real sundae.

I trace them; somewhere

I trace them

clear back to Jamestown—

forebears

of the grandfather

I knew little about

—Simply Haiku, Winter 2009, Vol. 7, No. 4

somewhere 

among mountain wildflowers 

like these

the grandfather I never met

both lived and died

—Modern English Tanka, Vol. 1, No. 1, Autumn 2006

Of course, these aren't "mountain wildflowers" (or, specifically, Colorado wildflowers) pictured above. The photo is one of a thinning summer field of blanketflower (that is, I think!) beside a winery not quite an hour's drive from us. Blanketflower, I've found, pop up "everywhere" around here, including along the ditches where we live. 

About the grandfather, my father's father: there's an interesting story or two related to my father's discovery of his whereabouts and death. 

sharing with Poets United, 7/21

Early blooms

early blooms
on the bridal wreath—
the many years
before I could picture
myself dressed in white

—Moonbathing, Issue 8, Spring/Summer 2013

I believe the early blooms appeared in late winter.

Impulsively; I think of buying

impulsively

I lop the old hibiscus

down to its base;

what need I must have

to challenge my faith

I think of buying
a lily
this week,
my deluded body
clinging to spring

—Simply Haiku, Autumn 2006

Above, my first Dutch iris that actually has bloomed, though I see something's already chewed on it. The squirrels may have dug up most of the bulbs I planted a couple of years ago; a surprise to find this bloom the day before Easter.

The old hibiscus, by the way, and a couple of others, finally bit the dust this winter. They had been through a lot: droughts, freezes, a move or two, and no doubt some owner neglect.

We Texans love our bluebonnets!

No poem right now—just a photo of wonderful bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas. It seems to be one of the best years in a long while for these and other wildflowers. They're not easy to get started; none grew from seed that I planted this year. Pictured here are a British neighbor's bluebonnets. He has massive numbers growing alongside his ditch and beyond down the road. Enjoy!

Guess I should pull out the bluebonnet tanka I tried to write last year ... In the meantime, if you want, you can revisit the wildflower poem, "on bare ground," that I posted earlier. 

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!)