Roses removed

roses removed,

rock garden replaced

with asphalt . . .

who are these people

living in our old house?

—Ribbons, Spring/Summer 2017

Here I am again. I didn't drop off the face of the earth!

P.S. This tanka is about the house we used to live in, in England, when I was 10–15. Walked down the street it's on when we visited last year.

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

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.

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

Tanka sequence

Shop of scents 

each soap 

a piece of artwork … 

part of me knows

the sculpted designs 

will in time wash away

a fresh spray 

of "triple cool mint"— 

this desire 

to smell like a patch 

of garden herbs 

"lavender silk" 

for experienced skin ... 

I buy a bar, 

trusting the store clerk 

to keep my secret 

—red lights,  vol. 12, no. 1, January 2016

This shop is in San Luis Obispo, California.

Buying

buying 

a garden statue ...

my slight pause

before I accept

the chip in her angel wing

—Skylark, 3:1, Summer 2015

Mission bells

mission bells

above the garden—

Joy, Sorrow

and at the center

Gloria

~ San Luis Obispo, California

—Atlas Poetica, #18, July 2014

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. 

Why this urge

why this urge

to reinvent myself?

with a shovel

I flip over the mulch

until it looks new

—A Hundred Gourds,  2:4, September  2013

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.

The wildlife

the wildlife,

are they getting used

to me? 

I who bombard their space

with my garden statues

—Atlas Poetica, #13, November 15, 2012

Crystal droplets

crystal droplets

and leafless branches

of dark bronze . . .

this chandelier becomes

a winter garden

— a tanka I posted at Kirsten Cliff's blog for her Siloh Tanka Contest 2012 ("Winter Dream") 

Though I may be very sensitive to allergens such as pollen—which we do have a lot of around here, even in winter—design-wise I like bringing the outdoors inside. My preferred aesthetic is rustic and old-looking with a small amount of bling. Thus, the above chandelier is perfect for me (and I managed to snatch it up for a decent price too). My significant other was lukewarm to it; however, on this item I wasn't going to compromise (smile). Alas, my winter garden!

P.S. In reality, the actual chandelier branches aren't completely "leafless." ;)

I'm just a woman; with sugar

I'm just a woman

building her life

around a garden. . .

this deep-seeded need

to nurture

—Moonbathing, Issue 6, Spring/Summer 2012

with sugar
I lure hummingbirds
into the garden;
you, though, never were drawn
to sweetness and light

—kaleidowhirl, Autumn 2006

No, this is not a photo of my garden; it was taken at the Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont. I don't have much of a garden here on this patch of ground that was notched out of the forest. For one thing, it's hard to grow anything "normal" in this somewhat harsh environment where stubborn yaupon thrive. For another, I've found the native trees or plentiful weeds, combined with the heat, give my immune system major fits. Also, because of the condition with my back, I haven't been allowed to bend very much. So I've been staying inside a little more often. I suppose my garden now is my poetry.

Wilted

I am hollow with petals of August.
My thoughts form deadened fields,
even before the sun is opened full.

The air hangs humid, in tarry slabs.
Bricks of heat are savage
against backs, across faces,

While garden plants lie listless—
fading, faded—their lips pursed.
At least rain threats bring variance.

It hasn't always been like this:
There were years the sweat would tap dance
on vulnerable skin, not cling.

But now the world's awry;
and the Texas summer doesn't quit, 
just blurs itself into the fall.

—Pebble Lake Review, Summer 2005

Augusts can be brutal here, even when we're not officially in a state of drought. Two more months, two more months, I tell myself.