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.

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

The clink

the clink

as I drop each pine cone

into the bucket—

keeping the pretty ones,

isn't that the way it is

—Ripples in the Sand, 2017 TSA Members' Anthology

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.

The assortment

the assortment
of birthday cards
he gives me,
one from each side
of his personality

—red lights, 4:2; Take Five, vol. 1 (2008)

Off the freeway; my father

off the freeway
in an open field
a vast church
its cross shaped in a curve
as if to hold the world

—kernels, 2013

my father

who rarely ever hugs

halfway does ...

bells begin to ring

this Christmas season

—Frameless Sky, December 2014

Frameless Sky is a new, innovative DVD journal from the creative Christine L. Villa.

M E R R Y  C H R I S T M A S 

Wishing you peace and joy.

We scour shelves

we scour shelves

for half-price chocolates,

our way

of sweetening

February 15th

—Atlas Poetica 14, spring 2013

Well, bad luck nowadays on snatching up good candy after Valentine's Day. This year, on February 15, the shelves were practically bare.

Strolling through

strolling through
the holiday market
each year
the array of delights
delighting us less

—A Hundred Gourds, December 2013

With this tanka, I'm stretching out the holidays a bit! (AHG asks that you wait at least 40 days after they've published your work before you share it again with the world.) I can find it hard to let go of Christmas anyway; my tree and other stuff often are up well into January. 

No pear tree

A repeat from last winter:

no pear tree
no partridge either . . .
I wake up 
to a chill on my face
a million crows-a-cawing

Who knows, maybe you'll see this a third time too. ;)

Childless, yet ...

Excuse me, time for a little holiday cheesiness now. We decided to give Santa a thrill one year long ago. I'm the older one, on the right, with the puffy hair. 

childless, yet ...

memories of crimson suits
and ermine beards
..........drift to the surface
of my snowy mind

—Ribbons, Winter 2006, Vol. 2, No. 2

B E S T  G R E E T I N G S  O F  T H E  S E A S O N 

A nativity

a nativity

small enough to fit

in a matchbox ...

I turn the key

to play Silent Night

—GUSTS, #18, Fall/Winter 2013

Where Franz Gruber composed the beloved song Silent Night

During our Danube trip last month, I perked up as I heard the announcement that we were passing by Arnsdorf (Austria), where schoolteacher, church caretaker, and organist Franz Gruber composed the melody for Silent Night. When I was around 13, one of my grandmothers gave me a small book about Gruber and the history of that familiar Christmas carol. So, we quickly clicked away with our cameras. 

P.S. See the preceding post for a picture of the music box described above.

Tiny skaters

tiny skaters

twirling round a pond . . .
undiscovered
until now, this world
inside a music box

—Skylark, 1:1, Summer 2013

Pictured above, the miniature music box I bought last December—from a shop in Illinois that I visited with my sister and her kids. In the tanka, though, I'm actually describing one of the other similar music boxes they had for sale; maybe I should buy it next. I wonder if my fascination with things delicate and diminutive will ever leave me.

My eyes

Meant to post this one earlier in recognition of U.S. Veterans Day:

my eyes 
scan the wall of heroes 
at Walmart— 
why should I expect
to understand bravery? 

—Haiku News, Nov. 5, 2012

This headline/link accompanied the above tanka: "Colleges offer veterans classes to ease transition."

Our honeymoon; I tell him; an e-card

our honeymoon
spent choosing furniture
for our new home,
hopeful roots sprouting
from solid-wood legs

—Fire Pearls 2 (anthology), 2013

I tell him
it's his anniversary
he tells me
it's mine too—the comfort
in our seeming nonchalance

—bottle rockets 18, 2008; Take Five, Vol. 1, 2009

an e-card 
sent from his corner 
of the house 
our anniversary 
hiding in my spam 

—red lights, Vol. 9, No. 1, January 2013

Anyone who watches the Bachelor/Bachelorette on TV with his spouse should be given a medal. Yes, it's true.

The brimming bowl

the brimming bowl
of potato salad
she made at home
.....my tub of store-bought
.....shriveling beside it

—red lights, Vol. 9, No. 2, June 2013

To those in the U.S., Happy Fourth! Eat a lot of potato salad.

Faint pine scent

faint pine scent

from the Christmas candle

left out through March . . .

I like to believe

in peace a while longer

—Wisteria, January 2007

This blog is looking kind of dull. I meant to include a photo here of the original candle, but I can't find it (the candle, that is). Maybe I'll uncover it by next Christmas, in which case I'll repost this one then!

To those who celebrate the holiday: H A P P Y  E A S T E R ! (And happy my-sister's-birthday too!)

My stolen ...

my stolen
Valentine pendant,
at its center
a golden, mythical bird
wings no longer mine

—Modern English Tanka, Vol. 1, No. 1 (Autumn 2006); Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (2006)

I seem to have a fondness for birds, in jewelry and in general. The pendant was a late Valentine's gift one year, brought back from a Qatar business trip. Soon thereafter, when some work was being done inside our house, it "disappeared" and never showed up again.

No pear tree

no pear tree
no partridge either . . .
I wake up 
to a chill on my face
a million crows-a-cawing

—Winter 2011-2012

Above, one I wrote last winter. Many dog-size crows usher in the mornings around here with their distinctive squawks. When the idea first planted itself in my mind, I remember being alone in a literal and metaphorical chill—and all those crows, as usual.

Synchronicity: I'm not writing about cherry blossoms in this poem, lovely as they are; by that I mean I'm not especially using traditional imagery in the first part. Yet last month, on the blog of a fellow writer whose work I admire, I came across a published haiku in a similar vein—different overall though starting out with the same type of pear/partridge imagery. It appears we may have been on the same wavelength. That sort of thing, of course, happens (and can be enjoyable). You may have read the haiku or, if not, I hope you do sometime.

Though I'm fond of this particular tanka, as I am the above-mentioned haiku as well, I've decided just to post it on this blog and not bother searching for some other "home" for it. I go through phases where I don't much feel like peddling my poetry wares anyway. And I also remind myself that above all I write because I seem to enjoy it. Hope you enjoy this.