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.

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

Papers, cards, letters

papers, cards, letters 
crammed in every cranny 
of their house … 
I unearth a clipping, 
How to bust a litterer 

—Frameless Sky, issue 5, fall 2016

I took possession of that clipping. And if my desk weren't so cluttered, I might be able to find it.

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

A rustic broom

a rustic broom

scenting our hearth and home

with cinnamon …

less sweet, the year's debris

I ought to sweep away

—Mariposa, spring/summer 2016

H A P P Y  N E W  Y E A R

Well, it's finally gotten cold here again. And now the heating system (including the backup heater) appears to be broken once more. So, maybe not the best way to end 2016! But the good news: it's supposed to warm up this weekend for a little while.

Ragweed grains

ragweed grains

carried on autumn wind ...

not all things

that arrive at my door

do I welcome with grace

—Eucalypt, 20, May 2006

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.

Touring homes

touring homes 

under construction— 

the freedom 

to step right inside

our neighbors' closets

—Atlas Poetica, 18, Summer 2014

Lost on a day

lost on a day

as gray as the road … 

mapless

I follow my instincts

to find the way home

—GUSTS, #23, spring/summer 2016

His first move

his first move

in forty-four years

furniture

bound like mummies

in swathes of plastic wrap

—Eucalypt, 19 (fall 2015)

Distressed wood floor

distressed wood floor, 

doorknobs and fixtures 

of aged bronze – 

this house looks the way 

I've started to feel

—A Hundred Gourds, 4:2, March 2015

More bad news

more bad news
forces its way inside
our home ...
a thin rim of snow
around the welcome mat

–tinywords, November 2014

"Bad news" of some sort is rarely very far from us. May we find our own peace and joy where we can along the way.

A widow; a small moth

a widow
traveling alone
her stories
intricate as the design
on her needlepoint purse

—Moonbathing, Nov. 2014

a small moth

           hovering 

above our dashboard—

three of us together

miles away from home

—Presence, #49, Feb. 2014

May your travels through 2015 be bright and fulfilling!

P.S. A friend and I were privileged to meet the "widow" at afternoon tea while on a cruise ship voyage.

Drawn to sweetness

They live in our house,
fleck-sized species of their family.
Have marched miles, as if
from San Antonio to Houston,
in dampness and crushing heat.
Through minute cracks,
they welcome themselves inside,
scale guts of walls until,
for them, nirvana.

Their barracks behind kitchen tile
and bathroom mirror,
they lap up microspecks
of apple juice and minty mouthwash.

I am a poor host,
half-heartedly remorseful.
To think, all that distance—
and then when rations are found,
wiped clean away with a corner
of moistened paper towel.

I console myself with knowing
each troop will soon enough
be replaced by another.

—Ash Canyon Review, Summer 2005, vol. 1, no. 1

A house spider

a house spider

jaunts across the tile—

the crannies

yet to be explored

within these walls

—A Hundred Gourds, 2:4, September 2013

My next home and other house tanka

Below, several poems from the first half of my tanka career, most of them written and published at different times. Grouped together, I believe they almost form a sequence. Of course, in a deliberately written sequence, I hope I wouldn't have two brand-news and five houses or homes. ;) (And of course, years after the fact, I see an edit or two I perhaps should have made.)

my next home,

built among lean pines ...
thinner
and thinner the desire
to make a name for myself

squinting,
I imagine it ...
our rustic home
sprouting up

through winter ryegrass

our brand-new
home site and, already,
some visitors ...
in the sandy loam
fresh tracks of deer

half the rooms

accidentally
painted yellow—

a sin that I can't take

this much cheerfulness?

the time we spend

choosing our new front door
as if nothing else
much matters
but entrances and exits

up high
inside the porches
of our new home
wasps and daddy longlegs
all settled in before us

brand-new house
and yet another leak—
the puddles
I've been sloshing through
on my way to contentment

—"my next home," Tanka Splendor Awards 2007; "squinting," Landfall: Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka (anthology), 2007; "our brand-new," Nisqually Delta Review, Winter/Spring 2007; "half the rooms," Simply Haiku, Winter 2009; "the time we spend," Ribbons, Fall 2008, and Take Five (anthology), Vol. 1, 2009; A Pebbled Shore (TSA 2009 members' anthology); "brand-new house," Simply Haiku, Winter 2009.

Wouldn't you know it, but after all that effort in choosing a door (long story), the builder gave us the wrong size door, with no apologies.

Brick by brick

brick by brick
they build a retaining wall
behind their house
     sturdy enough to hold
     a couple of lifetimes

—Ribbons, Fall 2013

Toy iron

toy iron,

miniature kitchen ...
who'd have known
my penchant for housework
would end with childhood?

—GUSTS, #17, Spring/Summer 2013