Tanka Prose

No room at the inn

We're among the first to arrive this afternoon at the local drug store, our haven from this storm of storms. Bedecked in our "emergency" ponchos (mine with Mickey Mouse on the back), we tromp in, rain beads sliding off onto the floor. A short while later, a lady bursts in by herself, animated, rattled. She briefly describes, to anyone and everyone, her harrowing experience on a nearby flooded road: "I asked myself, did I want to be one of those people they show on TV who has to be rescued?" She immediately answers her own question, "No!"     

Others trickle in little by little. A soft-spoken woman relays to us how her grown son, who tried to drive into town to pick her up, did have to be saved from the waters, his car lost to them. And a thin man who must be nearly seven feet tall commands attention. "This is the fifth time in the past year, the fifth time, I've been flooded out of my place." I begin to feel as if I'm part of a classic Christie whodunit—disparate guests gathered here, unable to leave, all roads out, both big and small, impassable. 

It's amazing how we manage to whittle away the hours, alternately cruising the aisles, curling up in cold faux-leather chairs in the pharmacy waiting area, and stepping outside to check out the scene: the lights, the clouds, the rescue boats carried on trailers. From time to time, one of the store workers shows us updated radar maps on his smart phone. (We have no smart phone ourselves, and our shared old-style phone has run out of juice.) My husband keeps talking about finding a clean room for the night. That is, until someone new bolts in and announces there are no more rooms to be had in this town—even if we could get to one.

a see-through case

with travel toothbrush

and tube of paste—

life's essentials

for a dollar or two 

While it makes no sense to us, the store shuts down at its usual time, 10 p.m, forcing all of us to move to our vehicles in the near-packed parking lot. Just before then, a line forms in front of the women's restroom. I feel possibly more concerned about having to suddenly relieve myself at 2 or 3 in the morning than I do about threats of tornadoes not so very far away. Even the employees station themselves outside, one of them leaning against the building, guzzling wine from a bottle half concealed in a brown paper bag.

Sometime after midnight, through the window of her large black Cadillac SUV parked next to us, a woman we'd chatted with bids us kind farewell as though we are longtime friends. She has decided to try her luck at leaving, hoping a road or two have reopened since the earlier police warning—but she does live a little closer than we do. Over the course of the night, three more rounds of rain, even a little hail, beat down on us, the last starting at approximately 3:45 a.m. My husband manages to snooze through the heaviest of it; not so me, however.

Come 5:30 or so, the lot is only a third full. (Did others know something we didn't?) I'm oddly glad to still see the white pickup truck two spaces over. A flicker of brightness, I assume from a cigarette lighter, lets me know there's life inside. A short while later, the occupant hops out and disappears round to the back of the building. I believe I know what he's about to do there.

the shelter

of our Kia Soul

this storm-drenched night

with other travelers

we share the restless sky

—Atlas Poetica, Summer 2017

__________________________________

For part one to this story, read "Deluge." 

Tanka Prose

Singing Pines

In the center of the quiet road, a small tangle of thin cable, barely visible against the tarry surface. I determine that it's a pair of earbuds, one badly cracked, partially flattened. Who would have worn these? Who would have needed them when the sounds of nature—these woods, this sky—are all around? I resume my brisk pace, dismissing my own questions.

Moments later, the world opens up, flings itself at me with whistles, warbles, caws, chatter. With flapping sounds, scampers, whish-whooshes, crackles, and thuds, from the forest floor to the tops of the tallest pines. Everything amplified. I find music even in the human-made: distant buzzes and hums of lawn equipment, the repetitive clanking of construction a mile or so away. From then on, each time I walk along that stretch of road, the same magic, the same amplification. Days pass, weeks pass; remarkably, the earbuds stray only a foot or two from their original location.

the rattle

of threadbare branches

evolves

into an aria

of unfurling leaves

as if someone

suddenly cranked up

the bass . . .

from a pond's reedy edge

the breeding calls of bullfrogs

My husband joins me on today's walk. This time, when I see the little puddle of cable, I make an impromptu decision—to gently kick it off to the edge of the asphalt, out of the way. I notice that the damaged bud is finally missing altogether. But as we pass by again, on our second lap, I recall that a crew will soon be out to mow down the tall, wild grasses. I kick the former listening device back, ever so slightly, into the road. My husband appears baffled by my behavior, why I would want to protect such a battered, useless thing. He doesn't seem to realize that, when it comes to certain matters of importance, I need reminders.

_______________

—Contemporary Haibun, July 2017, vol 13 no 2

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

Tanka Prose

Deluge

veins of lightning

flash their warning

to the earth …

the silent rivers  

that daily course through me

Despite the rain, we have all the hope of safely arriving home this spring afternoon. But then the heavens open wide. Sky soon blends into road, which blends into flash-floodwater. A massive wash of gray, a lengthy line of traffic.  

We make the decision to turn around in our tiny vehicle at the last-possible opportunity to do so—just before the tall pickup truck ahead of us goes barreling through, water up to its taillights. It appears that a second pickup, from the other direction, could be floating. (We later realize this is where the highway dips and that the stream has risen well above the small bridge.) But halfway into the turn, momentary panic engulfs me: could the way back now be as treacherous as the way we were headed?    

—FM 1774, Waller County, Texas, USA

—Atlas Poetica, Spring 2017

___________________________________

This event took place last May, about two weeks after my mother's passing and two weeks after the first set of spring rains, which caused much flooding in Houston and the surrounding areas. What a shocker: we heard that a foot of rain fell that afternoon in just one hour. This story is part one. The second part, "No room at the inn," will be posted in a few weeks, once it's been published.

All my life

all my life

a yen for small

unnoticed

or discarded things 

... a poem's seed

—Skylark, summer 2017

One door

one door

marked electrical

the other, stairs—

sometimes I'm tempted

to open the wrong one

—GUSTS, spring/summer 2017

INFJ

INFJ,

four letters that ID me ...

Myers and Briggs,

bet you didn't know

I'd paste them on my forehead

—Ribbons, Tanka Cafe (theme: "Self-identity"), fall 2016

I'm kind of borderline in the last two test categories (not the first).

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

Tanka Pair

Eiderdown

curling up

on this old mattress

bony knee

on top of bony knee

I search for softness

expansive,

this quilted cover

of clouds    

…..patches of darkness
threaded with light

—Skylark, Winter 2016

Columns of smoke

columns of smoke

rising from a distant field    

……..the signals

I fail to decipher

on the clearest of days

—Frameless Sky, issue 3

And for those who celebrate this holiday in the U.S.:
H A P P Y  T H A N K S G I V I N G !

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!

Tanka Prose

In evening's hollow

I've always called it the dog bird, ever since we've lived at this house. Those nippy sounds that never seem to cease or vary in tone, the same long cry cycling over and over during spring-summer months. It's nothing like the melodic morning trill of the cardinal or the confident crow's caw. And it's loud, resonating clearly through double-paned windows. Why, I ask, must this bird haunt me—in that sacred space between dusk and the deepness of night when I wish to crawl into myself, to be left alone with my own thoughts and prayers, to give my rawest self free rein before I slip into sleep. 

There has to be more than one of those creatures lurking out there, making all that racket; I know that. Then one night, something is different. This time, each churring cry is followed with a faint response from somewhere in the woods beyond. The exchange goes on the whole time while I remain awake in bed. But whether there are two of them or dozens of them, to my mind it's still the (one) dog bird.  

I had given up long ago trying to identify this curious, strong-willed creature, much less ever coming face to face with it. But finally, just down the street, the answer awaits me.

my neighbor

says it's a chuck-will's-widow,

that nightjar—

how finding a name for things

eases us through the hours

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

________________

After writing this piece, I stopped hearing the dog bird. 

Summer sun

summer sun

our minds bare and aligned

we discuss

both the pain of change

and the need for it

—Eucalypt, 19 (fall 2015)

Tanka Prose

Everywhere I look

Signs litter my world. Yet how little sinks in, how little I know. Dozens on the drive to town or, for that matter, anywhere else. Street and road signs, neighborhood notices, highway markers. Instructions, information, warnings. Round, square, rectangular, triangular, hexagonal, diamond- and pennant-shaped, and more. White, green, blue, yellow, orange, red. Blinking lights. Overload.

Private Property–No Trespassing. Speed Limit (and how the limits change along the way). East, West. Right Curve, Left Curve. Pass With Care, Do Not Pass. Don't Litter. Loose Gravel, High Water. Drive Friendly. Adopt A Highway. Church. Cemetery. Dead End. No Shoulder Ahead. . . . Stop, Stop, Stop.

HEARTBREAK

a sign I always see

when passing by

that small empty shack

at the end of the jetty

______________

—Contemporary Haibun Online, July 2016, vol 12, no. 2

How light; futile to try

how light

can resculpt a face

… if for one day

I could be everyone

I've been loath to like




—Ribbons (runner-up, Tanka Café, "Changing the World"), Fall 2015


Thanks to poet James Chessing for his insightful comments in the Tanka Café feature of the Winter 2016 issue of Ribbons, the Tanka Society of America journal. The above poem is mine. But congratulations to Joyce S. Greene for her winning Café poem, included below with her permission. FYI, for each issue of Ribbons, members are invited to submit tanka on a specific new theme. The winner from the previous issue makes the selections.

futile to try
to change the world
I can't change myself
all my vows to worry less
and chuckle more, forgotten

~Joyce S. Greene
—Ribbons (winner, Tanka Café, "Changing the World"), Fall 2015