Roadside ditches

roadside ditches

brimming with dark water

after the rains 

even they can shimmer

with the right touch of sun

—The Right Touch of Sun, 2017 TSA Members' Anthology

Pleased that the editors of the 2017 Tanka Society of America members' anthology, David Terelinck and Margaret Dornaus, were able to use wording from my tanka for the anthology title. I wrote "roadside ditches" during the wild rainy season of Spring 2016; my mother passed away at night as our region, in southeast Texas, experienced the first bout of torrential rain. Ironically, I submitted "roadside ditches" to the anthology editors 2–3 weeks before Hurricane Harvey struck in late August 2017. I'm a native Texan and have lived for the bulk of my life in Houston (or not too far away from Houston). I'm used to rain—and, conversely, also to drought—though not to such extreme amounts of it. 

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." 

December sky

December sky

sifts through the charred forest—

over the phone

my brother and I

resurrect our ghosts 

—The Bamboo Hut, vol 1, no. 2

This one was written in December 2011, three months after the second, and most destructive, set of wildfires of the year swept through our region. Flames were practically at our "back door," and we had to evacuate (right after we'd relocated there) for eight days. In this same time frame, one or two additional fires apparently were deliberately set at the front of our little community.

On a very different note:

H A P P Y  N E W  Y E A R !

Her wedding ring

her wedding ring
found deep in red mud
………...that May day
when the tornado
tore through their heartland

Oklahoma, May 2013

—red lights, Vol. 10, No. 2, June 2014

Beneath

When you unearth Atlantis

there
you will find me
my backroads
my passion
flung among the rubble.

You will find me
as embers
eros of energy
heaving through debris
like mountains
ascending from the ocean.

All you see now:

my lazuline eyes
and droplets of magma
glowing, creeping from their corners.

It is what you search for
this crusted chaos
is it not
(as souls seek out nests)?

But beware:
if you retrieve me
you must not keep me;
I could ignite

and so might you.

—Ancient Heart, 2006

photo (of a puddle) copyright of Robert Curtis

Sharing with Poets United, Sept. 1

Perhaps this poem is fitting given the scorched conditions we've had here, in our tiny dot on the map in southeast Texas, during the past month or two. 

Year of records

year of records:
the heat, the cold, the drought,
the fires …
and in those small hours
the patience within me

—A Hundred Gourds, 2:2, March 2013

Suddenly our summer has arrived, as usual a few weeks ahead of schedule. Until recently, we've had record-cool spring temps here, which I've really enjoyed. Most of the various records from 2011, however, I hope never to experience again.

Note: I posted this today (Monday) before the monster tornado hit Moore, Oklahoma, but I "post-dedicate" my poem to the many victims there. I'm almost an "Okie." My parents grew up in Oklahoma, and a number of my relatives still live there, particularly in the Oklahoma City area (including Moore and also Edmond, where other tornado damage occurred on Sunday). My relatives appear to be fine—but so many heartbreaking scenes.

Eleven months

eleven months

since the tsunami . . .

here in our yard

daisy clusters spring up

out of season

—Ribbons, Spring 2006

Remember the Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami on December 26, 2004? The new year arrived right then, before we were ready.  

I appreciate how we can use tanka to document our lives and the events that brighten or darken them. However, I pull out my early tanka and then sometimes want to edit them; e.g., in this one, line 4 feels kind of tongue-twistery. If I were composing this today I might consider "clusters of daisies / spring up out of season" (or just "daisies spring up / out of season"). Or alternatively, I possibly could use "daisy clusters" in either line 1 or 3. I may feel more edit-happy nowadays, but it seemed easier to write (spill?) them in the first place several years ago.

Thinned by drought

thinned by drought, fire,
and finally autumn—
through these woods
I see a freight train
carrying off the year

—Atlas Poetica, Autumn 2012

***************

Hurricane

hurricane—
my thoughts of crawling
under our bed,
you deep in a dream world
I sometimes envy

—Haiku News, wk Oct. 15, 2012

There's a sense of relief when we reach the end of the Atlantic hurricane season each year, which officially is November 30, though here in the Gulf region we usually feel "safe" by the end of September. The 2012 season was quiet for us but of course not for the northeast with freaky, destructive superstorm Sandy. I can't help but think of the New Jersey township where I briefly lived as a kid (and the favorite place I've ever lived); it was among the many areas that experienced significant damage.

In the poem above, I'm remembering Hurricane Ike from a few years ago (also see "nonstop footage"). I was very close to taking shelter under that bed, halfway convinced the big windows were going to shatter at any moment (they didn't, although we did get a bit of other damage).

Months later; nonstop footage

Time to pull these poems out again while it's still the peak of the season here on the Gulf coast. Not counting the recent rage of Isaac, the 2012 season has been on the quiet side. Seven years ago, deadly Katrina missed us in the Houston area. But three years later, Ike pretty much came right for us; interesting times.

months later
he still clutches
the bowling ball—
all he could salvage
after Katrina

Hurricane Katrina, late Aug. 2005
—Wisteria, July 2006; Haiku News, Oct. 2009; Take Five, Vol 2

nonstop footage
of surge-battered homes

.....near our back door

.....a small displaced turtle
.....retreats into its shell

Hurricane Ike, Sept. 13, 2008

—Moonset, Spring-Summer 2009; Haiku News, Oct. 2009; Take Five, Vol 2

Am happy I came across my photos of the actual little turtle I describe here—and hope it found its way.

Using sieves; days after

using sieves
as prospectors would
they search
for nuggets of life
beneath their home's ashes

days after
the wildfires
we venture out
among the charred-stick pines. . .
too fortunate for our bones

—Atlas Poetica, Number 12, Summer 2012

The first major wildfire in our drought-stricken area began on Father's Day, June 2011, when I happened to be in Houston. The flames reportedly erupted only about 1-1/2 miles from our new place to the north, and with the right shift in wind direction, we would have been particularly vulnerable. Though the fire caused significant devastation, ultimately a big rain came. Fire did make its way into the front part of our small rustic community, but no major damage occurred there.

The next local wildfire, far more widespread (up to 22,000 acres or so were affected), began less than three months later, on Labor Day. We'd left the house for Houston (with a bad tire, which was another story) an hour before the first fire broke out. Due to evacuation orders, we ended up staying in Houston, one of us with flu, for eight days. The flames kept hopping around, and at several points our new home was in what appeared to be the direct path of the main outbreak, dubbed the "Riley Road" fire; we'd only just finished moving there. To give a sense of perspective, our community is located right off Riley Road. Fire did damage parts of the neighborhood, but amazingly, no residents suffered any property damage, thanks in great part to the firefighters. A number of others not far away weren't as lucky, though, including the small "Country Haircuts" enterprise (though they're rebuilding). And sprinkled up and down Riley Road, and many other places too, souvenirs still remain: acres and acres of downed fences and charred forest that gradually is being cleared.

Several massive forest fires also occurred in other locations throughout Texas, most notably in Bastrop, where more than 1600 homes were destroyed.