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." 

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.

Bridge may ice

bridge may ice,

shoulder ends ahead—

road signs

I see for the first time

soon after her passing

–Ribbons, winter 2016/17

Even in Texas, out here in the country, bridges can ice in winter, though we only had a few "real" days of winter this winter.

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

Again the crows

again the crows

after the winds blow through

………….voices

familiar to us

on wings of daylight

—Skylark, 4:1, Summer 2016

A tree frog

a tree frog

clings to the rain gauge ...

lingering drought

—Presence, issue 54, 2016

No drought here recently but, instead, torrential rains (not long ago, 20 inches in a day or two). This little frog, or one of its relatives, often hangs around our gauge, especially during extreme weather conditions, it seems.

With the news

with the news
a faint dusting of snow ...
the word hospice
lodged in my mind,
freezing melting freezing

—GUSTS, #23, spring/summer 2016

Waters may warm

waters may warm,

storms intensify,

sea levels rise 

…..yet still the voices

…..of children at play

—A Hundred Gourds, 5:1, December 2015

Collaborative tanka sequence: Ash and embers

Many thanks to the magnificent Susan Constable, poet and tanka editor for A Hundred Gourds, for working with me on this collaboration: 

Ash and embers

Janet Lynn Davis &
Susan Constable

grass clippings 
still heavy and slick 
from a downpour— 
the last bits of summer 
clinging to their source 

the biggest bloom 
in the dahlia garden 
fades and curls … 
a friend in palliative care 
turns away from us all 

pale gray walls 
becoming grayer ... 
at ninety         
my grandmother
says she wants to die  

I touch the stove 
warm from ash and embers            
this morning 
the first shoots of daffodils    
poke through melting snow   

—Ribbons, spring/summer 2015  

Note: Susan's tanka are "the biggest bloom" and "I touch the stove."

Bitter wind

bitter wind
the scent of orange
in my face cream

—Mariposa, 33, Autumn/Winter 2015

Tanka sequence

165 feet down 

drilling down 
to the other side 
of the world 
or to an aquifer, 
whichever comes first 

images 
of groundwater teeming
below our feet— 
the drought years we've had 
living on the surface 

well water 
speaks its own language 
as it streams 
into this bucket
… the rush of first words 

—red lights, January 2015

With this, I think I may take a break for a few weeks—many things I should do, and I also think I need to rest my eyes—though I may still post an announcement or two. I'm not sure who all my readers are, but thank you and please don't wander off too far. To the other side of the world and back, though, is okay.

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.

Collaborative tanka pair: Sanctum

Happy Winter Solstice! Glad to share this "tanka pair" with all of you. And glad I was able to collaborate with poet extraordinaire Jenny Ward Angyal.

Sanctum

Janet Lynn Davis

& Jenny Ward Angyal

ancient chapels

carved into the rock face

of Mönchsberg ...

once the tourists have gone

I crawl inside myself

JLD (Salzburg, Austria)  

inscribed 
on the torii gate
spirit of light—
fountains flowing
in the falling snow

JWA (New York City, USA)

—Skylark, 2:1, Summer 2014

photos of Mönchsberg next post

Autumn gust

autumn gust—

from all the earrings

in the shop

I pick out the pair

resembling spring leaves

—Atlas Poetica, #17, Spring 2014

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.

North wind

north wind
lashing my face—
I decide 
it's time to start
walking backwards

GUSTS, Spring/Summer 2013

Warm this morning, then another cold front roared through, at the exact time that my husband was pumping gas at the station. 

P.S. Walking backwards is good exercise. If you haven't already done so, try it.

Driving through; swirls of fog

driving through

this basket of fog

wondering

if I'll be the same

when it clears 

—red lights, June 2006

swirls of fog

along these country roads

by evening

we turn into strangers

beneath our own moon

—Atlas Poetica, #13, Autumn 2012

I don't fret; water flows

I don't fret
about privacy,
these blinds open
to the midday sun
and the crow-black night

water flows 
down our seasonal creek
as before
we learn how to let
the ripples just be

—both: Atlas Poetica, No. 14, Spring 2013

Today I walked out back to the wet-weather creek. It's been empty again for quite a while, due to our "extreme drought" conditions. Despite the recent rains, including heavy downpours this weekend, there is no water "flowing" down it now. But we do have mud—a good sign, I think, ha.

Hotel room

hotel room—

wind through the palm trees

muffles his snores

—Presence, #48, June 2013