The thin ring

the thin ring
she won't let anyone
remove …
even though she's long past
recalling its history

—American Tanka, August 2016: Issue 27

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

Genus Dianthus

In my hand, a memento I consider purchasing from the little shop at the botanical gardens. "Do you know what flower this is?" I ask. The kindly man at the desk seems eager to help me. "Hmm, it appears to be a pink. Not all pinks are pink, you know; some are red, for instance," he offers. "And are you aware that the name pink comes from pinking shears—the serrated edges similar to the edges of the petals?"  

(Can't say I am. Ever-the-novice gardener, I don't even realize at this moment that I have variously colored clumps of pinks, which I have only ever referred to as Dianthus, in front of my own house.)  

I putter around the shop a little longer. Then the man shows me a page in a thick reference book, enthusiastically pointing to an illustration that bears a resemblance to the petite flower on this souvenir. "Look!" Before I leave, back to my life far away from shaded trails and lush displays of flora, I remind myself that attentiveness like this doesn't exist just anywhere.

painted

by a local artist

a dish so small

it holds nothing

but a memory

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

_______________________

The location: Asheville Botanical Gardens.

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. 

A cardinal

a cardinal

darts in and out of the woods ...

my mad dash

to learn about life

before it's time to die

—red lights ("meditation"), June 2016

Haiga: Ordered

For information about this memorial, please see KYSO Flash, issue 6, Fall 2016.

Announcement: KYSO Flash HTP Contest Results

Recently, I received the surprising news of winning first place in the HTP Contest, a joint haibun and tanka prose competition administered by Clare MacQueen, editor/publisher extraordinaire of the innovative KYSO Flash online journal. To read my piece, "Approximations," as well as the other winning entries plus the semifinalist and publisher's choice entries, follow this link.

For commentaries by Matthew Paul, judge, follow this link.

Many thanks to Clare and Matthew!

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.