Tanka, Tanka Prose and Tanka Sequences
edited by Jenny Ward Angyal
koto player
from the sleeve
of her kimono
fingers like feathers
the music of silk
I am fine here
with a salty wind
for company
the houses smile
if your shadow goes by
I sift the vagaries
of my wandering mind
to find poetry -
words weave a tapestry
of land, sea, and sky
a yellowed newspaper
curls towards me
in an autumn breeze -
I throw my baggage to the wind
as if it were old news
- Details
- Written by: Marilyn Humbert
in a forest
moonlight
through a fractured
windowpane
how much of me
is broken, too
three nights
of ocean dreams
the news
finally reaching us
that your soul departed
her fingers
playing Beethoven
if only
she had such passion
when touching me
at the window
I count raindrops
this winter
at the touch of a finger
the rain fades away
a clove of garlic
rubbed on fresh bread
salt, tomato
and olive oil
snacking on childhood
branches
felled and rotting
this nerve pain
of termites scattering
through my hand
an icicle
with only a trickling
of momentum
will sunbeams melt
the darkness inside me
uphill both ways
through deep snow
in last year’s boots . . .
spent laces thread through
the eyelets of his stories
after A Pair of Shoes by Vincent van Gogh, 1886
wishing
for a snowberry clearwing
I lay eyes
upon the honeysuckle ...
a bumblebee flutters
glitches
in our long distance
phone call–
I sort things out
with the seagull
the cry
of a newborn
in neighbour's house . . .
I forget the garbage
dumped in my front yard
a peach petal
floats on the pond...
Grandpa sings
his favorite song
to the full moon
her son in the army...
the blood moon
rising
Gran watches
in a lighted window
we hang
your threadbare dresses
out to air
the prairie wind waltzes
with you one last time
a meadowlark
spins the morning
into gold . . .
your headstone sinks
deeper every year
I fasten
my broken-down guitar
to the farm gate
nesting bluebirds teach me
an unfamiliar song
rain starts to fall
a young woman opens
her umbrella over me
and leads me under
the shelter of a fir tree
two strong lads
running by, say
they are joining
the royal marines
'to fight England's foes'
a drunken man
in suit and tie
coming from a funeral
weeps, telling me of all those
he has lost this year
a small blond boy
in uniform says
'it's Lion Cubs now
not wolves' and explains
all his badges
the blackbirds sing
on every tree and rooftop
my head
is full of stories
and wings and songs
Joy McCall, England
red leaves
carried by a cold wind
on the one-way street—
the docs still looking
for a blood donor
the old oak
losing its leaves
out of the blue
I start humming
a lullaby
explosions
in the besieged city
so courageous
in the old orchard
first bursting buds
- Details
- Written by: Rupa Anand
cirrus clouds
striate the sky
with silver
the streaming manes
of wild brumbies
early evening
under the southern cross
cows huddle
the milky way hidden
in their udders
end of year
a glimpse of the first
bearded dragon
I smile to see
old friends reappearing
bluebell forest
don’t be shy
little snowdrop
the dew will quench
your thirst too
tired heart
through pines
and silence
who will lead you on
the Kami-no Michi
The Western Wall
centuries-old stories
in every stone
the warmth of prayers
whispered and heard
Hong Kong
the Pearl of the Orient
its nightlife
illuminated in a song
I sang in my youth
much needed rain
in Southern California
the trickle
of correspondence
after your long silence
roaming around
Central Park Lake
after a breakup...
Holden Caulfield's ducks
quacking for breadcrumbs
he buys me dinner
from the supermarket
with food stamps
the roses not covered
I pay for them myself
a swimming pool
in our gated condo
unused
except for the neighbor's kids
who drowned in it one day
sunlit glass
on an overflowing
garbage can—
in the dusty mirror
grandfather's face
a time warp
in grandpa’s stream
my reflection
the long journey
of mountain rain
eating alone
under a pine tree
on Mount Hood
one ant explores
a piece of lettuce
left behind
in father’s garage
unfinished projects —
I breathe in the scent
of metal and rain
waking
from this dream
of raising a family
the weathered garden bed
covered in frost
if I could
when the plum tree
has greened
and the last petals
have all but let go,
then can we part as friends?
the lemon tree
long untended, lush with fruit,
spills over the fence
and juts into the sky --
to be half as mad as that!
the night sky
a dream cradle
where we meet again
another web remade
by morning
in the gloam
of marsh light
a tern’s wings
returning
molten sky
flicker days
becoming shorter
as the leaves fall
in the forest
of lost embers
just one more thing
to begin the ritual
turning to me
the point of her knife
becomes starlight
the night
howling with wolves ...
at dawn
the stillness
in the forest
war ...
the silence haunting
millions of refugees
and the only way of solace
is my wordless poem
my skin
longs for the journey,
longs for it and clings to it,
the light
that will never end
untended
the footpath
becomes impossible
we have come so far
through thorns and nettle
Atop the dead sycamore,
a blackbird’s hymn.
Nothing reflected
in the hospital windows
but more hospital.
Grandpa’s diary
deep in his sock drawer
the words he could write
but never speak
about marching through France
jasmine flowers
opening gently
a song
I can only hear
when it rains
left behind
in a rice field
buried tallow nuts…
mother searches
for our names
moose tracks
through a northern forest
scent of snow…
Grandmother’s silence
grows deeper
soft curves
I follow the path
of a thawing stream
a robin song weaves
into dawn
Summer Solstice
I prepare an altar
beside the lake
lingering a little longer
with my shadow
-
together
in the rain
umbrellas
keeping us
happily apart
those seismic events
that change our world
forever
fixed in the small things
in the hours of our day
to mother
for her birthday
origami stars
the old blue kimono
a piece of sky
early morning
a herd of black goats
scatter the clouds
in the hut of a hermit
whispered liturgy
hopscotch
girls make little houses
on wet asphalt
someone plays the flute
at the rain's edge
forgotten times ...
at the acacia forest edge
the clear eyes of a lynx,
and in her sweaty hand
wild chrysanthemums
long years
of living together
under the same roof
when did we stop
sharing our thoughts
blending
into the green foliage
a chameleon hides
i too wish to live
a life of anonymity
mountain walk
i call out your name
into the valley
just the sound of my voice
travels back in the echo
midnight walk
we catch fireflies
in the forest
making wishes before
letting them go
- Details
- Written by: Jacob Salzer & Michelle Hyatt
a Spotted Owl
perched
on a bare branch—
my footsteps lost
in forest darkness
sun salutations
I stand with flowers
and trees
at my fingertips
a robin's-egg blue sky
Jacob D. Salzer, USA
Michelle Hyatt, Canada
in the spare room
a patch of spring sunshine—
the little bed
no longer holds
your sleeping form
two fabric pieces
held together
with glass-head pins
our lives together
but still separate
years later winding
the grandfather clock
he wound before me
who will pull the chains
when I am gone
fourteen
pairs of eyes open
atop the shelf
they stare in silence
every doll with a secret
the moon touches
my hidden dreams...
light fragments
of the things lost
in the flow of time
time is a wave...
while the dawn
is late in coming
I cut out gold stars
in my dreams
if I drove
through five states in twelve hours
non-stop
to find that place again
no one would be home
Sabbath
morning prayers
silenced
under empty skies
the Tree of Life
years after
you passed away
I still wonder
whether you confessed to her
as the great bell was tolling
what
gets me out
of bed
the house wren repeating
his insistent morning song
a book of love poems
filled with pages
out of the hidden life
of a young pine
cut short
the way light slips
around a tulip leaf
drifting downstream
a halo even God’s saints
would envy
Remembering Thay Nhat Hanh
For now, the forest shelters us from the drizzling rain. With each droplet, the surface ripples and rests in the blink of an eye. The fallen leaves drift on, numberless. And beneath them, reflected deep in the sky, their companions on the trees will soon take their final somersault to earth.
and now he continues
beautifully
into the eternal present
how bright
this red-gold maple leaf
America, the beautiful
someone
spread cream all over
the gingerbread
rising and rising
snow-rimmed Sierras
wire hangers
bent out of shape
and strung together
the string theory
of desert highways
white fire
scattered across
boundless prairie
in each pothole
the autumn sun
picking swatches
out of the sky
mall catalogue
the gold and jade
of farm country
koi, radiant
and rose-gold
welcome me
home . . .
Shenandoah skies
- Details
- Written by: Ron Scully
it took butterfly light
to catch Marlene Dietrich's
one drag
the length of her finger
turned darkness into ash
L.S.M.F.T.
Lonely Soldiers Means Free Tricks
acronym
for would-be enlisted men
packs rolled up in their tees
the way Robert Mitchum
hung a cigarette carelessly
from his lower lip
like nobody's business
it wasn’t
Frankie dragged a reefer
like it was Tommy Dorsey's trombone
where he learned to breath
turned smoke into swing
nightlife into cool jazz
Marlboro country
where the cows coughed
couldn’t run a step
under God's blue sky
in hoc signo vinces
birthday morning
out of the blue sky
every cloud
and every birdsong
becomes a wish
slow Sunday...
the cuckoo's song
harmonizes
now and then
with my solitude
war is
in my blood
the taste of grass
and iron, crimson-tinged
the meadows of my childhood
buddha bowl
meditating
over the greens
of edamame
and avocado
I put each of your words
on the tip
and the root of my tongue
is it sweet
is it bitter
promenade
on the lakeside—
our little boy
catches the autumn sun
in a pile of leaves
staircase
bound to the sky—
an old man
whitewashing the wall
of Voroneț Monastery
- Details
- Written by: Dru Philippou
I follow
the stitchwort path . . .
an old hideout
tilted in the branches
between earth and sky
the sycamore
where a child
once fled—
beneath the bark
the hidden scars
unearthing
the doll I buried
in the roots—
she spills her sawdust
on the wind
over the years
the seeping resin
transformed to amber—
the weight of grief
resting in my palm
early stars
against the dusk
a barred owl
returns to the hollow
hauling new dreams
- by Dru Philippou
- Details
- Written by: John Budan