Tanka, Tanka Prose and Tanka Sequences
edited by Jenny Ward Angyal
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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
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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!
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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
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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
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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
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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
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- 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
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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
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in the spare room
a patch of spring sunshine—
the little bed
no longer holds
your sleeping form
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at the window
I count raindrops
this winter
at the touch of a finger
the rain fades away
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- Written by: John Budan
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I am fine here
with a salty wind
for company
the houses smile
if your shadow goes by
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Atop the dead sycamore,
a blackbird’s hymn.
Nothing reflected
in the hospital windows
but more hospital.
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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
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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
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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
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- 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
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Grandpa’s diary
deep in his sock drawer
the words he could write
but never speak
about marching through France