Old Tanka from 2006

Here are some of my old tanka that were originally published in Modern English Tanka 1:1. MET is the journal that altered the orbit of the Planet Tanka.

These are some of my early signature tanka:

the dowager houses

stand primly in their ragged porches

looking embarrassed

as ladies do

in such circumstances

low grey hills

of barges loaded with gravel,

softened almost into beauty

by the rising of the mist

on the evening bay

These are other tanka that were published in the same issue. Notice the interest in kyoka right from the start of my tanka career. 

the slattern houses sag

on a mean street in a small town,

floral sheets for curtains

cinder blocks for steps

and the fetid smell of despair

no answer

is an answer,

and so,

after a decent interval,

I abandon hope

another man decides

he likes my lonely perch

two 

is too crowded,

so I leave

give me the heart

of an old chief

and I’ll make it

young again,

dancing on the Red Road

that man,

he teaches my daughter

that the golden veneer

of love

is very thin

tracing the face

of the man in the moon

my own face

looks back

at me

old pond

toad jumps in

wait . . . 

that’s not how

it’s supposed to go 

stopped at the light,

a truck full of turkeys,

just like the rest of us:

they have no idea

where they are going 

in my dreams,

a lean, low-hulled corsair

glides up the bay—

and wrecks on rocks 

of memory

accustomed as I am

to angry words,

it is kind words

that make me tremble

like water in a glass

His Majesty the Cat

must not be disturbed;

he lolls

upon his throne

of sunshine

piñatas

hanging in the air

waiting for a sharp whack

to break them open

and spill their meaning

my heart:

black linen

hung at night

in the shadow 

of a crow

an abandoned farmhouse

   stone eyes gaping

   slack-mouthed door

where only flies buzz

    in and out

late winter,

the bleak trees leafless

until a cardinal lands,

then dead trees everywhere

burst into red bloom

rags,

tatters, 

and remnants,

full of raveled

winds

trust has nothing

to do with it, either

you have the courage

to step off the cliff of love

 . . . or you don’t 

ankle-aching acres

of wooded cliffs

between here and there,

but oh! the view

from Turkey Point!