Still More Twitter Tanka

Trying to blog more of my Twitter poetry, that most ephemeral of literatures.

they can't stand
the silence,
they want
hearts that ring
like bells


what fractions
of a heart were carried,
counted, divided,
summed, until the whole
was zero?


go out in the sun,
a burrowing creature
all winter,
heart cracked open
by beams of light


there was never
a muddy spring that
ran clear,
and this heart
is no exception


burning rubber
across your asphalt heart—
skid marks
lead to the wreck
you've made of me


a harem of books—
he loves each of them
even though he
hasn't spent the night
with them in years


another candle lit
at his grave,
chokecherry trees
bloom as white
as ghosts


i gather them,
the green pine candles,
white chokecherry tapers,
and wild wisteria
for a funeral bouquet


once there were so many
grasses swaying in the sea,
beckoning to traders
who never thought
their pleasures would end


his heart
is a skeleton key
that unlocks doors
that should never
be opened


in retrospect,
it would have been wiser
if we had skipped the sex
and gone straight
to the tearful breakup


my handsome son,
posed so that
his scarred arm
doesn’t show
in the family photograph


I was not lonely
with the snow-capped heron
as my company;
but when my lover returned
the silence was desolate


I am too old and slow
to keep pace with the whirlwind
the world has become.               
Mansei's boat rowed away
without a trace this morning.


the police officer
questions the autistic child
and receives back 
scribbles that mean nothing
in this world of ours


when the rain pelts down
fair weather fishermen leave
the old wooden dock;
an old black man dons his hat
and stays a little longer


he writes poetry
for her birthday,
but fearing
it won't be enough,
he adds a scented candle



full well do I know
that this transient pleasure
is like foam on the sea;
yet even so I want it
to last a thousand years



Langston Hughes
was a sailor
and a lover of men.
I thought I'd see more of that
in his verses



'snake gardens'
the country folk
call them,
full of weeds and
rusting tractors



send a man
shopping for clothes, and
he comes home
with a pair of socks
and nothing more



Pearl Harbor Day . . .
The Japanese-American student
stares at the enemy
who looks like
his father



on the hearth,
the pop, hiss, and crackle
of green wood;
he dreams as he dozes,
the aging housecat

More Twitter Tanka

Twitter is so ephemeral, I am trying to unearth poems that have only appeared on Twitter and put them on my blog so that they will be easier to find and can be more readily seen.


night watch
at three am
the drunks asleep
but the fishboats
heading out


topmen
aloft in a gale
shoulders aching
as they battle
the mainsail


a whale
named "Salt"
swimming circles
and slapping the sea
with her tail

Stellwagon Bank, off Cape Cod


the bluest skies
and a fair wind blowing
no sign
of the hurricane
beyond the horizon


two days later
drinking
the sodas 
the passengers
didn't want


doldrums—
the roll gauge
as still
and motionless
as the crew


Buzzard Bay
clouds
slowly building
on an August afternoon
before the hurricane


the ship murmurs
to water, wind,
and sky,
prayers full of spume
for a safe anchorage


storm watch
midnight rain
and the roar
of wind
through the rigging


the witching hour
but the ship
in a safe harbor
not even a black cat
on this black night


glad
to cancel
Martha’s Vineyard
and take refuge
in a fishermen’s town


season’s end
I’ve had enough
of tourists
I long for the cold work
of oystering


midnight
during a tropical storm,
but still traffic,
lights, and noise
in a sleepless city


security lights
gleaming on
the herring hopper:
my view for
most of the night


the cruise ship
with her passengers
dwarfs us—
and so do
their wallets


the lullaby
of rain on hatches
rolling off
the quarterdeck
all night long


her spars
across the river
slim and wooden,
all day we ask passing boats,
“Who is that ship?”


fairy lights
tiny sea creatures
glowing
in the dark
beneath the pier


Martha’s Vineyard—
the green scruff
of hills
dotted with
enormous houses


the soft roar
of the sibilant sea—
a sea turtle
raises his head
to look at us


predisposed
not to like
Martha’s Vineyard,
then the old lighthouse
illuminates history


heading into port,
a shimmer
of salt scales
dried
on the windward rail


sunset fading
a constellation of
airplane lights
appears
over Manhattan


listening to
some other boat’s
man overboard
on the radio,
a quick head count here


city dwellers
never look up from
their televisions
as a tall ship
ghosts by at night


ten million people
in New York City
never saw us
as we passed by
one evening


temporary
migrating bird
support ship—
two warblers and a kestrel
take refuge in our rigging

Twitter Tanka

The following tanka have been published on Twitter, but nowhere else. I thought I ought to gather them up and put them some place easier to find.


move over, Shiki,
there’s more than
a wisteria branch
to be seen from
this invalid’s bed


nothing certain
but death and taxes,
today,
I suffer from
a little of each


I look like Frankenstein:
I’m green,
and I have stitches
in each temple
where they took the biopsies


ah, Melville,
what’s Moby Dick to me
when I can
conquer the world
from the comfort of my desk?


the clock
above my desk
talks to me
when everyone else
is asleep tonight


aluminum extrusion—
that’s my cousin’s business
down in Georgia,
vague recollections that
once they owned slaves


“archaeopteryx”
some words
are harder
to open than
dictionaries


the ghosts of winter
drifting aimlessly
amid the green and yellow
blinking lights
of the holiday


tall ships
in a shallow fog
stars
trapped in
the bowl of heaven


another chill evening—
finding love poems
I wrote
last winter to
a married man


everything ends
at the beginning of winter—
mother, nephew, lover
nothing but
grief remains


the cat always returns
is it any wonder
I give my love
to a rover
in the night?


things that come
with the fog:
horseshoe crabs,
tall ships,
and wandering hearts


mending
the ensign again
tailor-legged
on the hatch
as the sun sets


the minor key
of an old song
as sailors
keep watch
in the dusk


that cool breeze
is a harbinger 
of storms to come:
Earl, Fiona, Gaston
crossing the Atlantic


a tarnished sun
in a glistening sea
a wooden ship
makes her way
towards shelter


a forest 
of fishboats
rafted
side by side
in the hurricane hole


tied up
at the State Pier,
I can watch the city
as if it were
a million miles away


sitting in the pew
where Melville sat,
with a hurricane 
bearing down on me,
I contemplate the cenotaphs