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!
