Sunday, October 14, 2018

Stacking Stones: An Anthology of Short Tanka Sequences, August 2018


snow falling
across the Sahara
at sunset
you give me pink crystals
of ancient desert roses

in the lee
of this sacred mountain
our breath rises
mingling with clouds
until we fall as snow


I tried
to make you fall in love
with the sea
but you were never fond
of heavy weather

amidst the flotsam
and jetsam of this life
we salvage
our brightest memories
before they turn to rust


we are fledglings
leaping into this world
with open arms
trusting that the sedges
will soften our fall

wood duck hens
remember the place where
they first took flight
home means something
different to us all


in the space
between wakefulness
and dreaming
my sister sings songs
I have yet to write

my dreamscapes
haunted by green spirals
of aurora
these memories of you
conjured out of light

last night
I dreamt of things
this morning, my life
so dull and drear

night after night
this recurring dream
the universe
is telling me something
I do not understand


black swans
softening the edges
of my darkness
I gather threads of light
unspooling in their wake

the green curl
of a rolling wave
enfolds me
at this tunnel's end
an amazement of light

long after
my time of drowning
I remember
sea anemones
winnowing the light

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