Showing posts with label Red Lights. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Red Lights. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 28, 2024

Red Lights, Vol. 20, Number 2, June 2024 (addendum)

Honoured to have work included in the final issue of Red Lights!


a cardinal
appears out of nowhere
whistling
a song that only you
could have composed


Surrendering

a sachet
of the seven herbs
clasped
between brittle palms . . .
prayers for this new year

stuffing
two fistfuls of snow
into my mouth,
throat chakra blocked
by grief that is unvoiced

on grassy banks
beside this burbling rill,
we sit in silence
for a moment before
the casting ceremony

(note: a casting ceremony involves the scattering of ashes)






Wednesday, April 24, 2024

Red Lights, Vol. 20, Number 1, January 2024

the sacred fire
and solemn truth
of sunrise . . .
we might not see it,
but we know it's there


Melancholia's Garden

on this dark day
we are heartened
by buttercups
turning their faces
toward the sun

a few sprigs
of marjoram to soothe
this anxiety
breathing in, breathing out,
I come back to myself

we did not make
plans for this future
now, it seems
that weeds might be
the only sure thing


Note: this issue also includes my thoughts on the effect tanka has had on my life...

Tanka has enriched my inner and outer worlds beyond measure. It can be isolating to be a writer with disabilities, but this global community is generous, nurturing, enthusiastic, and helpful. Writing tanka allows me to delve deeply into the ways in which nature influences my life and to connect with others through this sharing of experiences and emotions.

Saturday, July 01, 2023

Red Lights, Vol. 19, Number 2, June 2023

stars rise
above the alpenglow
will we ever
know our place in this
expanding universe


waiting, waiting


a wapiti
summons his harem
through the night
I call your name,
but you do not come

where
have you been
all this time
I am still here
waiting, waiting

two chickadees
chatter in my garden
you are
the same age now
as you were then
 

Thursday, March 16, 2023

Red Lights, Vol. 19, Number 1, January 2023

deep drifts
everywhere we look
this morning
we fasten a poppy
to the snowman's hat


hollow-boned


blankets of fog
subdue these woodlands
the hush
broken now and then
by invisible chickadees

a ballet
of swans glides between
memories . . .
I am earthbound now,
but these wings still fit

more than half
of the world's bird species
have been lost
how will children learn to sing
when their feathers are gone

Friday, July 22, 2022

Red Lights, Vol. 18, Number 2, June 2022

small hollows
in our cottonwood tree
fill with rain
ruby-crowned kinglets bathe
in secrets only they know


Conjuring


we share
a fairytale moment . . .
this antique book
bound with feathers
and bluebell sap

a citrine
glints on my windowsill
conjuring
the smallest of suns
on this darkest of days

winter departs
only to return, and yet
we are consoled
by the unchanging
certainty of seasons

powder snow
takes wing behind
downhill skis
our spirits lifting, too
on this bluebird day


(note: "citrine" - a yellow variety of quartz)
 

Sunday, March 20, 2022

Red Lights, Vol. 18, Number 1, January 2022

red-tinged grasses
adorned with the exuviae
of dragonflies . . .
sometimes I wish I could
leave this body behind


(note: "exuviae" - the dried outer casing of a young dragonfly)

Monday, August 02, 2021

Red Lights, Vol. 17, Number 2, June 2021

we had almost
forgotten how to smile . . .
a loveliness
of ladybugs spills down
the rotten fencepost


lamentations


I gently strum
a lark's bleached ribcage . . .
how long
have you lain here
with your mossy heart

we never
expect grief to come
calling . . .
will no one answer
the phone of the wind*


*An unconnected phone booth in Japan helps people cope with the loss of loved ones.




Sunday, March 21, 2021

Red Lights, Vol. 17, Number 1, January 2021

My thanks to Marilyn Hazelton for the kind mention of The Language of Loss: Haiku & Tanka Conversations!


a rusted obelisk
in our garden tilts
earthward
the gash along its side
bleeding winter berries


part of it all


dead leaves
dance to the vibrations
of a wolf spider
searching for his mate . . .
I, too, am smitten

a woolly bear
wends it way through
yellowing grass
it only takes one small thing
to make me happy

I come
to this darkling forest
in search
of something
only the trees know
 

Friday, August 14, 2020

Red Lights, Vol. 16, Number 2, June 2020

one protostar
brighter than any other . . .
the collapse
and fragmentation
of this molecular life


the birds that remain nameless


a capercaillie
emerges from pinewoods
into the open,
his glossy black fan
shimmering with light

we paddle
among marsh grasses
illumined
by the swaying suns
of yellow-headed blackbirds

outside
a coyote's den
nothing
remains but feathers
trying to catch the wind

Sunday, March 01, 2020

Red Lights, Vol. 16, Number 1, January 2020

a red star pinned
to the breast of night . . .
you've been gone
more than a lifetime,
yet your light still shines


the colour of complacency


a pale child
with flaxen hair warns
us of danger
why are so many
too blind to listen

prayers offered
to the rising sun
a rainbow
of saris flecked
with toxic foam

our world
is clutching onto life
but only just
a spider monkey swings
above the blood-red fire

another forest
takes its last breath
a miasma
of black despair
settles in my lungs

I soothe
my weary spirit
in a river
of blue-eyed grasses
how did we come to this

Tuesday, July 30, 2019

Red Lights, Vol. 15, Number 2, June 2019

BOOK APPRECIATION: Three-Part Harmony: Tanka Verses


I was honoured to be chosen for this feature by the editor, Marilyn Hazelton. 


In response to her question regarding my musical background as it informs Three-Part Harmony:

I have been playing guitar, singing, and writing songs since the age of 12. My eldest sister was the main musical mentor in my life. I received my first guitar from her as a Christmas gift, and we often played music and sang together. She taught my sisters and me to sing harmony, hence the title and dedication of this book. Though she passed away when she was 28, every time I play my guitar, I think of her.

In response to her question regarding how I compiled the book:

It took about a year to finalize the manuscript. I began my eliminating poems that had appeared in my first book, Warp and Weft: Tanka Threads. I sorted the remaining published work into themed groups, and whittled the field down to approximately 300 tanka. This is like working on a huge jigsaw puzzle. I inserted each tanka into a set until they resonated with each other, thereby breathing new life into old poems.

In response to her question regarding my reflections on three tanka sets she chose at random:


murmuration

curls of clouds
become passerines
each autumn
the low-angled light
invites me to follow

snow geese
scribe an ancient mystery
across the moon
their soft murmurs
catching winter's breath

a starling
m u m u r a t i o n
sifting the sky
she recalls the moment
her life changed shape


I have been an avid birder for 40 years. Birds inspire me on a daily basis, and they feature in many of my tanka. In murmuration, I tried to encompass the way birds make me feel, how they capture my imagination, and stir my emotion. Here, we have clouds shape-shifting into passerines, snow geese becoming scribes, and starlings changing the very shape of sky.


bread and tempers

that phone call
all those years ago
I still see
a serpent writhing
between her fingers

the argument
escalates all night
inside me
these paper-thin walls
only meant for wasps

we lived
above a bake shop
that summer
of bread and tempers
rising through the night


I find it cathartic and healing to share my joys and sorrows via the written word. I do not shy away from writing about the dark times in my life, because these experiences have helped to mould me into the writer I am, and the writer that I will become.


gunmetal nights

mule deer
resting in a thicket
by the slough
all over this world
the sound of guns

shots fired
another child dies
for a debt
her chalk outline
macabre street art

bullets of crows
on gunmetal nights
a deeper shade
of anguish echoes
in her bones


This set is especially meaningful to me, as I have a complicated relationship with guns. When I was a child, my father hunted to provide food for our family, so they seemed like a necessary evil, if you will. Over the years, two of my cousins have been murdered by these weapons, and with escalating gun violence throughout the world, I find myself becoming increasingly fearful for our global community.


Other work included in this issue:


webs billow
across the pathway . . .
we blunder
into magic, ensnared
by everyday miracles


hares boxing
in the flush of dawn . . .
it seems
impossible to defeat
an opponent I can't see

note: During spring mating season, hares can be seen striking other hares, giving rise to the phrase, "Mad as a March hare."


we step
into the warm barn
greeted
by a horse playing
piano with his nose

note: This is a true story! Percherons at a nearby barn are kept stimulated by various artistic diversions, such as painting and playing piano, during bitter winter weather when they are confined to their stalls.





Friday, April 05, 2019

Red Lights, Vol. 15, Number 1, January 2019

I bandage
my sister's wounds
with rose petals,
crooning our mantra . . .
all will soon be well


in with the new


shorn fields
scintillate with frost
except
in the shadows
where antelope lie

we wait
for lake-effect snow
on the verge
of knowing something
that hasn't happened yet

winter camping
in the high country
I have been
too long without this
kinship of mountains

a phoenix
of northern lights rises
above the prairie . . .
bird without feathers,
song without sound

fat clusters
of snowflakes drift
toward earth
I wonder where life
will take us next year


Saturday, August 04, 2018

Red Lights, Vol. 14, Number 2, June 2018

falling snow
douses autumn's fire
we lie down
among the ruins,
rekindling this flame



what we make of it


we maunder
down memory lane
immersed
in our shared story
so different, yet the same

I offer
a lacework of clear ice
to the sun
winter trickles between
my fingers into spring

small suns
of wild chamomile
embroider
our patchwork fields
with the scent of light

a necklace
of sea foam traces
the bay's curve
I pine for this amity
between earth and water

even scars
from avalanches heal
how then
to mend these ragged
edges of my past


Thursday, March 08, 2018

Red Lights, Vol. 14, Number 1, January 2018

sculpted
from alabaster . . .
these faces
with empty eyes,
so beautifully sad


soft thuds
of falling acorns
punctuate
our contented silence . . .
a new story unfolds


persimmons
peeled and hanging
out to dry . . .
autumn's harvest
shines brighter this year


Honoured to have my thoughts appear on the back cover:

Tanka poets complete the statement: When I read or write tanka . . .


. . . I am mindful that these small gifts have immeasurable value both to the giver and the recipient. Such wordsongs, whether received or bestowed, reflect the harmonic call and answer between reader and writer that is nothing short of magical.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Red Lights, Vol. 13, Number 2, June 2017

a trunk full
of frayed ballet slippers . . .
your feet,
broken reminders
of the pageantry of pain


we march
in our pink hats
s t a i n e d
with the blood
of our bodies


bouquets of clouds
on a cornflower day
wherever you are
I hope your wild blood
is singing hallelujah

Saturday, March 04, 2017

Red Lights, Vol. 13, Number 1, January 2017

a tempest
deconstructs the night
sometimes
we find ourselves
when everything is lost


to let go
or to hold fast
if only
we could choose
as easily as trees


summer solstice
and a strawberry moon
we will not see
another in our lifetime
but we are here, now



Thursday, July 14, 2016

Red Lights, Vol. 12, Number 2, June 2016

kittiwakes
wheeling the blue beyond
calling, calling
a glimpse of your face
before you slipped away


at cliff's edge
waves roiling below
I stand
eye to eye with gulls
unafraid of flight


on the shore
jellyfish sailors
stranded
my hopes deflating
with these pink balloons

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Red Lights, Vol. 12, Number 1, January 2016

the chatter
of elderly trees
in wind gusts
bony branches scrape
the lowering sky


a kettle
of migrating hawks
riding thermals
through the boiling sky
we drink it all in


sunset's soft blush
through black lace leaves
why did I reveal
so much more of myself
than I had intended

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Red Lights, Vol. 11, Number 2, June 2015

this is where I took
the double exposure of us
I didn't know it then,
but you were already fading,
half the way to being gone


there is healing
in the ministry of moonlight
the dark lifts
with my spirit at dawning
I am reborn to rise up


kettle lakes
punctuate the prairie
come, sit still
we will become reeds
for red-winged blackbirds

Red Lights, Vol. 11, Number 1, January 2015

a ragged curl
of birch bark fluttering
in the sun
even our smallest wounds
become limned with light


oh, my friend
I thought I heard an owl
call your name
on the night you flew
off the face of the earth


sunburnt children
holding conch shells
against their ears
the susurrous ocean
calling them home