somber ditty

remember
when everyone
knew and could tell
just where they were? it's
no longer true
and slipping
you'll forget too
though the name is
carved in stone
the dead end up alone

Beta Test

ts eliot wuz my mom

the peach of
afternoon weather
September
barbecue --
a sweet tinge tangy
in the smoke --
of Thursday
closing time
the last gas before
Mojave hits

dulcet
measured
abbreviate past interesting
I accept it with sleeves well rolled
and tomorrow
I'll do the pants too
too literary to care
for fashion
the yellow edge
fray

mermaids
waxing lyrical and long
in the tooth
song for the rooted moon
sink of empty cups
a family complete
cards that can keep a charge
the shore bears it
a line of mounds I've made
trudging

in foul weather spitting
peach seeds into fog

the wanderer

purple lycra

sleep shirt

goes creeping

in the night

one nipple

caught this morning

out right

side in torn up lace

the stretchy kind

my fingers find

it before you

tight and old

but what to do

fits just right

when I need

support

and freedom too

Bridal Veil

waterfall up

a slick and rocky path

I’m scared to take

to bring the babies

so high

but I know

I should let you

is it better to let go

I could almost follow

or grab you 

back

that nag that says

bad mother

pulls at my ear

I'm in a state: high

anxiety

believing / disbelieving

that you'll show again

from that last bend

unbroken

grass over granite

shots taken

everyone but me

that day I film

the water crashing making

rainbows

high as my arms

can reach

a love's little scratching

written with Reka Jellema 

slip into this
wool sweater
our marriage
still warm
still green

our fingers tangle
with the sleeves
did you see
could it be
the cuffs unravel?

who can tell us
how to snip the yarn,
card the wool
hold our strands
together?

we left our mothers
at the alter
we were cleaved
and we are making
home this bond

something so close
a love's little scratching
fibers
raising blood
day after day

missed signals
and blind eye
turned away
the cheek I hold
soft under my hand

this is the way weaving
tortoiseshells
into our blanket
the marriage only we
can understand

Reka Jellema's work can be found on her blog http://www.rekajellema.com/ and at VerseWrights http://www.versewrights.com. She writes on Twitter as @RekaJellema.

Tanka Studies, part one

I started out on twitter writing haiku. I thought I knew what that was... I didn't. Luckily, I found myself in a perfect environment for learning how to write it correctly. Many people write haiku there, both accomplished masters of the form and talented poets who, like me, were trying to learn. Lots of good examples and pertinent questions. After about 3 or 4 years, I began to have a pretty good grasp on what I was doing.

During that time, I read and saw a lot of tanka, but I didn't get it. I couldn't find the flow in the five lines, I couldn't understand what they were meant to do.  Too long for a haiku, too short to tell much story, not fitting the rhythm I tried to give them when I read.  I left them alone for a long time.

When I wanted to move on from pure haiku composition, I read a little and got the idea that it was meant to be a haiku plus. A haiku-style image plus a personal observation. Something like:

6 o'clock train
doors bang shut
down the line
I see your ticket is
only one way

Maybe that's not a bad way to describe tanka, and maybe following that formula can produce some decent, qualified tanka poems. But it's not the way tanka feels to me. Not when I find one or make one that I really think is special.

So, what is tanka? I'm still working on it. I tag most of my poems #5lines, because I'm not sure I really get what tanka is.  Right now the big question for me is: Is tanka primarily a narrative or is it meant to evoke an experience? How much is showing vs. telling, and how do the parts fit together?

Obviously, I'm not an expert. I'm hoping to learn by doing, always reading and trying to pick up what I can. I have more thoughts to develop another day, but if any fellow poets have opinions to share, please leave a comment or let me know on twitter or facebook.

Diablo

in creosote smell

late winter sun

my hometown;  the beginning

soft over hard

on men and women

who have always eaten well, so

surprised at their reflections

twenty years too old

this is a place of small

valleys and wild flowers

they are always planting

more red grapes for wine

there is a power plant

just down the road

old songs on the radio I have

no answer for this yearning

to be what never was

some time ago

the answer is: the end

we all get there

it is four years since Fukushima

but there is nothing wrong 

in California

wild flowers 

blue yellow orange

and long grass

horses in the fields

the whole way home