Spring’s soft greening (tanka)

Like so many other people, the year and a half pandemic has thrown my sense of time way off. I’m so far behind in posting newly published poems on this blog that I find myself now playing catch up.  I am both honored and happy to have had such fine journals select some of my work to publish in 2021. 

 

both of us relieved
we made it to this side
of the pandemic –
falling back in love
with spring’s soft greening

 

Published in Ribbons, Tanka Café, Spring 2021

 

 

The simplest thing

The simplest thing

 

Three poems (two haiku and one tanka) were published in the winter issue of Kokako, 2021. I have a real fondness for this journal because I love all things Kiwi. New Zealand is a beautiful country with such great people. They have a very active poetry community, and Kokako is a beautiful journal to be part of.

 

1.

snow drifts ~
the wild wind’s
last brief fling

2.

woodland colours
now grow pale
winter light

3.

arranging zinnias
in an old milk jug,
this pandemic silence
urges me to notice
the simplest things

Note: Photo of Zinnias (c) 2021 by Park Seeds

Whirlwinds (tanka)

 

Redlights, Volume 17, No. 1, January 2021

 

 

Photography by Autumn Mott Rodeheaver

 

whirlwinds of scarlet
and ochre leaves
flit across the square –
days of self-isolation spent
learning to slow down

 

 

 

Still the roses bloom…(a tanka)

 

.

 

the chiming clock
begins to wind down . . .
five months of quarantine
yet still the roses bloom
and red birds sing

 

 

.

This tanka was published in October, but obviously was written in early summer. We are now nine months into this pandemic. Writing is a wonderful relief as we isolate ourselves. Like so many poets, I find my writing has been changed by the pandemic.

cattails:
The Official Journal of the United Haiku and Tanka Society, October 2020 issue

 

 

 

Tanka No. 3: The sudden silence

 

Here is the third of my three tanka published in the latest issue of Gusts no. 32, Fall/Winter 2020:

 

 

even the crows
are quiet now . . .
the sudden silence
that morning snow
brings