Still the roses bloom…(a tanka)

 

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

 

 

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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

 

 

 

 

Tanka No. 2: pale pink petals

Here’s the second tanka published in
Gusts no. 32, Fall/Winter 2020

 

 

pale pink petals
scattered on the desk
one by one the days
of isolation pass,
each fading to nothing

 

 

 

 

Tanka No. 1: Lapis lazuli . . .

Three tanka published in the winter edition of Gusts, Contemporary Tanka, the journal of Tanka Canada. It’s always a huge thrill to be included in this special journal of tanka. I’ll offer them one at a time.

Gusts no. 32, Fall/Winter 2020

lapis lazuli, delft blue
and French ultramarine . . .
the blueness of blue
in these tired veins
just won’t let go

Half-light (a tanka sequence)

Milkweed by James DeMers (pixabay.com)

These tanka were written during the quarantine of Covid-19. My thanks to editor/poet, Marilyn Hazelton, for persuading me to combine some tanka into a tanka sequence.  A really good editor is priceless. It’s always an honor to have poems included in Redlights. Click on the link below if you care to hear me read it.

 

 

 

 

Half-light

 

August morning
just before the katydids
begin to sing . . .
the lake finally calm
with no ripples

 

milkweed seeds
scatter straight from
the cottony pod ~
such freedom to go
anywhere, everywhere

 

a spoon slowly stirs
cream into coffee
those quiet moments
when we lose
all sense of now

 

arm in arm
we walk together –
forty years & more miles
than either of us
can count

 

half-light—
walking in fog
where nothing is seen
but somehow we trust
it’s still all there

 

 

Red Lights, Summer Issue 2020