Tanka Prose

Everyone knows Dino was the last real dinosaur—the Jurassic Park superstars, just digital facsimiles conceived to honor his existence. My eight-or-so-inch-high brontosaurus from Sinclair Oil’s plastic molding machine—once warm to the touch—is also now long gone. These magnificent creatures that once roamed the swamps of my imagination are no more. “They died in the Great Flood,” Grandma said. But I know better.

It’s easy for me to see how fragile this earth. We live in a syndicated dream, tuning out reruns of rainforest burning on TV. Like Fred and Wilma, we live in a stone age. As the waters rise and the sediment settles, it’s clear to me we’re soon to be fossils unless Hanna Barbera can preserve us.

the last mighty oak
hewn into planks
for an ark . . .
our only hope now
an olive branch

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

---

We are vanishing from the earth, yet I cannot think we are useless
or else Usen would not have created us. He created all tribes of men
and certainly had a righteous purpose in creating each.

                                               ~Geronimo

time bomb . . .
the movement
of his watch
as he throws
the first punch

The wind is honest but unpredictable—sometimes brutally so.

Night is punctual, but has its moods, sometimes quiet and inviting, sometimes cold and creepy.

The world is flailing in darkness and wind. The Engine of Change has become a brand of meat grinders—those machines designed to churn out burnt, human hamburger patties and radioactive pickles. That’s what’s special on the menu tonight at Mother Earth Diner, and every other night while supplies last. The rest of the entrees were discontinued the day Wisconsin turned to ash—a day I woke to grief and regret. The basement shielded me from the blast. I found Caroline’s body face down in the street.

Right now, somewhere, a field of wildflowers is starting to bloom. They’re all a little bit crooked, though, as if they don’t quite know where the sun is. Go figure—we’re all choking on the same atmosphere.

Night is a friend in the candlelight. My fingers move over the keys and every fiber of my constitution reaches. Reaches to wrap my arms around your corpse and, with a kiss, bring you back to life. In my nightmares, you are a casualty. You lie in the infirmary of my mind in those special bandages used by the Egyptians to preserve their Pharaohs. Their freeze-dried tamales, on the other hand, are cardboard compared to the fresh ones we used to get just down the street. Still, we have to eat.

shards
of a crystal ball . . .
my future a mess
on the floor
I just swept

Flintlocks took a long time to load. First, we learned to aim and shoot. Next, we learned how to shoot without aiming. Anyone up for catching bullets? Just don’t store your collateral at home if you want to prevent it from being bombed. After the tamales, tequila. See what I mean—bombed! The guacamole makes you glow.

knocking down pins
at the bowling alley . . .
a group of boys
settling scores
in the parking lot

Conventional wisdom dictates the terms of surrender. Wedding rings should make it all better. But the icing on the cake is always destined to wind up on the girl who just popped out of it.

Caroline, I have braided your flaming hair into a rope so that you may climb up out of this hell. There are no church bells ringing today. We, the survivors, will gather in silence to see you off. After the service, we’ll share the last stale loaf of bread, then lie down together: men, women, and children of all colors, rich and poor, the oppressor and the oppressed, believers and non-believers, left, right, and middle, flower children and warmongers. We’ll lie here tonight—just a huddled mass—sharing what’s left of our body heat.

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

---

along the byway
to adulthood
an apple tree bloomed . . .
now I pick its fruit
with weathered hands

I’m in rows of corn, running my fingers through the rustling leaves, the scent of earth and pollen in the air. They grow so quickly, these sturdy stalks, taller than my head. Following the contours of the hills, the trail bending and twisting, I discover that the time just before harvest is a pretty good time to get lost.

I burrow into the field, its cocoon wrapping around me until the rest of the world fades away. Every so often a red-winged blackbird stops by to keep me company as we share the last days of summer.

Some people look at a cornfield and see just a field. I see a haven, ripe with adventure and silky ears to whisper to. Turn left at the ladybug and follow the sun; a kid knows the very best places to hide. The secrets of the maize envelop me. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the roots and tassels, pausing along the winding path laid out for me.

following the footsteps
of a wandering child
the poet
finds a verse
scribbled in the soil

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online 16.1

---

It’s hard to believe you’re not here. Seems like yesterday we were laughing at stupid jokes, not taking life too seriously. I found an old picture of you in a box and recalled something you used to say; you’ll always have what’s in your head. Now the trail we blazed through our mountains always leads me back to your laugh.

a glissando of chirps
                                from the land of dreams
casting spells . . .
                                as bones rattle
 the forest whispers
                                I rise again
 a simple reminder
                                to cradle each moment
        to listen
                                before it’s gone

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

---

I’m floating in an uncharted region of my mind. There are no faces in the portraits on these walls. Hitchhiked here from the medulla oblongata. Found myself sloshing it up at the pituitary gland. Provisioned further at the hippocampus and hypothalamus before setting off on foot to chase down a neuron, was told it ventured this way from nowhere, destroyed everything. My feet are gone. Where I’m going, I’m gone. But I’ve been there before. Not going again.

poems
on padded walls–
the orderly barks, Stop!
but I refuse
to surrender the crayon

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

---

a painting
of a boy
playing on the beach . . .
the sea now swollen
swallowing the man

Monsieur Beaufont, an aristocrat from Paris, is throwing a housewarming party. He’s just migrated to New Orleans with his family and has encouraged his wife to sing for the guests.

Bernard, in scuffed penny loafers and faded felt fedora, is always fashionably late but today his arrival is almost posthumous. He trundles past his host with a muttered “Thank you” and makes his way to a back corner of the parlor, his trademark slouch defying gravity only with the help of a hickory cane, and now, the wall.

I’ve known Bernard since childhood. We met during a match of marbles on the school playground and later played football together. He’s since amassed a small fortune navigating the mines in the stock market and by keeping the strings pulled tight on his purse. His lips barely move when he speaks, something he does only under duress. He rarely ventures out these days so it’s a surprise to see him here now. I consider going over to speak with him but he’s commanding the corner with a scowl.

Bernard has one magnetic attribute that we share, a passion for classical music. Symphonies, arias, concertos, and minuets arouse his spirit. I know not to disrupt him while Cassandra is singing a capella Puccini’s “Un bel dì vedremo” from Madame Butterfly. Perhaps we’ll have a brief conversation when he’s done applauding.

Cassandra, a striking soprano fills the stately room with a voice much larger than her petite self. The flaxen-haired nightingale brings tears to Bernard’s eyes. I watch him lean over his cane, straining to absorb every syllable, every note as she casts her spell on the listeners.

When the song ends, Bernard leans his cane against his belly and begins to clap. I wander over and wait for him to finish, then proclaim “That was wonderful!”

“It was not enough,” he grumbles.

“Perhaps she’ll sing another.”

“Maybe. I’ve got to pee.”

I watch him hobble to the washroom. Cassandra comes over and introduces herself. Bernard should be here. I tell her how much I enjoyed the song. She says, “Thank you” then moves on to the next guest. I’m left to wonder if there was ever a goddess so graceful, anyone as lucky as Monsieur Beaufont, or a man as untimely as Bernard.

consulting
the hands
of a broken watch
the captain sets sail
on a low tide

First published in Contempory Haibun Online

---

The walking man studies the footprints he’s made in the first snow of this year, footprints meandering back through time, back through time with his thoughts. There he finds a boy playing by a stream, happy as youth can be. He walks over and says, “Hello.” The boy doesn’t hear. He wants to say, “Remember this,” but all he can do is watch for a while as the child works his way along the bank, disappearing around the bend.

His thoughts lead back to a grassy field where a young man tosses hay bales onto a wagon. The man in the snow wants to shout, “Be careful,” but again can only watch as the farm cart passes by. He knows the young man has no reason to listen to the wind. Turning up his collar, he shrugs away the cold.

Blowing snow covers his tracks. He watches them fade into gray twilight. Searching for even a hint of her, her footprints in the snow, he wants to tell her, “I’m sorry,” but her footprints are no longert there. The trail’s gone cold, and he’s walking alone on his way back home in a blizzard.

recollections . . .
layers of settling dust
on the bookshelves
begin to obscure
the stories

First published in Atlas Poetica

---

Polly loves to grow things. She has a delicious garden full of fruits, herbs, vegetables, tubers, and flowers. I often wonder what it would be like to be back there again, clawing at the soil, pulling weeds with both hands and eating strawberries right off the stem. Something tells me I shouldn’t have left, that I should be in the garden with Polly.

you fell for me
like a drop of rain
knowing
every thorny rose
needs water

First published in Atlas Poetica

---

I embark
on a vision quest
to find my identity
but forget to bring
my wallet

We reach the top of Feather Falls at about 9 a.m. KC explains that it’s one of the tallest waterfalls in the United States and says he knows a way to the bottom. The three of us follow him down the steep incline and into the gorge. The air is hot, and the LSD is starting to kick in.
 
Halfway into our descent, we come to a drop-off. KC seems confused about which way to go. We debate the issue and finally decide that each of us should find our own way down. The hiking is arduous, but soon I discover a steep slope of loose gravel and rock. I sit down and bump my way all the way to the bottom.

  No one else is here. Boulders, standing taller than me, covered in blankets of thick, slick moss, line the banks. The chilly water is flowing fast. There is mist in the air, and every way I turn, I see rainbows, full-circle rainbows. I wait for a while, but no one shows up. Drenched in sweat from this excursion, I strip off my clothes and wade into the stream.
 
a white moth
flits into my thoughts . . .
I cradle it
in my hands
as it falls asleep
 
Carefully, I work my way toward the roar of the falls. Around the bend, I come upon the rest of the troupe, all similarly defrocked. My chemically altered body and mind vibrate numbly as I pull myself up onto a low rock already warm from the morning sun. The rainbows are even more prolific here where water flows like a feather from the side of the mountain and crashes into the jumble of rocks below. We gather around and grin.

Steve, our resident Zen enthusiast, starts proffering questions. “Where do these rainbows go when the sun goes down? Where does the wind go when it’s not blowing? Who’s got the sunscreen?”
 
Opening our backpacks, we start laying out a picnic while each of us tries to come up with our own Zen-like mystery.
 
We bask in the sun for most of the day. Frank begins to stack rocks, and then we all pitch in. Soon the bank becomes littered with cairns. It is the Day of the Rock, it seems. Satisfied with our ephemeral art display, we gather our things and plan the trip back, deciding to go it alone again.
 
pine shadows
evaporate
before my eyes  . . .
the long way home
through mountains of glass
 
I place my hand on the smooth, stone surface, studying a narrow fissure that runs from the bottom of the cliff all the way to the top, some 80 feet over my head. It looks doable, so I wedge myself into the crevice and start to climb. The first forty feet are easy, with many handholds and footholds, but now the crack is only about five or six inches wide. My knee is wedged in it to support my weight. Slowly, I inch my way up the sheer rock face, pulling up with my hands while repositioning my knee into the crack. It’s slow going, and there’s been progress, until now.
 
There it is, a rock wedged into the crack where my knee wants to be. There’s a nice space above the rock, but I can’t find anything to hold onto that will support my full weight as I try to pull myself over the obstacle. I’m stuck. Panic begins to set in. I contemplate going back down, though it’s really not an option. Climbing up is much easier than going down. I ask myself how I got into this mess. I envision my death.
 
Breathe. Concentrate. Focus. Think it through. I’m in the contemplative phase of an acid trip. A sense of calm overcomes me as I let go of my fear.
 
After 20 minutes of indecision and fumbling around, I find one small protrusion for my hand and another for one foot. I rehearse my next move several times before putting the plan into action. Carefully, I pull my knee out of the crack and for a moment am floating in space. It takes every bit of my strength and agility, but I’m finally wedged in again above the rock. The climb concludes without further incident. At the top, I’m greeted by a tangle of poison oak bushes, which I crawl through without hesitation.
 
I find my totem
in a dream . . .
the white moth wakes
flicks its wings
and flies away

First published in Atlas Poetica

---

~Maquoit Bay, Brunswick, Maine, USA

The hungry man can’t read his timepiece on the nightstand because there’s a glare on its crystal face. His reflection in the window doesn’t help, but it feels way past dinnertime for sure. The split-pea soup in the freezer sounds good, but it took a long time to grow those peas and make the soup. Instead, he decides the time is right to write another letter or perhaps a simple poem…

sun fades
into a maroon splash
on the western horizon…
you slowly curl up
into the song of night

There’s no forgetting you, my fingers running through your hair, your nose against my cheek. We’ve howled together at the moon and taken in the starlight. We’ve watched the waves roll on the shore. We’ve walked across the field. We’ve wallowed in the mudflats and we’ve crossed the street together…

if I gave you a bone
to chew
you’d chew it…
thanks for keeping
our secrets

Atlas Poetica – Stacking Stones-Summer 2018

---