Tanka Prose

hourglass sand
slips through your fingers
one grain at a time
dawn breaks the stillness
and thunders through my brain

I stand on the threshold of tomorrow, examining the cracks in my psyche. Born with a blank slate, I’ve been filling it up for years now. First came play; then came disaster, the jolt of my first confusion. How could I go from frolicking to dripping like a sponge? 

We were seven years old that day, a couple of peas nestled in the garden; ours was a childhood entrenched in adventure. The morning came, and another journey through time and space lifted off. The school bus delivered us to the place of learning, and we studied our way to recess. Tetherball.

Back and forth, the ball flew, each blow stinging my hand. You beat me three games in a row as we pummeled the object du jour. Every laugh heightened the play, drawing us closer together. The bell rang, but we continued the game until the playground cleared.

sunshine escape
impossible to resist
daydreams
meld into memories
guiding us through the moments

The last bell rang; we were on the bus toward home—you cracking jokes from the seat behind me, me in the front row. When we reached your stop, you passed me by, and we wished each other a “See you tomorrow.” You stepped into the street.

Bang!

tomorrow never comes
yesterday never was
when a friend passes
now is that day forever
locked in deafening silence

Contemporary Haibun Online 22:1, April 2026

The corridors of enlightenment stand dusty and stained with years. I walk the halls in silence, pondering the moments that came before me. Weathered statues of ancient gods cast disapproving shadows over the cracked marble. I’m searching for an answer. Why are these passages dank and disregarded? Am I living in the Dark Ages? Is there no technology capable of illuminating this hour?

Boots of soldiers, now stirring the dust, lead to this moment of fragility. The chalice of independent thought oozes the smoke of war. The blossom of humanity has fallen. In its place, the calamity of division, dripping guns and ammunition, a recipe for annihilation. All across the airwaves, ads coaxing me to settle into the fray.

But here I stand, arms outstretched, light seeping through holes in the walls. With We the People at my side, the world looks not so bleary. Comes a maelstrom of lies to shield me from the dawn, but dawn arrives, leaving me to wonder why I ever was so blind to the ramblings of a tyrant bent on my destruction?

an oath broken
to reject the masses’ will 
to survive
while the oak has lost its leaves
the heartwood remains

a field of grass
in flames…
the commercial
for aspirin
promises relief

Cigarette burns in his shirt, the flaws of habit. Beard and hair unkempt, he doesn’t look in the mirror anymore. Empty pizza boxes litter the apartment. Scraps of food on the floor feed the roaches. There’s a mound of molding clothes in the middle of the bedroom floor, and he hasn’t changed the sheets in months, hasn’t drawn the curtains in years.

One picture on the wall: a radiant face—locked for all time behind a thin pane of glass—stares at him in silence. He kisses the glass, then crawls into bed, fully dressed. It’s the same dream each night, a dance with her in the moonlight, ending with a car crash. Shaken awake, he reaches for a cigarette, the flicker of a match in the darkness the only light he has left.

a fly
in the spider’s web…
the queen
at the guillotine
asks for a painkiller

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all the loves i’ve ever known—women and men—i loved you all . . . completely. you’re the symphony of wind that carries me now to uncharted destinations, you propel me toward the horizon, all of you, the keel on my sloop, telltales on my mast, guiding me past reefs and shoals, you have been my waypoints, i came to you then passed you by—you standing firm in the waves as i drifted out with the tide—the sea swallowing me alive.

i fear
the North Star
might not know the way—
following my heart
where whale song leads

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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Not too long ago, we were connected by wires. The wires went to places. We had to be at those places if we wanted to spend time with other people in other places.

Grandma and Grandpa’s local phone number was four digits long. At family gatherings, we used to schedule calls from distant family members. On Christmas day, grandchildren would call the house and we would have a phone visit, each cousin, aunt, and uncle passing the phone to the next in a daisy chain conversation beginning and ending with Grandma. 

The phone used to be a home device, but we are no longer tied to home. Our circle is contained in digital address books accessible with the touch of a virtual button. We are ever on the go but someone always knows where we are.

operator
five, three, two, six, please . . .
the hum
of starlings flying free
across the airwaves

First published in the Tanka Society of America’s journal, Ribbons

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for many years
I have wandered
this earth . . .
a maple stands
where the journey began

Home. Inside my mind, there remains a place, a face, a helping hand. This place is a haven for my roaming feet. It’s the size of a thought where the door swings wide. It’s a refuge in the face of a rising sea.

Scarlet leaves brush the autumn sky. That’s where I left her, my anchor, my friend, her eyes filled with tears as I let go her hand.

I’m a robin on the wind, just passing by. But there’s always this place to ease my mind. Her arms are around me as I tread the path. Nothing lasts forever but I’ll be home inside as long as the wind in my feathers teases me to fly.

a heron
in the marsh grass . . .
an old man
watches the drift
of evening clouds

First published in Haibun Today 14:3

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The poet eases into his favorite chair, fingers waiting eagerly for a puff of imagination to settle onto the keys. One-by-one, each digit moves and slowly a dance ensues.

He searches for his partner. The muse alights in his mind. They step out onto the page and begin to twirl.

one

the storybook begins
with “once upon a time”
from there we’re left to find a way
to weave our dreams
between the lines

two

many yesterdays ago
there lived a pair on a hill
he walked each day to the spring
to fetch her a cup
of water

three

milady, your hands
fit into mine
as stars fit into the sky . . .
if this is all a dream
then please try not to wake me

one . . .

First published in Haibun Today

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we found each other
in that moment
breaking over the rails,
that moment that swept us
into the sea

If stumbling into misadventure is an art form then we mastered it long ago. Yes, time has passed, and yes, the distance between us is greater than ever. Still, I remember our love of music, our kindred affection for stories, and how we could cry together and laugh in almost a single breath. I can remember that day we danced to Zydeco for hours as the little time we had left together seemed to skip a beat. I remember our happiest moments as if they are happening now.

Were there warning signs? Who knows? What I do know is that the dream imploded as a result of its own design. What remains are simply fragments of that dream. Still, those fragments speak to me, defying the constraints of time. They speak to me of a vision that was, and will always be, a lighthouse on the island in my mind.

born of desire
I cast my net
into the reflection
you left in ripples
on the surface of the stream

First published in Haibun Today

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Age is a relative thing, not an aunt or uncle thing, no, more like an Einstein thing, like a black hole waiting to swallow you up and never gonna spit you out kind of thing. Just what you would expect from a Ferris wheel that won’t stop spinning—the gravity of the situation, not to be underestimated. What started as a quarter’s worth of spun sugar now clings to my face in nebulous patches of gray whiskers. Couple that with the fact that my attraction to carnival rides grows weaker by the day, and there you have it; the Universe keeps expanding, and I can’t seem to find the time or the energy to ponder it.

sliding beads
on his abacus—
Newton
discovers a wormhole
in his apple

First published in cattails

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She wastes no time.

> Tell me something about yourself.

> Uh, I have a green nose . . .
> There’s a truck in my bed . . .
> Just shaved my toes . . .
> Gonna buy a used rowboat . . .
> Drive it across the salty sea . . .
> And fish.

> Are you healthy, organized? What is your diet like?

> I can account for all my elbows . . .
> Cat’s wearing my socks . . .
> I’m all pens and knitting needles . . .
> Hard-boiled eggs for breakfast . . .
> Scrambled breakfast for brains . . .
> Supper of scrambled brains.

> How do you feel about technology?

> Cell phone’s almost dead . . .
> I’m texting it to death . . .
> Maybe I’m boring it to death . . . row, row
> I’m a bored-to-death phone-killing omelet . . .
> Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily . . .
> Life’s a railroad train.

> Do you have any past relationships I should know about?

> Once upon a time . . .
> In a far off land called Evanston . . .
> I was a young man . . .
> Met a girl named Pam . . .
> Gave her a string of beads . . .
> And off she ran to the Philippines.

> She just left?

> Eeny meeny miny moe . . .
> All the things . . .
> she forgot to bring . . .
> Like me . . . my shoes and socks . . .
> My shirt, my pants . . .
> And baseball cap.

> What did you do?

> Swam all night . . .
> Naked as a fish . . .
> From head to toe . . .
> Realized . . .
> After flopping ashore . . .
> I swimmied to the wrong island.

> I don’t know; it’s a crazy story.

> Acorn squash for a heart . . .
> Butter in my veins . . .
> Mash me up; I’ll fill your plate . . .
> Look, it’s not that bad . . .
> It all makes perfect sense, you see . . .
> My upside-down, inside-out turned world.

my id
left to its own devices
speed dials
the International
Date Line

First published in cattails

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