Tanka Prose

The wandering woman curls her toes into the sand as a wave cascades over her feet. The cool, frothy wash provides an interesting contrast to the heat of the merciless sun above. As the wave recedes, it leaves a small patch of seaweed on the beach. The next wave rolls in and washes it back into the sea.

As she continues down the beach, each new wave caresses her ears with a methodical roar and swish as it crashes and then rushes back into the path of the next oncoming wave. Sometimes a wave just covers her toes, while other times, the water goes up to her knees. The sand is ever shifting with her thoughts.

we were born into this life
to be what we can be . . .
to believe
our dreams are real
and all that we’ve imagined

“What shall become of me?” she wonders.

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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a cloud basks 
in dawn’s first rays . . . 
the marsh is quiet 
but for the wail 
of a loon 

Gabe always had an artist’s bent. Early on, he was a builder, a civil engineer. Whole cities with houses, tunnels, and waterways, anything you can construct with wet sand. He took up Lincoln Logs and Erector sets—forts with Ferris Wheels—and built a complete, detailed reproduction of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a Biblical activity suitable for the Sabbath. He created blanket forts, tree forts, snow forts, igloos, kites, and slings like the one that felled Goliath. 

So, it began with invention. The important stuff revolved around how to pack and pile sand, hands scrubbed clean by the grains, knees wet and gritty. Or how to gauge the trajectory of a rock sailing through the air, the snap of the sling against his wrist. 

When compelled to write, Gabe looked for a way out. That was one of the arts that would have to wait. Instead, it was all about interior design—rearranging the bedroom every other day, making sure all the stuffed animals were in just the right places, their colors arranged into patterns.  

following 
the gurgling brook 
in his mind . . . 
forging a path 
to the headwaters 

Gabe’s parents couldn’t get along, so they shipped him to Maine where he climbed trees and roamed fields ripe with poetry: the sticky sap of white pine on his fingers, the tang of berries plucked from a field, sunsets to truly seal the day, and walls of rain to split the hovering sky. His falsetto voice rang out hymns in church or played them on his harmonica as he perched in the top of a tree. 

Back and forth between relatives, dust never gathering on the wheels. Then came a girl—well, just a kiss though the flirt would last through summer camp. 

a honey bee 
floats through the garden 
then vanishes 
into the folds 
of a rose 

Junior high was a combination of playing in the band and running. With running, Gabe flew like a bird over the terrain, his streamlined running shoes an extension of his body. Barely a thud on the grass as he sped his way to victory after victory, and with each victory came the urge to achieve more. Sometimes the wind was in his face, other times at his back. Either way, he was in tune with the wind, rain, sun, and snow. 

Clarinet? Well, first it was a trombone with which he terrorized the family. Then he learned where to put his fingers on the clarinet and how to wet the reed with his saliva. He was out of tune with the band which played so loudly that no one could hear him, but he found a way to exhale into the instrument that created pleasing sounds, so he made up his own songs. 

skipping stones 
across the pond . . . 
droplets
of late spring rain 
on his brow 

Then he found Susan. The universe took her away. There was only running left. Not knowing where to run, Gabe took his harmonica just in case. 

gazing 
at the desert’s edge 
compass pointing 
into the wind 
eyes filled with sand 

Weightless, that’s how it felt. Unattached. Drifting toward his roots, then recoiling. The army fixed all that. They took away his harmonica and introduced him to marijuana, LSD, and meth. He responded by drawing pictures inside the drawer in his room, copying images from the covers on packets of papers he used when rolling joints. 

the snap of a twig 
in the evening twilight . . . 
stars come out  
floating 
as if from a dream 

He landed on the street with his thumb out for a ride. Rode a long way from his own insides. A dandelion seed in the wind—nowhere to take root—until out of the mist, a hand drew him in.  

Gabe’s romance with education began when he enrolled in a summer drafting class at a nearby community college. Soon, he was a logic tutor. 

The hand guided him back to his gifts and opened a world never before imagined. He, completed a degree in fine arts, and reconnected with music. A taste of normalcy. But the hand could not hold him. 

Sex? Yes! 
Drugs? Yes! 
Rock ‘n’ Roll? 
for whenever all else fails  
or whenever 

Still, more school. Gabe churned out sculptures as if he was flipping burgers at the local diner. They wouldn’t all fit into his apartment, so he started giving them away. He moved to San Francisco and took up residence as a full-time artist, first for recreation and then commercially. With the dawn of home computing, he dove in, first with music. Then he made the mistake of buying some database software. Next thing you know, he was a computer programmer, art all but forgotten. Programming would absorb his creativity for the next 15 years. 

Then came the crash, this time plunging deep into the depression pool: relationship gone awry, deaths, a job and its perks all lost, hospital stays—more than a couple of Jokers in his deck. Everything gone—but just when it seemed most hopeless, something clicked. 

dense fog 
creeps through the valleys 
of his mind . . . 
a cat yowls  
on the mountain  

At 58, it was time for a change. First, the gift of a laptop while he was sequestered in a nursing home. He had already started writing poetry by hand in the hospital. With the computer, he compiled his first book of poetry and began working on a book about his crazy life. Soon, writing was an obsession—hours every day spent at the keyboard, everyone but his favorite nurse thinking he was completely mad. 

The book caught up to his life in the nursing home about the time he was ready to discharge. He vowed that when that happened, he would finish the book and spend the rest of his life living as an artist. 

And he’s doing that. It’s happening in an apartment the size of a hamster cage but it’s happening. When you’ve lost everything, everything is a blessing. Tell a man he can’t, and watch him do. Gabe is at the apex of his creativity. He has learned that doing doesn’t require running, that being himself is the best gift he can give. There is no more resistance against his nature. Each morning now, as age takes hold, he thanks his stars for another day. He’s learning to balance on a spinning earth, spreading his stories like pollen on a summer breeze. 

a flutter 
of oak leaves~~ 
the lightness 
of shadows dancing  
in this Illinois sunset 

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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