Tanka Prose

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

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~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

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a poor harvest
of winter wheat . . .
still, I grind the grain
on the old stone wheel
then sow the fields again

It’s morning. Nails protrude through loose floorboards, throw rugs lie threadbare. Like ghosts, curtains hang over shuttered windows. A steady drip from the kitchen faucet echoes down the hall. The closet door is off its hinges.

The other side of the bed is empty, just as it’s been every morning for the past three years. But I’ve had enough. I get up, throw open the window, pick up my hammer, and start pounding the floor.

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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.

Atlas Poetica 37 Summer 2019

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~Chicago: In the Hypnopompic State of Illinois, USA

In the early hours of a brand new day, I back my car out of the garage and park it temporarily on the street. The ominous sky above tangles in my mind with the distant memories of a long-lost wife. Slowly my thoughts turn and wander around the corner where I find myself wondering if animals have dreams…

thunder brings the rain—
my cat curls up
to take a nap
on the dry side
of the window

What I’ve discovered is that dreams are bittersweet and memories are just along for the ride. Driving down the back alleys of my mind I see a sign that reads “NO U-TURN.” Breaking that law is just not possible. We’re not programmed that way…

rays bleeding
through wounded skies…
across the lake
a skipping stone eventually
complies with gravity

A car door opens somewhere inside my thoughts. I step out and begin to wonder where I’ll be tomorrow. I wonder if the squirrels in the almond trees believe in God. I wonder if God believes in me. I’m wandering through a forest of moments, dancing with my waking memories but the waking’s really all I need to begin another dream…

in the taste of morning
a fleeting dance
unfurls
as sunlight
greets the leaves

Atlas Poetica – Stacking Stones–Summer 2018

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It begins somewhere in the nebulous inklings of REM sleep, at just about midnight, as we’re speeding down a quiet wooded road. Sara has the wheel in a stranglehold. We’re in the midst of a major tiff.

From out of the darkness, a pair of glowering-white eyes suddenly appears in the headlights. Instead of hitting the brakes, Sara flips the overdrive switch. The car leaves the ground with a whoosh and transforms into a flying carpet in the shape of a raven. Gravity pulls at the pit of my stomach. Sara is nowhere to be seen.

My temper slowly settles to a simmer as the raven-carpet soars higher and higher into the moonless, starlit night. Soon the earth vanishes, and the rug pulls over next to a narrow set of stairs stretching upward in the direction of the constellation Orion. Three hula dancers step forward to greet me with leis in their outstretched hands. They lead the way, swaying hypnotically in the starlight, strewing petals along the steps. Together we climb into an endless realm of sky as my thoughts reach out for Sara.

oh, that I had never left
such echoes in your ears . . .
butterflies
morph into wolves
feasting on my words

Saint Peter stands at the top of the stairs next to Sara and an archangel wielding a trumpet. Suddenly, the horn sounds and the stairs fall away.

Falling is far from flying. There is no bottom to space. Stars whiz by as a cold sweat pours out onto the sheets. The dream ends with a lurch, and I wake up feeling unworthy.

Haibun Today, December 2018

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my muse and I
make love on the placid page
soon drenched
as Hokusai’s Great Wave
breaks on our shore

There is a quiet here—save for the clack of my Smith Corona*—that only midnight knows. I think about the end of our relationship, Jennifer, fiddling a few words about it onto the page as my inspirational sprite slumbers—for the moment satiated—in the chambers of my mind. This is not a song or a sonnet—more a lament. I know you left for all the right reasons . . .

Oh, snap! Try writing about something else for a change.

Let’s see, there were the childhood fishing trips—toting the skiff through the underbrush—and, once we were afloat, the fish came to us. Grandmother’s battered bluegills, Norwegian soul food.

Damn, dwelling in the past again.

I have this midnight—it’s mine alone. Bouncing from memories to figments of imagination, the blur of these digits searching for a future where you swoon at the sound of my poetic voice. Instead, dear Jen, I find myself back in that boat, bobbing alone on this turbulent sea. It’s not like we drifted apart, though. No, we leaned on the oars and rowed in different directions.

origami ship
sailing out of sight . . .
lucky for me
when you packed your bags
you didn’t take my muse 

Ribbons Spring 2023

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My muse has seduced me again.

You’re the Writer. You’re the only one who can write it.
It’s your responsibility to write it—your duty!

So, here I sit, fingers massaging keys that whisper letters and words—whispers spun into sentences, woven into paragraphs, loved into poems.

bearing gifts
for a barren hillside—
one sprouting seed
swaddled in sheets
of rain

Contemporary Haibun Online, 19.1, April 2023

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