Posts Tagged Tanka
Most Days, They’re Embarrassed, and Most Days, They’re Mean
Fatigue clings, gripping
feverish self hatred when
they scold and point, turn-
ing red, hating the fragile
man who needs their acceptance.
.
One Day There Was Betterment in a Tiny Auditorium
Children holding his
tablets, moving miniscule
planets. Forget my
past, he screams, slowly curing
needy pieces of dog fur.
New, No, Not Again
Flat channels divide
dangerous pathways my brain
seems to love, darkly,
so I plunge deeply to find
large oak branches, parallel,
for hanging is good
for dead, stolen spirits fly-
ing, bumping rocks of
hatred, and here I blast through
nothingness, leaving traces.
No More Blocking
Not working on block-
ing. Hiding is a load of
work. Nerves inside holes
that are pricked, excruciat-
ing pain, anger at good things.
.
Tanka for Buddy
Waning, my dog said
goodbye, and I understand
why I must hope for
heaven for dogs, for without,
I want to hang, dead as mud.
.
Shielded After Lunch in July Sun
Blurred down comes, July
sun, but today, my Devine
brought in gentle warmth,
deflected unneeded heat,
and a soft bathing bird smiled.
The Power of the Great – Monday’s Donation to the Opponents
Scorching cries, skin flows.
Shy, fairness never arrives.
Stuff broken red teeth,
beg for nothing, statues blue,
not trophies, but love towers.
Grappling with tattered
fame, losing murky powers.
Growing ego soothes,
removing struggle and grays.
Free fall, same right, left, no push.
.
Disturbed Park Forest
Chaos of machines
in park built for gentle peace.
Insanity row
blowing awful comedy
across seas of weakened trees.
Not Sharp
Reflection deceives.
Hope I might look sharp Friday,
but of bagginess,
suit hangs like rags, dark stained ties,
patterns from old times wilting.
Making a man old,
shirts that are lose on the neck,
as who wants to choke?
Shoes, scratched, polished, but cloddish,
If not sharp, I’ll be stupid.
I Just Can’t Do It
For a few days now, I’ve had a concern that I might have writer’s block. I’ve never had writer’s block, so I wasn’t sure how to judge the feeling. Today, I figured out that my mind and my inner-critic has frozen me dead.
Recently, I was encouraged to try choosing a form and to do some form poetry. As some of you may know, I have been working with Tanka. I loved the form because it produced a certain economic thinking about words, which makes me choose words more carefully. However, now I find that I can’t write with form or without form. I realize that I can’t express myself well with the form, and when without a defined form, I now seem to feel lost because I realize I don’t have any good sense of economy or clarity. I might take a month off and take up photography or painting.
