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.



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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.

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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.

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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.



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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.


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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.

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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.


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Disturbed Park Forest

Chaos of machines
in park built for gentle peace.
Insanity row
blowing awful comedy
across seas of weakened trees.

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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.

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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.


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