wintry brume

from the riVer below

a mountain range

of transparent peaks

and ghostly Valleys

shall memories

of us foreVer remain

buried deep

to burst through fallen leaVes

like forest mushrooms

my darling's hair

looking silVer-colored

what is sleet

beyond the moonlit pines

early in september

here without you

this is a waVeless sea

its midnight blue

and the laughter of gulls

inVade my inner sanctum

eVening rain

from a Valentine

colored sky

this of loVe alone

one life allows me

when leaf trees

succumbed to autumn wind

we went our ways

neVer meant to look back

but new buds haVe sprouted

hanging from two

branches in an oak

a moon crescent

on the cusp of loVe

we curVe meet and end

the rendezVous

to what might we compare it

all was quiet

on mutual horizons

until swan geese came honking

a narrow bridge

the riVer flows toward you

away from me

who will be the first to turn

our argument around

(all published in The Tanka Journal 2015 no. 46)


sea fog

unable to see but still

we feel

in a lighthouse of romance

no fog shall keep us adrift

long night moon

a snowflake entered

your chimney

and in all due course

succumbed to melting

we dally

for everything is as

it should be

a cloud swollen with rain

and you under my roof


(3 above published in cattails)


if only

the written word could

wrap your wound

upon this battlefield

where blood-red poppies bloom

sunday morning

how I wish this dishwater

were the sound

of waterfalls cascading

down a mountainside

across the lake

a light from your window

beckoning me

though I may neVer row there

a loon approaches the dock

we stroll past

frayed ropes on a swing set

long forgotten

that spontaneity

of pumping toward the sky

I'll close my noVel

or abandon my stargaze

for you

come before anything

in this life and universe

(all published Modern English Tanka 2007)


a country girl

I unearth new potatoes

with my bare hands

place them in my apron

breast feed my first born

(Published in Gusts Spring 2008)


up the mountain

carrying bread and sheep curd

for my lunch

a fellow climber asks

"what died in your backpack?"

from our pantry

a stench ofcabbage


russet potatoes hold down

the lids on the crocks

(the 2 above Published in Atlas Poetica1)



not so easy as swallows

make it seem-

will I manage for a while

to leave the past behind


of chaste times
it’s the rainiest days
best remembered
library shelVes that held
so many loVe stories

(Published in Red Lights 2021)