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
fermenting-
russet potatoes hold down
the lids on the crocks

(the 2 above Published in Atlas Poetica1)

------

migration
not so easy as swallows
make it seem-
will I manage for a while
to leave the past behind

(Wintermoon)


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


(Published in Red Lights 2021)

the heaVy dust

on a juniper's branches

it's moVing day

papa's words from long ago

"so many things we don't need"

(published WHC Short Verses Tanka Column)

 

neighborhood sled hill

on this minnesota night

with moonlit snowdust

that by its appearance makes

eVen a grown man humble

(published WHC Short Verses Tanka Column)