tanka

tanka--
small songs I sing
to join
my voice to other voices
hidden in the grass

Friday, January 27, 2017

labyrinth



sweeping
the labyrinth
with a broken broom
I gather at the center
a thousand winged seeds

~Skylark 3:2, winter 2015



Friday, January 20, 2017

Digging In


Inauguration Day 2017

sleepless
at midnight I reread
the poet’s words:
what rough beast
slouches toward Bethlehem . . .*


one by one
the doors slam shut—
I tunnel
into the night sky
a wormhole to hope


clasping hands
with women black
and brown
like silent moles
we turn the Earth









Monday, January 16, 2017

blackbirds

dark energy
pushing space itself
apart . . .
a ribbon of birds
wheels across the winter sky


~GUSTS 21, spring/summer 2015



blackbirds
and the silver speck
of a jet 
winging into the distance. . .
the curve of the earth in my arms

~red lights 12:1, Jan. 2016



Friday, January 13, 2017

singing





the music
of tiny waterfalls
in midwinter
I follow a newborn brook
singing wherever it leads me


~GUSTS 23, spring/summer 2016



I sing
my thinking mind
to sleep—
a deeper way of knowing
wells up like music

~red lights 12:2, June 2016

Monday, January 9, 2017

the why . . .





a redbird
hunting crumbs in snow—
the child’s first glimpse 
leaving unanswered
the why of bright wings

 ~red lights 12:2, June 2016



breaking ice
from a frozen rut
I skim
the silver shards
into the windswept sky

~Eucalypt 20, May 2016

Sunday, January 8, 2017

winter sounds

a slant of sun
across the snowy wood . . .
in crystal stillness
the barred owl’s voice
closer than breathing

~Atlas Poetica 24, spring 2016


the sound
of leafless trees in winter . . .
spaces
in the melody
to draw a breath

~Skylark 4:1, summer 2016






Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Going Inland



for Joy McCall

















who lives 
on your inner island
she asks—
dipping my silent oars
I glide toward the answer

a sorrel mare
at the water’s edge
drinking deeply
dripping moonlight
we find the inland path

in a hut
fragrant with dried thyme
the old crone
at the hearthstone
feeds a flame with her words

at sunup
the reedy sound 
of piping
from a fold in the hills
where no path leads

clasping 
the hand of a blind harper,
I follow 
the song of the brook,
the whisper of trees


~Skylark 4:2, Winter 2016