Walking Widdershins

 My new collaborative book of tanka sequences, Walking Widdershins,  is now available on Amazon:

Climate Change: The Burning Issue

redbud blossoms

on a broken branch—

the creek

that drains the clearcut

runs also in my veins

~First Place, Mandy’s Pages Climate Change: The Burning Issue Contest 2020

Judge's comments by David Terelinck: Deforestation is having an enormous impact upon our planet and ecosystems. Trees produce oxygen, capture CO2, provide wildlife habitats, and prevent soil erosion. And there is the mental health benefit of time out beneath shading foliage. Yet their value is often treated as insignificant against corporate greed and the commerce of widespread clearing. But there is beauty and hope to be found in this tanka with the broken branch having redbud blossoms on it. 

This is a tanka of connection and relationship with the land. The narrator has a bond with their environment. And it is an environment man has helped to create, but not in a positive way. The creek, potentially caused by erosion, echoes through the poet’s veins. Do they feel broken in some way themselves by what is happening? There is an understated ache in this tanka that can be felt in the sensitive narration.  

This tanka has a classical s/l/s/l/l/ construction that works well with the subject matter. The contrasting metaphor is strong and fresh, and all emotion is inferred rather than stated. It is highly lyrical on the ear when read aloud due to the strong ‘b’, ‘d’, ‘r’, and ‘c’ consonants. 

The poem builds line by line and has a powerful and satisfying close with the narrator being at one with the damaged land. A well-deserved first place tanka. 

El Rosario

Monarch Preserve—

the final

flutter of wings

above a coffin

~Highly Commended Tanka, Mandy’s Pages Climate Change: The Burning Issue 

Contest 2020

Judge's comments by David Terelinck: This tanka intrigued me with the monarch preserve (with which I was not familiar) and wings fluttering above a coffin. It led me to Google and reading about the recent murders of two butterfly conservationists associated with the Mexican sanctuary. The two men, aged 44 and 50, were staunch advocates for ecotourism over widespread tree felling. Between 2005 and 2006, 461 hectares in the region were lost to illegal logging. The destruction threatened the world’s largest butterfly migration. 

An extremely sad tanka that highlights the devaluing of human life and nature next to commercial logging. There is an inferred echo of the short lives of butterflies next to the early deaths of the two activists. It is a sensitively rendered tanka that made me want to learn more about the subject.  

an oily sheen

on the pool’s dark surface

draws them in—

migrating birds to water

humans to black gold

~Commended Tanka,  Mandy’s Pages Climate Change: The Burning Issue Contest 2020

Judge's comments by David Terelinck: Another quality tanka that speaks of the dichotomy between man and nature. How we can be drawn to the same things, but for vastly disparate reasons. This is a tanka that makes us pause and look at nature in different ways. What is life-sustaining for one can be a commercial and advantageous situation for another. 

Further comments from Contest Judge David Terelinck:  "You submitted 12 tanka to this competition.  9 of your tanka - 75% - made the long list of 33 poems selected.  A magnificent effort.  From the 9, 3 of those made the short list of 10 poems, and one each placed in the First Place, Highly Commended, and Commended positions. That is a testament to a quality writer. There were no names or identifying criteria on the tanka. I judged on quality alone, without even thinking of the style of individual poets. And the fact you ended up with multiple poems on the shortlist says much about your ability.”

This contest was in aid of Wildlife and Koala Rescue efforts at Port Macquarie Hospital, New South Wales, Australia. Through entry fees and the generosity of donors, a total amount of $1365 AUD ($880.97 USD) was raised. 

Evensong

butterflies flutter 

from the artist’s brush

in memoriam—

a river of monarchs

once flowed across the sky

slow spirals

up the summer sky—

scavengers

cleansing my mind

of its dark residue

I follow a path

of spindrift oak leaves

to a clearing

where no cabin ever stood—

its hidden hearth my home 

the day

closes its circle

around me

silver voices 

re-enchant the dusk

to keep at bay

the wolfish dreams,

I sleep

with gentle sorrow

cradled in my arms

~red lights 15:2, June, 2019

limb from limb

morning light

gilding the treetops

as they fall

splinters lodge

in my paperbark heart

the sound

of limbs being broken

as if on a wheel—

bloodless the fallen hollies,

the heart of pine laid bare

the blunt thrust

of a bulldozer,

the shudder 

of tissues torn apart—

who cries for the earth me too

a box turtle

crushed by the skidder’s tread

at the edge

of the leftover woods

this barricade of spiders’ silk

plumes of smoke

rise from the clearcut

silvery as ghosts

the sound of wind chimes

before the hurricane

may the words

that tumble from my tongue

be turned to moss—

creep over the wounded land,

bury the cities of men

~Ribbons 15:1, winter 2019

Original Sin

I try to grab it just behind the head, but it’s  too quick for me; as my fingers close on the slender body, it whips around and grazes my hand with needle-sharp fangs. I drop the young black snake onto the laundry-room floor and gather a container and some stout cardboard. Eluding my clumsy efforts at capture, the snake vanishes beneath a cupboard. I crouch down just in time to see the tip of its tail disappearing through a narrow gap in the baseboard—back into the crawlspace whence it came, no doubt seeking a dry haven from the waterlogged yard. 

That evening, I watch the news: as Typhoon Mangkhut batters the Philippines, Hurricane Florence continues to dump Biblical rains across my already flooded state.  The coastal city of Wilmington, with virtually every tree and power line down, is completely cut off by rising water.  

A torrential downpour drums on the sheet-metal roof, drowning out the newscaster’s voice. As I reach for the remote, I notice a curious strip of glossy, black-and-silver metal lying along the wrought-iron trim of the gas fireplace. I take a closer look—and meet the unblinking eyes of a small snake just as it slips behind the fireplace facing. 

a drop of blood

seals an ancient covenant . . .

our debt

to fellow travelers

on a planetary ark

~Haibun Today 12:4, Dec. 2018

Gossamer

the thinning

of the leaf-green veil

at Samhain

the colors of another world

break through

hummocks

of golden grass

let loose

a volley of birds . . .

thoughts tumbling skyward

one white stone

plucked from the gravel—

again and again

I toss it into the blue

to catch its fleeting gleam

the lines 

of a poem I’ve yet to write

tangled

in the silver ribbons

of a lost balloon

splitting 

the silver milkweed pod,

Pandora lets loose 

upon the autumn earth

a raft of spindrift wishes

~Skylark 4:1, summer 2016

canticle

driven

by shifting winds

a crow

with white-barred wings . . .

my yearning for omens

who am I

to lose what little 

faith I ever had . . .

the redbird still sings 

in the apple tree

leaf shadows

shimmer and pulse

on an orb web

shining in morning light—

the clerestory of my mind

she flees

along a silken thread

to lie hidden

in the curve of a leaf,

whoever wove this world

the song

of  blade on whetstone

as the meadow 

falls to the scythe . . .

nunc dimittis

~Skylark 6:1, summer 2018

Harbingers

a trickle

in the long-dry creek . . .

chorus frogs

piping a memory

into the heart of winter

I fell under an enchantment when I was only a small child. The sun warm on the back of my neck, I would stand stock-still at the edge of a marsh, waiting for the voices to begin. I heard them first in the distance—one, two, then more and more until they merged into a sound like a million silver sleigh bells.  Even when a voice pealed out right at the toe of my boot, I could not spot one singer hidden in the reeds.

still seeking

what I cannot see—

a mystery

haunts the marshes

of a wayfaring mind

Half a century later and halfway round the globe, 25 new species of frogs have been discovered on Mount Oku in central Africa.  But as fast as their voices are heard, some fall forever silent.  Nearly half of Mount Oku’s amphibians are threatened with extinction as people cut the forests and poison the water . . . as the climate heats up and diseases spread.

found and lost

in the space of a song

the spells

of an unknown weaver

undone by hexing hands

~Skylark 5:2, Winter 2017

the streambank

another death . . .

I follow a path

thick with oak leaves

turning into soil,

nourishing the roots

rose hips 

and holly berries 

glistening 

in deep green hedgerows

winter quickens its wings

the brook

vanishes beneath the earth

to rise again

in a spatter of bluets 

. . .  this runnel of hope

~Ribbons 12:2, spring/summer 2016

trees in winter

filaments of snow 

       drifting sideways 

                 on the wind--        

                            old pines 

                                     shed their ghosts

                                                                     

                                    ~tinywords 17.1, 2017

the oak stands

stripped to its bare bones

half the year—

I lay my naked words

in homage at its root

~Earth: Our Common Ground (2017)

beech leaves

clinging past midwinter

sing on the breeze

there is only the dance

of sunlight and shadow

~Ribbons 13:2, spring/summer 2017