Tanka, Tanka Prose and Tanka Sequences
edited by Jenny Ward Angyal
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fourteen
pairs of eyes open
atop the shelf
they stare in silence
every doll with a secret
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my skin
longs for the journey,
longs for it and clings to it,
the light
that will never end
untended
the footpath
becomes impossible
we have come so far
through thorns and nettle
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hopscotch
girls make little houses
on wet asphalt
someone plays the flute
at the rain's edge
forgotten times ...
at the acacia forest edge
the clear eyes of a lynx,
and in her sweaty hand
wild chrysanthemums
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long years
of living together
under the same roof
when did we stop
sharing our thoughts
blending
into the green foliage
a chameleon hides
i too wish to live
a life of anonymity
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rain starts to fall
a young woman opens
her umbrella over me
and leads me under
the shelter of a fir tree
two strong lads
running by, say
they are joining
the royal marines
'to fight England's foes'
a drunken man
in suit and tie
coming from a funeral
weeps, telling me of all those
he has lost this year
a small blond boy
in uniform says
'it's Lion Cubs now
not wolves' and explains
all his badges
the blackbirds sing
on every tree and rooftop
my head
is full of stories
and wings and songs
Joy McCall, England
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a clove of garlic
rubbed on fresh bread
salt, tomato
and olive oil
snacking on childhood
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we hang
your threadbare dresses
out to air
the prairie wind waltzes
with you one last time
a meadowlark
spins the morning
into gold . . .
your headstone sinks
deeper every year
I fasten
my broken-down guitar
to the farm gate
nesting bluebirds teach me
an unfamiliar song
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promenade
on the lakeside—
our little boy
catches the autumn sun
in a pile of leaves
staircase
bound to the sky—
an old man
whitewashing the wall
of Voroneț Monastery
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if I drove
through five states in twelve hours
non-stop
to find that place again
no one would be home
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just one more thing
to begin the ritual
turning to me
the point of her knife
becomes starlight
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together
in the rain
umbrellas
keeping us
happily apart
those seismic events
that change our world
forever
fixed in the small things
in the hours of our day
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birthday morning
out of the blue sky
every cloud
and every birdsong
becomes a wish
slow Sunday...
the cuckoo's song
harmonizes
now and then
with my solitude
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when the plum tree
has greened
and the last petals
have all but let go,
then can we part as friends?
the lemon tree
long untended, lush with fruit,
spills over the fence
and juts into the sky --
to be half as mad as that!
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a peach petal
floats on the pond...
Grandpa sings
his favorite song
to the full moon
her son in the army...
the blood moon
rising
Gran watches
in a lighted window
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red leaves
carried by a cold wind
on the one-way street—
the docs still looking
for a blood donor
the old oak
losing its leaves
out of the blue
I start humming
a lullaby
explosions
in the besieged city
so courageous
in the old orchard
first bursting buds
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to mother
for her birthday
origami stars
the old blue kimono
a piece of sky
early morning
a herd of black goats
scatter the clouds
in the hut of a hermit
whispered liturgy
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sunlit glass
on an overflowing
garbage can—
in the dusty mirror
grandfather's face
a time warp
in grandpa’s stream
my reflection
the long journey
of mountain rain
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- Written by: Jacob Salzer & Michelle Hyatt
a Spotted Owl
perched
on a bare branch—
my footsteps lost
in forest darkness
sun salutations
I stand with flowers
and trees
at my fingertips
a robin's-egg blue sky
Jacob D. Salzer, USA
Michelle Hyatt, Canada
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jasmine flowers
opening gently
a song
I can only hear
when it rains
left behind
in a rice field
buried tallow nuts…
mother searches
for our names