news surrounding
the latest plane crash
on a foggy afternoon 
did a missile take down
TWA Flight 800

somehow I know it's you...
the forlorn call 
of a killdeer
on the lonely side 
of sunset

remembering 

our conversation

about drug addiction

the greatest tragedy

is your own self-loathing

logging thousands of miles

without connections to cyberspace

the monarch butterflies 

know the beauty 

and power

of silence

poor penmanship
by eighth grade
the nuns were done
correcting the angle
of my misshapen letters

2nd time around 
the prayer labyrinth
I find comfort
in every repetition 
of the chickadee's song

another argument
about global warming
where the river 
once flooded
the mud turns into dust

static in the voice
of a landline phone
old farmstead
all my connections
are antiquated

after a fall
and an overturned chair
I suddenly don't care
if the picture
is crooked

the pods from last year
still attached
to the catalpa
I have yet to master 
the art of letting go

turning over the keys
to the mechanic
at the repair shop
the suggestion box 
held together with duct tape

this year on easter
and april fool's day
the up rising
of daffodils 
falling in the snow

if this is a dream...
a single strand of hair
carried by the wind
I never get to see
where it lands

human nature
and its assorted animals
you are no better off
for having left
the barn door open

breathing is painful
from the fractured rib
from the blunt force
from the brush fire you made
dying in the moonlight

the tail is
the last thing to disappear
a red-shouldered hawk
on an antique plow
devouring a mouse

you were always
planning our next trip
summer solstice
the darkness
filled with fireflies

something
to be salvaged
after the storm
a bird's song rising
from the woodpile

With The Moon

These are tanka I wrote several years ago. They were published on "The Anglo-Japanese Society" website which is no longer accessible.

with the moon 
against the darkness
I start out small 
in just a sliver
of canoe

lost streets
that twist without reason
except to hold
the shadows
of other people's stories

in the anatomy
of a gray feather
barely a spine--
is that all it takes
to travel so lightly

this morning the river
carries the news before
I can write it down
three deer are swimming
towards me

buried in hands
a face tired
of holding itself up
I know not if this church
is for prayer or sorrow

the red-faced stare
of a rundown house
like tall tales
no one remembers
where the bricks came from