WINTER: haiku & tanka

Tanka for Shayna

In winter, I grin 

a rictus. Grimace. Poor play 

at feeling, motion,

breath. Rag stuffed, I shift my bones,

I smile. Do I convince you?

Tanka for Geoffrey

1.

 It’s winter here: gray skies, 
rain. Blackbirds fly up, red wings
flash bright: a kindness.
My friend’s words, candle-warm, 
A witness: we will see spring.

2.

A winter friend: bright

as a candle after dark.

A heavy heart holds 

light close, hand-cupped and cherished—

small flames tethers through the night. 

Haiku & Tanka: January 2026

Unkind winter: us

upon it, grasping. Angry.

Frightened: and what spring?

Warm winter cut through 

with cruel storms. Kinder than men

whose hands clutch power. 

Flock of brown sparrows

intent on seeds. Who feeds us

fat on lies? Starved for truth, 

we gobble propaganda,

each meal worse. Oh, feed us!

Gray sky, blackbird flies

Bright flash of red uncovered.

Joy, always, brief and bright.

A sparrow flock lights

on my feeder: plump huddle,

bundled, chatting. I'll

eat, gossip, live. too. Feathers

fluffed, I'll stay for spring with you.

a lament, a prayer (rework)

 You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When men oppress the least of these, 

these little birds you made:

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When nations rest at ease, feast on fat meat, sit

on the bones of these sweet birds and say

"Peace! Peace!" (knowing, they think, 

bones cannot speak):

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When little, brittle birds, untended, limp

to spend our pennies on small sins:

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When proud men preen, and vomit lies, and call it truth,

when fools leap up like dogs to lick their spew:

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When greedy priests would weave another veil

between your spirit's power, and their flocks,

Or teach their sheep to heap self righteousness 

around their hurts like dragon hoards,

Or walk in judgment, blinded by white boards

of painted over shame they dare not see:

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

And when we, still, step on your children's backs

(as if on insects: unlovely and uncounted)

to keep our ease–To keep our ease!: 

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

You who sees us: have mercy: judge.

the earth is holding them

i am holding them: all their bones,

the ones you buried. 

i keep them: not like secrets, 

but like saints:

enfold their bones 

in roots and webs, 

in beetles, bright as jewels.

Each name you will not speak

i keep

and cherish

and when their names are called 

i will unfold them,

slick with blood

and thick with tears.

Heap up your might while you can,

and your pride: 

that mountain cannot bear the weight

i, tender, hold:

their names shall all be told,

are told,

are cherished.

Each one weighed against your soul. 

a sonnet, an invitation

No more wandering. I'll wrap your feet in clay--

wind roots around your ankles, till you stay

your restless dancing. Till you dance

here, with me. Until you rest. Each day

with me. Lay with me, down: over us the soil

a coverlet: soft, bundled against toil.

Rest, dear. I'll wind up every lovely sense

of yours in dirt--send little worms to coil

(to swap your eyes, your lips, your tongue--

all your softnesses). To sate them. So long

you wandered, restless. Be here. Lay

down now, darling. Let others seek and dance:

Darling, let go each starveling sense.

I'll hold you, root you, cover you, love. Stay. 

requiescat

God grant you in death more mercy than you ever held in your mouth.

May the souls of children walk you to your rest,

may you not rest until you have put your fingers into every bullet hole that laid them down too young.

May every step to heaven burn your feet.

May you carry every lie you ever spoke, like heavy stones.

May the young men you swayed hang from your neck like chains.

May you drink grief before you let them go.

The grief is mercy. 

May you be granted to serve at the feet of dark skinned saints and know it grace.

May your children be raised by better men than you.

May they receive the empathy you scorned.

May they grow up kind and good.

May they dream a better kingdom than you preached.

May no one triumph at their death.

blues in july

These days i'm blue 

as that slim slash of scales 

on a swallowtail's black wing. 

Blue

electric, metallic: a dragonfly

that darts and hovers, darts. 

Blue

 

sparks like the sharp gloss 

off a beetle's slick black back

in sunlight. 

Blue

sky, no ruthful clouds just 

sheer bright space. Sun pressing down

till garden plants turn brittle, brown.

That kind of blue.

hand over mouth

I have no hope, but I will speak, Job said.

I will break my teeth on this world,

and spit the bloody chips out in your face,

you who made this, you who made us

for all these good gifts you gave us. 

I have this faith: 

to come to you, to hold out my fist full

of hot rage, to say

this is no justice,

to open my fist up in your face

if you will not be just, we have no justice

if you will not be tender, we have no tenderness

if you will not hear us, we have no hope

the world will not bear the weight of us,

of all this wickedness

done upon us, and by us: it's

too many graves to count

these days, these days, these days.

Do you count them, God,

these graves? 

the sea is a metaphor

I.

The sea is a metaphor. You’re not the first

to fear your drowning, when hungry grief

washed in—not the first who lost her feet

to fall, head over heels, stomach whirled,

mouth full of salt. Not the first who couldn’t breathe,

who swallowed and swallowed, while the sea hurled

itself behind your teeth, grasping, all thirst

past your gulping throat. All sharks, all teeth:

You could not hold it in your belly.

                                    The sea is the sea.

You swam out, once, from the white sand beach

till the waves changed to a wide, wild mouth

swallowing and swallowing. Tumbled upside down

into a whirl of belly, bones, and teeth

drowned and spit out with shells on the white beach.

II.

If I drowned--if my soft body went to feed

the sea’s small creatures, tumbled my teeth

(jagged, bleached white for once) onto the beach

to be gathered like shells—

                                    To be palm-tossed

for futures, pressed into sandcastles, forgot—

Regathered (seagathered)--Fragment, I would not

recall eating (like any beast) enough

of the world’s live things--nor of the grief 

I broke my teeth on. No one dies of grief,

but if I drowned, would the hungry things say grace?

Gulped down, drowned, steadily unfleshed--

you’d remember my rough edges, my name

 salt-sharp behind your teeth. And I--

my softness swallowed, my bones washed--I

would not. 

April fool

I’m April’s fool, tumbled

wide eyed into violets

and velvet bees

 

when April’s full. Head

over heels, a beetle

burrowing, a bee

 

big as a thumb, pollen drunk

headfirst in silk

skirted blooms.

 

Fall into April, itch

behind your eyes and throat,

fragrant, busy.

 

Fumble full and buzz

from bloom to bloom,

to mushrooms

 

fruiting phallic, frogs 

chirp. World's turning flips,

purple, gold

jingling at the toes. I'm 

singing, unembarassed,

upside down

I’m April’s fool now, tumbled

as any beetle, any bee,

legs beckoning,

itching, pollen hoarse

raw eyed and tearful, 

I'll uncurl 

here, ramhorn coils unwinding

into an unprotected slug, 

so tender-soft

even the fat white grubs feel 

dear, the greedy babes.

I'm down

to earth now, peering, full 

(O fool) of

Love

 

 

 

like a stone in your throat

It feels like dying, this new life you gave,

this roughskinned seed of faith. I'm like a stone

caught in your throat. You said you'd save

sinners, not the righteous. Your name tastes

burned and bitter in my mouth.

You said you wouldn't leave us, here, alone.

 

Your blood's dried sticky, bitter on my teeth--

the hot salt lump of meat caught in my throat.

I gulp and choke. It's not meat my body needs,

not this raw gore. I wanted bread and wine.

You said this is my body: take and eat.

 

I take you into myself. My stomach turns

outside itself, revolts. I'd throw you up 

like the beast revolted Jonah onto the earth,

to preach your gospel to some shithole shanty town

poor enough to pray for your new birth.

 

I drink you like gold ash: precious, poison.

Crawl like a fly, tasting the burned dirt with my feet

to crystal streams, where praise warps into noise,

salt in my ears.

I hate it here.

 

I hate it here.

And you, still, say Come. Say,

Take and eat.

i dreamed i lay me down to sleep

I dreamed I lay me down to sleep

And did not rise again;

Whatever tears my lovers wept

They watered me like rain.

I was a garden, in my bed--

I melted into earth

While all the loves I ever had

Crawled through me like white worms,

And all the loves I ever loved

Sprang up, like seeds to sun,

Alive, unlost, though I forgot

Their names as I dissolved.

blessed

 Blessed are the poor in spirit

or maybe that's just the poor

i need more spirit, that's for sure

i don't feel blessed

i'm not the best

at love. Ineffective,

recursive. I sit

like slick

black grease. Greed,

or grief. I need

less of myself, more

spirit. Sipping spoons

of my own sins--no prophet, 

I meant 

to sing you songs, 

not this lament

of middle age

unwomanhood, ungrown

to fruitfulness, 

curling the same sour leaves.

Bees leave my flowers alone,

they don't taste sweet.

Escapist, weak willed, it's soap in my throat, 

acid bitter, acedia

medication

mental masturbation

shame's as good as any reason

to turn away from all this

shit--

Good God, the self pity

was bad enough at eight, at twelve, sixteen

At thirty it's obscene

as a newborn crowning, streaked

with chalky grease, red and white

helpless, sinless, hungry 

to gape for suck and wail.

Will you, God, mother us 

at your own breast

when we so streaked and shameless scream?

Will you, till we rest?

haiku stuff

 clouds, teased out and soft

against the sky, like cotton 

or white wool, unspooled

may days unwind warm,

unhurried. Promise summer, 

someday, soon

soon we will sweat and 

shine, heat greased and gleaming, flushed

pink, unfolding freckles

february's seeds

unfolded now, brown specks broken

into new green leaves

green, and more green. May 

breathes thick with it. Air crammed

with pollen and plant breath

always, the assault: 

no tender prickle at eye 

and throat, these seeds have teeth

red throat lizard, bright

red bird, roses unfolded

loose as cups, as clouds

some may days the blue 

blue sky

blooms with its loose, its tender clouds

heartbreak glassbreak

heartbreak, glass break

it's goddamn hard here

even when you're not alone

sweep up the pieces

guess i'm going on 

sharp edge glitter in the dustpan

blood slick in my hand

floor's sticky with spilled wine

how you doing sweetheart

one day i'll be doing fine

heartbreak, glass break

sweep it up the best you can

dump the pieces in the garbage

go rinse off your hand

how you doing sweetheart

we do the best we can

blues for the children

Can't get back my baby

No matter what I do

I can't get back my baby 

No matter what I try to do

Whole world full of children shining

All I want is you

Fed my baby peanut butter

Fed my baby rice and beans

Can't put meat on the table

Can't grow backyard greens

Fed my baby peanut butter

Bills past due again

Want to burn that goddamn schoolhouse

Want to burn it to the ground

all those broken window schools

Just want to burn them down

Want to pack up all my babies

And leave this goddamn town

Five dollar bottle 

couple gram of weed

Gonna buy myself a bottle

and a little bag of weed

I might as well buy something 

I can't get what I need

Look at all the pretty babies

In their worn out tennis shoes

Look at all the pretty babies

Makes you want to sing the blues

Whole world full of children

All I want is you

I can't get back my baby

No matter what I do 

I said I can't get back my baby

Baby

No matter what I do

little foxes (scraps)

We all like foxes snap and bite at scraps,

the shreds left on the bones, that stink

gnaw our trapped legs--

welcome the sharp shred of our own teeth  

the pain we choose--a little breath

perhaps, away 

from where we're spitted

with unchosen teeth

We spit and hiss behind our little teeth,

we nip and snap, we spit

We all like little foxes snap and bite

We run, burned from our dens, by dried wheat set alight--

our little holes, our little stinking dens, 

our dark and bone filled burrows.

Like little frightened foxes meet our little ends. 

garden haiku

Little sprigs push up through

dirt, hopeful, though nights bite

still, with hurtful chill.

Will these brave green threads

stretch root enough to weather

through to warmer days?

Once overbold, early

cilantro sprouts shrink down

again, chill-chastened.

I plant and replant,

hoping this batch, this time, will

last till green. Grow strong!

Poor system: to seed

but not to cherish. Little

sprouts neglected droop.

No salad spring, no 

summer squash. Hope untended

yields no fruit but rot.

Garden hungry, I 

have, bare handed, torn roots

of trees from clinging dirt.

Every year my plots

packed with good soil and seeds

sprout strong, joyful weeds.

I will be gardener

for insects. Spiders, squash bugs, 

wasps, and worms: welcome.

I'd bury myself

in sweet dirt, if I could, smell

the sun draw me up in leaves.

January

A new year: lungs unlocked

again, soft skies, a tender chill. 

My eyes released from frantic screens

to see again the beetle

goldbacked, gleaming

dart into dirt clods, 

brown grass grown winter brittle,

though the citronella

sprawls sharp scented green.

From a bud softened tree a mockingbird

sings for once, fluid, free

as sky itself,

breath opens into this world,

becoming new again,

bright and brave and new.

question

How is this world good? How right?

the best of all possibilities 

of being,

the only way to gather up the threads

of all these lives?

Shall all be well?

Lord, through what dark and bloodstriped door 

are we borne, wailing

into a life of grace?

Must it always be this: the crushing, and the grief?

Are we, altogether, so stained

that only death makes way for better life?

Is this faith? To ask, at last, that we be eaten up

by our own appetites, by our own wounds

to make a place for better life?

Is our painful death a gift for what comes next?

You Who demanded the children too

be consecrated 

to You in death

even the children, Lord, 

and the beasts,

You Whose Name is mercy--

You do not let us forget it, 

they are written into scripture,

how Your demands glittered,

unrelenting,

biting and breakable as teeth.

I would not see my people crushed,

our children lost--

Is there no healing? 

Is this our last best hope:

A god who sees, who holds each tear, and who ordains

no less pain

I make my claim

against your righteousness: 

I rest

my case.

faith

 Lord, what a wandering season

circling about you

stones in my shoes.

Lord, what a weary season:

I go out and come back

not finding

those streams, 

those quick and laughing streams.

The memory plays about these dusty days

like music.

Once when I was young,

creek wading in springtime,

the banks flushed and full

all the pebbles gleamed and shone

in the quick water,

the brown ordinary bumps transformed

to brilliance.

Manna, I think

must taste like the white wafers

at church: hardly a remembering

of bread, stale,

hard to swallow without wine.

Easy to grow weary of such food.

I hold out my hand for the white disk again

and again,

I go in and come back,

I return to you, searching.

I remember the press of brightness,

whiter than white, bluer than blue,

enough to crush me

into silence, a weight and light

to fill up heaven

to press into the earth

to fill up every fold of it.

I could not hold --

Oh Holy --

I would go on dying forever there

in that whiteness, 

but one does not hold glory

as one might hold a stone.

One goes on walking, in and out

returning, hoping.