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.

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? 

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?

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.

letter to our children

 You are already clean.

Don't be afraid

of how beautiful you are becoming.

One day

you will look out and see 

the glory shining out of our skin

like light

spilling out of a cup.

One day

the angels will look at you and shout

in all the colors we cannot see.

Don't forget to notice

how beautiful this world is.

Don't forget

how to call shit, shit.

Cherish the beetles 

and the sweat.

Don't forget

this world is worthy

of your beauty

all of it.

Don't forget

how to be angry,

how to hope.

We are all made for beauty. 

One day the angels

will hide their eyes

at the light of it. 

You are already clean.

It is already shining out of you,

luminous in your blood,

your bone,

your skin and sweat.

Don't be afraid

of how beautiful you are becoming.

You are already clean.

a little song

 Today we work. Today we weep. 

With God's help, tonight we sleep

The sleep of God's beloved.

We mourn with hope. We grieve with joy.

We pray steadfastly, though we cry,

For we know God is love.

This little while seems long; the years

since Christ was born are centuries,

And yet we feel God's love,

We do not cease to work and weep,

And when we can, we rest and sleep--

All shall be well, for in God's keep

We all are held in love.

Jesus reigns

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

When men oppress the least of these, the ones 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, the ones you made,

and say "peace! peace!", knowing the bones

beneath them cannot speak--

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

When the little, brittle birds limp, untended,

shiftless, and spend our pennies on their sins--

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

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

and fools leap up like dogs to lick up what they spewed--

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 shame like dragon hoards,

or walk in judgment, blinded by the white boards

of painted over shame they cannot, dare not see--

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

And when still we go on stepping on our children's backs

to keep our ease, to keep our ease, to keep our ease:

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

worm

called
not to buried sleep--not
to wait close wrapped
for wings
inside thick skin
beneath warm dirt
but
here quivering, unskinned
to unfold
heart, belly, bones
unravel grubmouth, to
grow feet
hands
soft
intorn and squashable
this one, these five, these ten
unspin these cells
to spend this self
to, bought and builded, grow
brightwinged, tender, bold--

The world is full of teeth;
its wind is cold

camel

how does the camel
fat double humps
bundled and burdened
squeeze
bags and tassels
bells
hospital bills
mortgage
dental coverage
high speed internet
ballet class
schoolbooks
her knobbled knees
her thick lipped plenty
through that needle:
I--
to emptiness
to need
how does she
heavy laden
learn
to grieve

sticks

God draws straight lines with crooked sticks:
it doesn't get much more twisted than this,
halt leg limping, sin dragging my ankles,
trying to keep my eyes on my Righteousness--

Old sin casts long shadows. It's dark in this heart.
There are times I feel blind, stumbling in darkness
tripping over old loves I thought I'd left behind,
stealing kisses. Oh, you children of light!

Walking through the valley of the shadow of hesitation--
can't feel Your Spirit with me when I hear that temptation:
A little sleep, a little slumber, fold my hands up to rest: 
You can stop and rest a while here, in Unworthiness.
It's a quiet town, everyone keeps to himself.

There's a house to lie down in. Pull my knees up. Say
I'm an unworthy servant. I'd better stay
by the roadside, silent, and not harm the witness.
A little time to lie down, let my weak knees rest.

Boards over the windows. Count the specks in my eyes.
Lie down in the darkness to listen to lies.
Lullaby, sleep now, close your eyes
on goodness and glory-- they burn like poison--

There's a crack around the frame though,
a crack around the door
it lights up my eyelids in crimson and gold.
If I wait till You straighten me out all the way
I will stick here mud musing till the last day.

Halfhearted, make me faithful--stick my feet to this way--
So the old man's got my ankles. I was made for daylight.
Don't let me turn backward, or twist to the side.
You can use a bent stick, Lord, to make a straight line.

You broke up stone with a stick and frustration
and gave sweet water to a desperate nation.
You hung, Atonement, on a tree and some nails
Your promise: sin and death shall not prevail.
You are making me holy. I must walk down this track

and love your Church, imperfect:
I cannot hold back.

introspective. ironically.

When grief grew too great, a grey weight on my chest
that crowded out first gratitude -- then hope -- then breath --
I buckled. Grey pavement scraped my knees. Blind,
I lived alone with the grey weight on my back, the cloud
crowding my mind, seeping to poison all my bones.
Crushed there I took your trade: new heart for stone
 (I could not pay).

This heart, I thought, receiving it, is strange--
not crushed to coal, to diamond, to blank inturned rage
but crushable. You could scrape this new, soft heart
on toast -- strawberry jam -- You wouldn't even have to chew
to eat this heart. So permeable, April-full. It felt
like the pink space when your tooth came out,
in second grade. It didn't hurt (not then), but it was tender,
strange.

It is a heart, I thought, for rest. For joy. For peace --

Oh, it is scraped and sore. Pinned onto promise and belief--
raw, nailed to someday rest and peace.

My own stone heart locked up my private pain
my own walled world. There is no lock on this You gave.
There is no skin. I might be changed
into a sponge. My eyes are lidless, wide. I drink
more tears than I can count.

Yet soaked, this heart grows broad with sorrow shared--
and grieved hope grows its roots deeper in God.

Drowned, then pulled up, I thought to gain relief,
but find a heart enlarged holds larger grief.

birthday

In spring you shared good news--
two babies! Due November --
like a plate of freshbaked cookies.
New life is sweet in the mouth,
brown sugar and vanilla.
A taste to savor--
God is good
Taste, unseen, eyes built,
fingers unfolding,
the knitting of new bodies with new souls

Summer brought figs and wasps.
Untwinned, too, one twin
One sister, to be born
half of a pair--
What memory of sister cells long melted?
What redseamed and burning loss
sewn up in every stitch of joy?
May I beside you drop my tears
for these dear twins
Purl tears, still, for that pearl
that little lump of cells
they took--
unfingered still, and unfarewelled--
in glass
away--

The birthday--Ruby Mae!
Born in November
in a cold far place,
a white gray winter
To know you hold, at last, the small bright crown
to nine months' long ring of grief and hope
Touch her fingers.
Hold her curled into your shoulder--
We unwrap your news like early Christmas
bright with red ribbons.
Is God not good? 
The tears we paid seem guarantee
of days and years thick with sweet memories--

Till an imperfect heart's small raveling
surgeon stitched, still opens
and opens, and opens
its unstoppable switch: breath
to emptiness.
We watch ribbons spin and shred in a black sea.
Was one not enough?
Something beside you--faroff
in my own gray home
I share the indignities:
mucus, tears, acid
puncturing the days with its
unbearable taste--
 
Dear friend,
Let me sit down with you
at this bitter plate.
To weep
and hope
and pray.
God is good --
To believe, together,
that promise,
that unshakeable one day.

Tell you a story

It was a long time winter when you were born,
redfaced and reaching
squawking--sure of clutching
some sweet something--

it's still long winter.
Burrow down. Hide in your caves
from the long dry drowning,
snow on snow on
snow

a bleak midwinter--
The world's long winter bites
our bones grown weak with cold
grown weak with grief

Beneath, earth cracked
grassdreaming
seems a myth--
no more-- we told
to strike a sputterhope into this cold--

Sputter hope--shiver
like muscles, jerk and tremble
teeth chatter
inside your ears aches,
deep inside your brain
and lips crack like riverbeds.
To breathe this cold,
you know,
is pain.

Tell you a story:
green trees. Peaches.
Halo sweat slicking your skin.
Squash thick.
Mosquito rich.
Summer:
laden with tomatoes
tender beans
sweet milky corn.

You came out widemouthed,
made for thriving.
Learn surviving:
Set your teeth hard.
Set your shoulders.
Bow down like long winter
sits burden on your back
The weight of years--

Been waiting years.
Keep your guts clenched warm
around that memory/
promise--

You might see (some days) redbud fuzz:
too hopeful trees--

Tell you a story:
Summer. One day.
One of these days,
come and upsprung.
The whole globe goldened
Black dirt,
green promises unfolded.
Tell you: Peaches
drip sweet juices
down your chin.

invitation (2010)

From Love Songs for Dennis 

 
INVITATION

This is love: to wait inside

my own four walls, to grow

my garden, its pomegranates,

ripe apples, fragrant cinnamon—

and, too, its patches of hackberry,

poison oak,

its unweeded abundance of

illchosen words—

To offer these my fruits,

bruised or halfripe, into your hand:

To say “come in,”

unbeautiful, but sure

i'm calling this one mousewifery

--Make me, oh Lord (Thy spinning wheel) complete
The course You set -- My brain as frantic as my feet
Scurries-- meanwhile I'm nibbling truths again,
Rechewing truths I nipped at, crammed in hamster cheeks--
Hurry! Hurry! Oh, my hands love busyness.
I'm back again, I'm stirring moments of disbelief
Into a deep and rank and cosey nest--
My heart's trillbeat is panic-- Restless feet
Begin the race again. Oh, I will rest
In what I have found sweet-- and this cage, this pointless race
I'm scampering again-- let me not cease
To turn the wheel on truth. To, fainting, lay it
At your feet (how beautiful!), and rest.

(And here is a good poem.)
http://allpoetry.com/Huswifery

Garden

so we come again to the garden

walking these our footworn paths
hand in hand
survey the land that now unjungled sighs,
settles into these tilled and wellsown fields

to docile groves, to humble carrot patches
the sweet rioting of vines contained and pruned

to fragrance of green breaths
to bees rejoicing anthems as they labor

what jungles may have been, what bitter thorns
now, stem by stem, and sweatbathed, all uprooted

those bones that writhed with shrill wormjoyful stink
rotting now quietly beneath their trees
sweetening the dark and tender soil

here we have cultivated love, and conversation
fed with delight, with honey, cinnamon, ripe peaches

let us return now to the good bread of toil, to salt the earth
let us brownarmed and strong together
let us raise our beesong too of work and rest

Crocuses

So it is spring
though cold:

The crocuses already
in their prim-planted rows
in their neat-bordered beds
unfold

Such tender insides --
what white assurance, what
fearless blue --

The crocuses already
(tender, bold)
open like eyes
like hearts

though there is snow foretold

point vierge

The thin crust of the world is flaking off
in old-paint curls
that stick beneath my eager fingernails

What lies beneath
What breathes still with God's heartbeat
What waits to take a breath, to ask --

is it time?

Wings wet and crumpled
still it lies
waiting for the moment
becoming --

My fingerprints are bleeding --
What shape when the world wakes
Wingbright and beautiful?

Footsore Blues

Got a long long road to travel
before I reach my home

I got a long long road ahead of me
before I reach my home

Heart broken on my shoulder
is heavy like a stone.



My feet they get so weary
The walking is so slow

My feet get so damn heavy
and I got so far to go

It's a long long road ahead of me
before I reach my home.



Devil waiting at the corner
he says lay your burden down

Oh that devil at the corner
says lay your burden down

Says come and sleep my honey
lay your head upon the ground



You're footsore and heartbroken
you still got far to go

You're footsore and heartbroken
and you got so far to go

Devil says, Sleep my darling
you will not reach your home.



It's a long long road ahead of me
before I reach my home

A long long road to travel
before I reach my home

Heart broken on my shoulder
heavy like a stone.

Oh it's a long long road ahead of me,
a long long way to go.

Easter thoughts

Resurrection: no mere symbol, no parable
although you loved parables.

Resurrection means life, breath,
skin clogged with road dust, damp with sweat.

Family suppers sweet scented with bread
with red wine,
nose full, mouth full, belly full.

The trees are budding white, maroon, cherry-pink.
The lawns open all their violet eyes.

On every road i may meet you.