Three Tanka

I
Through cellular cells
Litanies of undone tunes
Are alluring me;
Flies carousel to honey
As I propel these wind-thoughts.

II
Rummaging through pearls
Sitting in mother’s treasure
The calcium bone hair
Has to have come from somewhere—
Fingertips wedded to sin.

III
Though the hue changes
On the stained-glass sea,
Grey dissolving red,
Windows still screech when shattered;
Blood will still dry if spattered.

Human

Multi-hued tentacles
Glowing summer-coloured
In the bruise of the deep blue sea.
Only the image of emptiness
Entrances me.
How can I exist
So close to all this
But grasp at plain air
Eyes screwed unaware?
Of summer-golden colours
Glowing with the heat
With creatures multi-hued
Still I lie there
Dead and bare.

Only So Much

Sadness in the eyes is all-consuming.
There’s only so much that
One pair of hands can do.
A pair of eyes can do so much
Just tuning in, tuning out
Likewise with the ears, the nose
And the skin with which to feel the silence.
But the world is not measured
In eyes, in ears, in skin
In lemon drops on the tongue, it is
Causal chains, like inedible pearls
Concrete on every street all-consuming.

The Winged Ant

All the wide world is like this ant
I saw drowning in the sink
when I pulled it out and coaxed it
up the steep ceramic wall.
It never moved of its own will.

It slipped and fell when I let go;
its wings were too wet too heavy.

And though I did not want to let it die,
it did.

Keep Your Treasure Chests

I keep treasure chests
of words to fill the rest of
what broken tongues left
when they left me behind
out on the path to nowhere.

Nowhere is a word
as well – one I know well
from treasure in my chest
from the cries of broken tongues
when you fill, but do not fit.

You fill, you breathe, you
break ancient molds from museums
and the fine for that
is eternal felony
left on a broken path.

The Smattering of Care

Days bleed into nights
bleed into days
and the ritual of awakening
still remains
like the gentle moon
in a cloudless sky.

What remains is the pattern
the cluster of condensation:
fluffy, dappled purple in the air
and the pattering of rain
and the smattering of care
— light though it is.

It must remain
and return
again and again,
as blue nights stream away
to reveal another day.

Waking Whirl

Electric whirring, manufactured wind,
Fanatic spinning, caffeinated mind –
The work is bare and bleary.
Ink-black spreading, window-flooding sky;
Clock ticking to tell the checklist tears,
Dawn-time waking, all-time
insomnia,
The wait is dark and dreary.
The world is dark and bare.