Friday, November 25, 2011

Weekly Worded






















Black Tanka

where tub and tile meet
a shadow of mildew grows
subtle as whiskers

on a Japanese poet
calligraphy of sorrow

Friday, November 18, 2011

Weekly Worded

















Tap the key with the little finger
and it takes you back
though not like a fountain of youth,
not like a time machine,
not even like memory.
At the edge of your previous thought
the cursor insists that going forward
is only marginally related
to going back.
The person you fell in love with
before learning what love was,
the last words you spoke to your father --
it’s all related, the line above
necessary to get you to the place
where you wait for the next one. 
Return.
Start again.
But not with her,
not with your father,
not with the idea you had any idea
of where you would end up.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Weekly Worded


Murmurings

        Communal to a fault,
                starlings flock to the same updraft,
                                 swoon like a black silk scarf
until the impression collectively shifts,
  dives suddenly toward the earth,
         that table where untangling what one bird
            wants from what the murmuration requires
                    is weighed, pushed back up into the sky,
                            still dark with ten thousand other birds
                  weightlessly deciding.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Weekly Worded

















Before the Migration Tanka

After the wind has stripped all
the leaves from the limbs,
scattering them on the ground,

how much easier to see the birds
flocking the trees in feathers.