Tanka by Denis M. Garrison
glistening seaweed
pulses on the waves
in damp tendrils
your red‑honey hair
soft on my cheek
Tangled Hair #5 ‑ 2006.
my wordless neighbor
working long after dark
burying his old hound
the shovel biting the dirt
like a falling ax
Gusts #4, Autumn 2006.
intensive care
all the chirping monitors
inconsolable
song of the cicadas
rising to a deaf moon
Eucalypt, November 2006.
after the raid
we bury our dead
in the burnt melon field
the littlest graves
take the longest to dig
Ribbons ‑
Spring 2006.
leaving home
without your blessing
forgive me, father
this headwind
is a cold cruel knife
Ribbons ‑ Summer 2006.
this parched afternoon
sparrows bathing in the dust
do not sing one note
if you should ever return
don't curse me for my dry eyes
Ribbons - Autumn 2006.
things go well.
my friend says . . . well. well.
adjusting his coat sleeve
to hide a soiled cuff
I peer across the street
Gusts #4, Autumn 2006.
glancing in my glass
I glimpse my port‑red face
no trace of a smile
is this what the Romans mean
when they say there=s truth in wine
red
lights III -
moving houseC
there, under my desk,
your lost photo
smiling in sweet ignorance
of cruel days ahead
Editor's Choice, Nisqually Delta Review
- Winter/Spring 2006.
Denis M. Garrison