a plastic bag
whirled by the wind
struggling in mid-air --
a tanka is conceived
at that sight
writing tanka --
four lines sound perfect
yet I struggle
to write a fifth
to perfect my tanka
my anguish
crumbled into a ball
I continue to write
as the wastebasket waits
for one more throw
days slip by
minute by minute
hour after hour --
a tanka is born
yet my life withers
March / April, 2010 issue of Sketchbook
A Room of My Own: Normal Life, A Soap Bubble
-
my friend turns
forty the age his father died
he mutters
*the Grim Reaper haunts me*
*like my walking shadow*
breaking news
at the first light of spring daw...