wing-walking

a selection of Tanka Poets on Site prompts:

~

leaf by yellow leaf

the squirrel lines its drey …

she has gone

to gather kindling,

the child I used to be

~

a sycamore seed

in the wings of autumn

waiting for the breath

that is my cue

to dance

~

green

is the scent of summer. . .

not yet five

the pod in my hand

plump with peas

~

I plot a course

between the brightest stars,

a Viking maid

sailing the simmer dim . . .

this first breath of salt-air

~

 

flurries of starlings

with winter on their wings

the poetry

of homemade seedcake

in my daughter’s hands

~

through rust-stained dreams

rain’s syncopated rhythm

since your words

made a tin roof

of my heart

~

they call him a weed

and suddenly he sees

only dandelions

sun-rayed, or drifting by

their heads in the clouds

~

rock to rin gong

how far from there to here?

copper is my hair

in the morning light

and your touch is my song

~

barnstorming

a loop-the-loop of stars

one last barrel roll

before the dream has me

wing walking on a new day

~

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china cup

Another week of Tanka Poets on Site prompts:

 

~

neurons fire
and I’m walking barefoot
through a field of stars
bound for never say never . . .
in love again

~

the last of the swifts
swirled in a blue china cup . . .
gypsy sky
I don’t need to ask
what’s left of summer

~

clocking off
from a 16 hour shift
I slip on
my many-coloured coat
become one with the night

~

“I love you”
he folds the paper plane . . .
moon’s breath
rippling the water
an egret steps from the reeds

~

apologising
for each step I take
on the oak-root path
one last breath of meadowsweet
beneath a mayfly moon

~

a grey heron
drinks from the shallows
of a dream . . .
clattering the footbridge
my first waking thought

~

the leaf-fall path

Another week of Tanka Poets on Site prompts.
~

wild honeysuckle
and the nightingale’s song
sweeter still
is the path not yet taken
my dreams’ blue yonder
~

 

water on stone
tinkling the ivories
my old friend
fresh from the mountains
remembers our favourite song

~

 

sunlit nude
rain-washed, rouged,
bold or broken
the silken tulip I was
am and will be

~

bracing her foot
against the ribs of my dream
her breath
in each bloom . . .
waxing moon

~

stolen moments
an open window
to my summer mind . . .
dusting for the fingerprints
of that first, forgotten touch

~

 

the deepest inkwell
is the darkest moon. . .
a feather
from a tawny owl
found on the leaf-fall path

~

the worn step

Two weeks of Tanka Poets on Site prompts.

~

no wings today
for this blue-sky mind . . .
all I can see
is that one stray thread
of gossamer

~

sun and rain-ripened
gold on the threshing stone
breath in my hands
when dawn is sweet with tanka…
come, share this bread with me

~

the Severn
and its tributaries
I retrace the route
blue veins at my wrist
my riverboat to childhood

~

tea rose
brushing my cheek, my lips,
my throat’s blush
I’m on tiptoes again
at the edge of love

~

silver imprints
the memory of your necklace
against my skin…
no catch can keep these swallows
at the throat of summer

~

a new page
in the magic painting book . . .
with rain on her brush
she unveils the colours
of the robin’s morning song

~

why these tears
when we have never met?
in darkness
I don’t need to touch the rose
to know what’s in its heart

~

your sharp tongue
then your cold shoulder…
the oak tree holds me
to her birdsong heart,
lifts me to the sky

~

waking
to your heartbeat . . .
the heathered hills
still pillowing
the cheek of dawn

~

your smile
on a jasmine breeze
the click of the gate,
the worn step…
my heart’s homecoming

~

these words
light-years in the making
bloom on my lips
touch down
on your mist-veiled skies

~

midwinter sun . . .
wrapped up in a new red coat
running down the hill
to meet me
the child I used to be

~

when the work is done
day lilies crushed
in ice cream . . .
the taste of summer
on your skin

~

all the love letters
you never wrote…
my lips on your neck
where my name was inked
skin-deep

~

digging deep
in the pockets of my dreams…
in the broken barn
the wattle and daub
of the swallows’ nest

Aside

are we there yet?

 

skimming a stone
across a dream
where Hebe
pours her nectar…
ankle-deep in stars

 

 

all the love letters
you never wrote…
my lips on your neck
where my name was inked
skin-deep

 

 

digging deep
in the pockets of my dreams…
in the broken barn
the wattle and daub
of the swallows’ nest

 

 

A selection of my responses to NaHaiWriMo and Tanka Poets on Site prompts from the last few days.

 

 

 

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