A Selection of Tanka by Michael McClintock

a view
only of rain, wind,
pale wisteria --
who knows for how long
men have lived like this

(Blithe Spirit, V13.4, 2003)


when you opened
my letter
were you surprised
my heart
fell out?

(Tanka Splendor Awards, 2004)


the mausoleum
and weeping willows
inside the old brooch --
slowly it dawns on me
they are made of hair

(Tanka Splendor Awards, 2004)


carrying the sun, the clouds,
the mountains easily --
       a small stream
       wandering unnamed
       in this wild place

(The Tanka Anthology, 2003)


for breakfast
I'll give you bread
but for the afternoon
please carry the worms
and let's go fishing

(San Francisco International Tanka Contest 2003)



for longevity
I drink this tea
of rare herbs;
on the hazy peak
an old pine gathers dew

(Bottle Rockets No. 10, 2004)


an old photo
of my parents
young and happy --
      of all the things I own
      that is the saddest

(The Tanka Anthology, 2003)


morning lights
the polish
on the floor tiles
this is the best
time of day

(Blithe Spirit, V14.3, 2004)


a few
were right to call me
an idiot
tonight I think of them
with deep fondness

(Blithe Spirit, V14.4, 2004)


stopping frequently
under the dogwoods
in full flower
my friend comes up the path,
shyly, wearing her new dress


enough daylight
to walk the distance
to your garden
and back---if you
send me back

(To Find the Moon, Tanka Society of America 2004 Members' Anthology)

trilling robins —
out of low, rolling cloud,
the ball of the sun;
two years have come and gone
without the smell of rain


just over
the ridge
that world
that goes on
forever


three days I’ve waited
for you to cross the bridge
to my house;
at night, hearing hard rain
and a distant torrent


one flash
and it was gone —
a meteor,
at the time of sunset,
seen through honeysuckle vines


following a route
of many twists and turns
a butterfly joins me
for rest within the sanctuary
at the edge of the windy field


ever see a flea
under a miscroscope
at about 200x ?
that is the meaning
of bio-diversity


there's a house
far back in the summer woods
I’ve visited for years . . .
a noon-hour nap is still
my only way to get there


around a corner
away from the casino,
where the noise fades —
a fresh breeze
and bright moonlight


a desert behind us,
the coolness of a grotto
white with trilliums . . .
on either hand clear water
pools from hidden springs


the summer night
makes a soft sound
behind me,
closing the gate
in the garden


in warm weather
after darkness falls
building a fire
just big enough to light
our faces for conversation


four lines deep
into the first poem
of the day—I pause
airing my white whiskers
in the morning coolness


coming upon children
stoning a crow
broken in a cornfield,
the cold twilight
of an autumn day


the night train
blows through town,
scattering leaves
and my dreaming, too,
down the iron rails


adding to the sounds
on the clear morning air,
the slap of laundry —
up and down the river bank,
the polish on the stones


squelching through mud,
out of the valley we climb,
hunting mushrooms—
our dispute abandoned
to that single purpose


among five questions
I might ask the cosmos
there is one
about the speed of darkness
I keep to myself winter nights


tonight
I’m going out to count
the stars —
if you wait up for me
I might bring back a few