ash moon anthology poems on aging ed by rotella and garrison

7/27/2019 Ash Moon Anthology Poems on Aging Ed by Rotella and Garrison

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“Age. It happens to us all. Advertisements inform usthat we can be sexual athletes at ninety, if only we buy

the magic cure and follow the exercise guru’s advice. Yetthe evidence of our own lives is decidedly more human,more problematic, and full of petty perfidies. Age is notsimply the prolongation of our youth with the help of alittle dye to hide the grey hair but a fundamental processof transformation. We change, and as we change, we arehaunted or enlivened by the past we carry with us.Understanding all that we are and have experienced is

difficult enough, but communicating it to others is evenharder, especially when the gap is dramatic as the oneseparating today’s youth from today’s elders. This is thechasm which the poets of Ash Moon cross. Nearly ahundred in number, they are themselves aging or thecare-givers and companions of elders. With unblinkinghonesty they record their age as it is lived—despair anddereliction alongside grace and humor—and what

emerges is a true portrait of age with all its awkwardcomplexities.

“Readers of Ash Moon will find all these poems writtenin a fitting form, namely, ‘tanka,’ the eldest of poeticforms. The oldest continuously anthologized poetry inthe world (compared to which the venerable sonnet is amere stripling), tanka has been the vehicle by which

poets ancient and modern have given voice to themyriad beauties and burdens of their lives. The result isa series of snapshots without commentary, allowing thereaders to directly experience the poets’ vision. They willfind much that resonates with them, and much to reflecton. The ash moon hangs over all our heads.” — M. Kei,Editor of Atlas Poetica: A Journal of Poetry of Place in Modern English Tanka , Editor-in-chief of Take Five:

Best Contemporary Tanka of 2008, and author of Heron Sea, Short Poems of the Chesapeake Bay.



“‘May you be awake one moment before you die’ TheBuddha said. If readers can absorb the joy and the

intensity of this book, they will be more alive than ever before in their lives. I am stunned by the precision of emotions and the variety of feelings. I want to read onepage each day, to be in touch with everything that istruly, vividly alive.” —Grace Cavalieri, Producer/host,The Poet and the Poem from the Library of Congress

“The Zen aesthetic of wabi-sabi demonstrates therecognition that things are often more beautiful, moretreasured, more emotionally significant when they aresomewhat broken, slightly worn out, aged by humanuse, subject to the natural laws of decay or uniquely unfinished. In the Ash Moon Anthology, contemporary tanka poets explore the aesthetics of aging, the wabi-sabi of the human experience. These tanka

examine the feelings and psychological insights that canonly come with a lifetime of surviving into old age, when we recognize the impermanence and transitory natureof our bodies, our minds, our selves. These Englishtanka of aging celebrate and explore a wide range of moments conveying the feelings of being fully alive inour imperfect, broken, unfinished bodies, minds andsouls.” —Dr. Randy Brooks, Millikin University



Ash Moon Anthology Poems on Aging in Modern English Tanka

Edited by Alexis Rotella & Denis M. Garrison



In Memory of

Bernard Gadd, 1935-2007

Poet, Writer, Editor, Publisher, Educator

Papatoetoe, New Zealand

if my ashes

are dug in

around a birch

will leaves sproutin sets of five?

—Bernard Gadd



Table of Contents

Preface ............................................................................................ 7

Ash Moon Anthology ................................................................... 15

Contributor Notes ..................................................................... 285

Tanka Venues ............................................................................ 300

Index ........................................................................................... 303



7

Preface

Ash Moon Anthology : Poems on Aging in Modern English Tanka deals with the later years of life: the “golden years,” to some, and farfrom it, to others. Senior men and women have a perspective onlife that cannot be achieved except by enduring the passage of several decades. Younger adults who have become caretakersand care-givers for their elders gain new insights into later life. Just as youth and the fullness of maturity are celebrated for theirspecial characteristics, so should be the later years. The Ash

Moon Anthology includes tanka about all aspects of aging, boththe up and down sides, the joys and the sorrows; tanka thatembody the humor, insight, and wisdom of our elders and the ways in which we age with grace and even elegance.

What are tanka ? Tanka is the lyric poetry of Japan, composed in Japanese in five unrhymed metrical units of 5/7/5/7/7 soundunits. A tanka written in English is usually five phrases on five

lines with no more than thirty-one syllables and often falls intoa short, long, short, long, long pattern. Tanka do not need titles,however, sometimes a topic, dedication, or some other note isappended. When several tanka are put into a set or sequence,they often are titled as one. The Japanese tanka tradition goesback over thirteen centuries, making it the oldest continually anthologized form of poetry in the world. Tanka have alwaysbeen poems of emotions and perceptions, often involving

metaphor and other figurative language such as is not generally used in the terser form, haiku. This is the ultimate poetic formfor recording the events of one’s life, for diaries and journals.

Following is a brief dialogue between the editors of thisanthology, Alexis K. Rotella (AKR) and Denis M. Garrison(DMG), which we hope will be more illuminating about ourintentions in the selections that we made than would be a simple

declaration of our criteria.



8

AKR: There are a lot of us baby boomers out there,you and I being two. We’re in the early winter of our

“golden years.” I wanted to do this anthology not justto collect poems about aging, but to glean something from this project that makes sense, something thatmight help us all live the remainder of our lives withmore grace. I was delighted to find a healthy dose of humor sprinkled throughout but let’s face it, this timeof life is not a cake walk. What are your thoughts?

DMG: Aging is not for sissies, that’s certain. While the“frail elderly” (as the government refers to peopleover 65 who have some significant health impair-ments) are a minority amongst the aged, it is theirimage that predominates in public discourse. That isunfortunate and unfair to all concerned insofar asthere are many elders who are in relatively goodhealth—even some athletes—and who are very active

and influential members of society. Every age bracketof society includes both healthy and ill people, eveninfancy.

On the other hand, there are excellent reasons why virtually all societies throughout history have honoredtheir elders. For even the healthiest and strongest of the elderly, there are some burdens that are inherent to

age. Ideals and the illusions that surround them are of great comfort and motivation to the young; eldershave long been disabused of most of the pleasant self-delusions of life. Experience is the gold coinage of age, but it comes with a price. How wonderful it would be to be able to look at life with the fresh eyesof youth once again! But that is an option not onoffer. The wisest of our elders have learned about the

goodness of mankind, but also about our flaws, our



9

foibles, our posturings, our occasional malice andspite. Wisdom is a great treasure and, at the same time,

a great weight to bear.

We each have a different combination of experiencesthat have formed our lives. In all but the most blessedand fortunate lives, there are tragedies, losses, sorrows.In some lives, there are far, far too many. The elderly have accumulated decades of life’s slings and arrows,and those wounds are also a weight to be borne—for

some, a terrible weight.

Not to be forgotten, nor swept under a rug, is physicaldecline. It is true that “the aged” in modern society isa wide category, usually thought to include everyoneover 65 but often taken to refer to people in latemiddle age as well. The hard and inescapable fact of life is that we all begin to suffer physical decline at

some point in our maturity and, whether we fight itand win for awhile or give in to it, the long-term trendis decline. This means that the aged variously sufferfrom aches and pains, limits to functions, reductionsof capabilities, and for many, degenerative diseases orconditions. There are those amongst us who do betterthan most of us, and they are to be applauded. But weare all winding down and that hurts. That is why

“aging is not for sissies.” The aged all deserve respectand admiration for sheer endurance.

Taking all the above into consideration, a young person might think the senior years are an awful stageof life, painful, regretful, and joyless. That would be amistake. Yes, there are aged people who live in misery,just as there are people of every age whatsoever who

live in misery. Yes, there are parts of being aged that



10

are particularly tough, but that is true of every stage of life as well. Would you want to go through high

school again?! Not I. Would you want to return tocombat in the armed forces now? Not I, and I servedin both the Navy and Air Force when I was young.Every stage of life has its upsides and downsides, prosand cons. It is a goal of mine, for this anthology of poetry, to allow poets around the world theopportunity to sing their songs of the full panoply of life in its later phases. Whatever it means to “be aged,”

it means more than the stereotypical perceptions of theyoung. The aged are as fully human as anyone, ormore so. The person grows and develops until the very end of life. Let us try to open our hearts and ourears to hear the truth about aging from those whoactually know whereof they speak.

AKR: Madeleine L’Engle wrote, “The great thing

about getting older is that you don’t lose all the otherages you’ve been.” I find that quote intriguing because when I look back at photographs of myself or poemsthat I wrote 30 years ago or even when I was in highschool, I have a deep knowing that that person is stillme, a layer of the onion that is myself. AdelaideShaw’s tanka “which face is mine, / the one in themirror / or in the photo / taken fifty years ago /

before life happened” brings up an importantquestion. Who is that woman? I say she is both.Michael McClintock would seem to agree: “I saw theyoung girl, too, / in my mother’s face / as she lay dying . . . /I saw her late in the day / as they lefttogether.”



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And as far as wisdom always being attached to old age,I think Sanford Goldstein sheds light on that idea in

“the wisdom of age? / at gatherings I sit sofa-bound/ and watch the parade, / sometimes a nephew waves,/ sometimes I am handed crackers on a plate.” Thereare people who age but don’t seem to gather wisdom. This tanka by C.W. Hawes drives home that point: “afew coins clink / in my pocket while I walk / downthe street / for a wad of greenbacks / my brother andI don’t speak.”

While it’s commonplace in many cultures to honorour ancestors, we may not be honoring their wisdomat all but bowing to them as the givers of life andshowing regard for allowing us to perhaps finish whatthey could not.

I was particularly amused by Bell Gale Chevigny’s

tanka: “one night my cart befriends / the woman onthe bench / ooh she’s got / a little headlight—/ yougo girl.” There are many humorous highlightsscattered throughout Ash Moon Anthology . Humorsheds light on any serious topic. Having developed asense of humor, I would think, is the key to wisdom,the key to being human, as humor IS a life-giving act.

Carl Jung stated that in his practice he found thatthose who had the hardest time aging were those whodid not develop some sort of spiritual life. I’d beinterested in hearing your ideas on this.

DMG: I have no quarrel with Jung’s opinion thatspirituality is essential to a fully realized life. Thecollective experience of all cultures certainly supports

the idea that spirituality is an intrinsically human



12

experience. It is difficult to discuss, of course, becausefor billions of people spirituality is equated to their

personal religious affiliation or preference whichresults in the legendary contentiousness of discussing religion. Poetry is particularly well-suited for commu-nicating spiritual awareness and perceptions withoutgetting into all the matters that divide people of faith.In many of the poems in Ash Moon Anthology ,spirituality is dealt with very obliquely and thereforecan effectively communicate to a wide audience of

readers of many different religious backgrounds. Inthe poetic expression of experience, something like atruly universal appreciation of spirituality may beapproached.

AKR: It has been said that religion does not neces-sarily equate with spirituality. That is, a person with noreligious affiliation whatsoever could be quite spiritual.

DMG: Yes, quite so. That is the point I am making,that, disassociated from specific religious affiliations,spirituality is virtually universal. Poetry is a precious vehicle for communicating the universals of humanexperience, even spirituality. Do you think Ash Moon Anthology has achieved that sort of communication?

AKR: Yes. This large collection of poems addressesthe spirit of all of us. I am proud to be an editor of this volume and I thank you for inviting me to sharein the compilation of this much needed anthology.

˜



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It is our sincere goal and hope that this anthology of poems onaging will bring its readers enjoyment, pleasure, an occasional

laugh, and perhaps a few tears. If it sheds even the faintest new light on the experience of aging, it will be a great success to us.

We sincerely thank the ninety-seven poets from five continents who have shared their fine tanka and shown patience as wemade the hard choices for the final selection included here.

— Alexis Rotella & Denis M. Garrison

Editors of Ash Moon Anthology Maryland, 2008



Ash Moon Anthology



17

Hortensia Anderson

I sit on the deck by a beach I so love;

wondering if one droplet, one grain

will remember me

Eighty-three yearsI have strolled this path;how astonishing!the forget-me-nots arebluer than I remember

I ask heron her ninety-eighth birthday how it feels to age;Between bites of cake she says,“I’ll tell you when I get there”

Cold winter dawn— I curl further into dreamsof grandmother;her silk comforter the hueand scent of Parma Violets



19

an’ya

Old and tiredshe slowly undressesfor bedher last companiona balsamic moon.

Atop windy bluffsover the rippling sand dunesscatter my remainsinto the lapping ocean . . .no white pine box for me!

Christmas timeI remember the littleice skaterson a mirror pond— arranged mother’s way.

Farewell crocusa sympathy card partsits petals . . .closing in the darkness

we say our last goodbyes.



20

an’ya

It’s here we builtsand palaces in my youth,each drip castleshaped by supple fingers . . .the ones that fail me now.

What is my lifebut bittersweet chaptersdeeply colored . . .yet the bird knows enoughto avoid poison berries.

Golf course:the whiteness of swanson its turf my father always saidit was his church of choice.

That final spring we were together flying our kite—untilyou let loose of the string,and heart from soul divided.



21

an’ya

One quick deedbefore it’s bedtime . . .to douse the lightsfor fear of missing my very last star.



22

Megan Arkenberg

taking his picturedown from the wallmy mother asks me

when the stairsbecame this steep

finishing pasta saladfrom the funeral luncheonI add lemon juiceto the dishwaterjust for her scent

oak leavesalready red

over dinnerthe inevitable words“if she were alive. . . ”

reaching for your handthis lonely winter nightI find insteadthe pages of my journaldog-eared



23

Megan Arkenberg

october morning at the library checkoutthe woman before mehas emptied the shelveson dying

after our walk she orders “thatcaffeinated stuff— I’m a hundred now,” she says,“I live dangerously.”



24

Munira Judith Avinger

my aunt, now gonemade this quiltonce flowersof blue clothbloomed in her hands

lilac sky wind rocks the housea flute callsall the forgotten lovers

where are you?



25

Pamela A. Babusci

plucking outanother gray hair . . .i sign up forinner-goddessdancing

planting a treein my mother’s name . . .

why when she was aliveunableto hug me?

why can’t we agegracefully?she leans againstthe botox needlelike a pine

cosmohas another article onanti-aging . . .she pours herself a dirty martini



26

Pamela A. Babusci

looking into the mirrori look but, not too deeply . . .leaves blanketthe graves of strangers

waking to findi am an aging actressin a one-woman play. . .are there no matineesleft for me?

ageless mountain— putting our motherinto anursing home

to think i once strutteddown dark hallwaysof forbidden dormsin mini-skirts



27

Pamela A. Babusci

having hot flasheson a hot date . . .

where in my handbag can i yank out my youthfulness?

who will visit me when i am old& nobody remembersmy namenot even me

breathlessi speed walk the mall. . .another senior citizenpasses me



28

David Bacharach

seeing himshrunken and deadI rememberhow his thick handcould squeeze a grapefruit

you justcan’t keep up anymore

with the taxesan old farmer sayssquinting at a cloud

the boxhe handed me was justblack plasticso plain a containerfor my father’s ashes

hiking withmy son, who’s grown uplost and unsurehow can I tell himI too am lost and unsure



29

David Bacharach

will I everget out of this placemy mother askedfrom her hospital bedI don’t know, I lied

paindeep in my back tonightthe accumulated weightof all those years

embers and ashesof old newspapers liftin the windas my story, too,

will one day dissolve

the snow that loves the ground it coversis silentyet when it goesit weeps itself to death



30

David Bacharach

my old dog his hind legs gonefalls againI sit down beside himand watch the sunset

the morning they told me my motherhad diedI buried the old cat

we called Gray Head

a pile of stonesdeep in the woodsall that’s leftof someone’s lifebuilt day by day

the will directedthat her dog be killedand buried with hera lonely old auntgone mostly mad



31

David Bacharach

nothing entersthe old man’s shoe storebut memoriesI listen to his talesfor minimum wage

just a stubleft of the cigarbut there’s still

wine in the bottlestill a puff or two

surprisedthat I hear my doomso easily how young he looksthe oncologist

both of usold and lame, I throw hay to the horse— trees are turning greenon the hills we once rode



32

David Bacharach

my old boatin the back fieldfalls apartlittle by little— another birthday

when I was young I saw visionsnow I am oldand dreamof ordinary things

at eighty-onehis body and mindshaped by laborthe old farmer listensto his wife complain

no one comesto the old farmer’s funeralbut his sonfrom the city and a spotted dog



33

Collin Barber

candlelight calmin the eyes of a pumpkinI listen to my sontell me a story I once told to him



34

Jenny Barnard

red zinniason your coffin lida raindrop quiversthe priest’s words becomerun-away rivers



35

Roberta Beary

after the fire diesyou sweep the ashesinto my dustpan

which of us i wonder will be the first to go

i fight an urgeto ask themhow to make love lastold couple holding hands

where the waves break



36

Cathy Drinkwater Better

growing my hairlong againin my fifty-sixth yearall the summers of my youth flood back inch by inch, and splashed with gray

pale winter sun where is she now the girl

who sang folk songsand strummed a cheap guitar

nightfallpurple wisteria hug the garden gate

if you hold me tightthe long dark may never come

this late autumnhas saved the bestfor last— how gently you touch my crow’s feetand tell me I’m still beautiful



37

Cathy Drinkwater Better

awakening to findanother pine has come downin the night— this newly discovered fearthat colors all my days

your father and minelived worlds apart, yet sharethis May day— one took his first breaththe other, his last



38

Randy Brooks

curled corn leavesthe old farmersifts dirtfrom one handto the other

young lovers lying in the sunshinefor a moment weborrow their view of the mountains

the deathnobody wantsto talk aboutsnow driftsin the moonlight

hot tub crowdthe old mandoesn’t wantthe young ones to seehis hobble out



39

Randy Brooks

window opento an autumn nightshe asks me foranothertanka

the reachof February light

who asked me tocarry these bonesso long



40

Marjorie A. Buettner

will it ever endthis yearning that I harborfor those I have lostfather, child, lover and now mother’s eyes clouded with stars

another dreamof losing my way homeuntraceable stepsthis life with you so fleeting like the trackless flight of birds

how long we have grown to loveeach othermy hand like a leaf in stonecaught in the hollow of yours

a fabric of lightfloats across the pageas I writefor the briefest of momentsI am seventeen again



41


a cloud-dusted moonthis early morning hourand the scent of grassfifty springs have come and gonehow could I not wish for more

we expect the endand yet when it now arrives

what preparationI pinch the heads off flowersand start throwing things away

these leaveslast to lose their holdcarry our grief throughout the entire day how many ways I failed you

moon of turning leavesI pack up your clothing and give them away trying to tell my childrenthat this life is just on loan



42


after your deathI wander through my dreamslooking for youthese pelicans on the lakedrifting back and forth in pairs

I place my aunt’s hatsabove her bed at the homereminding herso many places she’s seenso many more to go—

the secrets carriedin your eyes when you diedbelong only to melike a moon flower that bloomsin the deepest of night

old age and deathhave stripped you of everything my dear onestill your ageless smile hauntseven my deepest sleep



43


so clear to me now as I unpack your disheshow fragile you werethose fireflies that flare uptheir light to a darkened sky

going without soundthe deer into the darknessof dawn— so gently you took your leavenever once looking back



44

David Caruso

That dentedtea kettle I donateto Purple Heart—

What wounded war vet will see what I don’t want?



45

Bell Gale Chevigny

what kind of childhave I becomebalkedby a child-resistantbottle top

above the next bedtv blares all nightyou conjure the silentstarlit desert you crossed on footdear friend may your knee knit well

Beethoven’s last sonatas— in the front row at the feet of the old pianistalmost under his palmsI felt my soul massaged

my dead are beginning to visit my dreamsbringing

—what a comfort!— their marvelous quirks



46

Bell Gale Chevigny

the fact that Iam in a wheelchairdoesn’t mean that youcan’t complain to meabout your corns

my very sick friendteaches his son to cook

clean up as you goput all the food away leave everything in order

when my mother saidI wish your trouble hit menot youI thought she exaggerated— no more

you stepped toward me quickly butI didn’t know your facethen your grincancelled the fifty yearsand brought me your name



47

Bell Gale Chevigny

I creep along on sticksbut on my amigo my scootermore than friendI leave joggersin the dust

oh the dumbstruck loveof little boys

when I ride by on my red scooter

my scooter tutortaught me which blockshave no curb cutsand which winding park pathslead treacherously to stairs

driving a scooteris like learning to tankatricky and awkwardthen all at oncelike silk like breathing



48

Bell Gale Chevigny

one night my cart befriendsthe woman on the benchooh she’s even gota little headlight— you go girl

who’d have dreamedthat in old ageI’d turn out to bea frisky centaur



49

Margaret Chula

silently they watcha golden leaf spin in the spider’s webtwo old friendsdrifted apart

when I was twenty I sang like Mozart’sQueen of the Nightnow I hum like a cellobetween the legs of a lover

early spring strollin the temple groundsthe old woman’s complaintsabout pain and suffering silenced by the Buddha’s gaze

this lifefrom darknessinto darkness

with only a few firefliesto light our way



50

Margaret Chula

partially covered with new fallen leavesbleached deer bones

day by day he shrinks inside his clothes

once I pickedthe dandelion flowersnow I dig uptheir jagged leavesfor my gallstones

when I try toimagine my skeletonI feel the connectionof muscles, tissuesmemories behind bones

this night of rainas wind strips leavesfrom their branchesI read my old poems aloud— remember the woman I was



51

Margaret Chula

lying on a blanketin the shade of a treeI dream of childhood

was the groundalways this hard?

when we were children we swam like dolphinsin the summer seanow, you on a life machinethe ebb and surge of your heart

I’m not in denialmy friend with cancer says— I’ve bought a wig and renewed my subscriptionfor another year

now in his sixtiesthe sculptor carves a faceof his dead father

without a mouth— he was a man of few words



52

Margaret Chula

back in JapanI visit my teacherin the Alzheimer’s home

who is this old womansmiling, smiling?

father-in-law who taught me how to sailnow asks me the wordfor the place

where horses sleep

thirty years laterthe pale blue petalspressed in my journal

what was that flowerand—who was that man

open window and the scentof Nantucket rosesthat’s all it takes now to be ten again



53

Tom Clausen

could be I’m tiredor lost, but to close my eyesand nod off

while the world goes ongives me a certain peace

full of rainthe river races along past everything here— I can’t shake this senseI’m living on borrowed time

the spring just begunand already I sit a bit lostknowing full wellI can’t keep up

with too many things

all these yearsin one house, one jobone town and in me— too many changes to fathomas I sweep away autumn leaves



54

Tom Clausen

we work briskly into the momentum of the day a long list of what to do,once all there was

was to fall in love

wind outside the malland as I wait

with my eyes closeda killdeer callsfrom another life

while planting bulbsmy wife unearthsa childhood cap gun of mineI hold ittrying to grasp back then

for years I had desireto purchase thingsthat reminded me of my childhoodbut now, even thatis gone



55

Tom Clausen

how ironiccoming to lovethis life and worldand at the same timeletting it all go . . .

for years we used to talk now to look at you closely I have a feeling that I know you betteras you used to be

autumn chillas I go outto get the paper— it occurs to meI should just keep going

in a reverieat the long traffic lightit occurs to me

why would I wantto do more, faster



56

Tom Clausen

my youth spentgathering strength and solaceof friends near and far— these short years laterlosing them one by one

wanting my old life when I wantedmy present lifestirring the soup she madeas a cold rain falls outside

under a tree we talk of mother’s passagefrom this life— inchworms suspendedall around us

beyond this lifethat one old friendI bump into over and overpromising that we’ll get togetheragain, someday



57

Tom Clausen

showing my daughtermy childhood ‘fish’ jackknifeshe promptly says:“I’ll put that in your grave

when you die”

pushed by the windat the far end of the sky a few clouds . . .I can see that what I wantkeeps changing too

without fanfare at dusk I drag the dead branchto the brush pile— another day risenand fallen from my life



58

Carolyn Clink

Old people gatherat the post office, waiting for news from outside.

Windows fog with their gossip, while burning ears melt snow.



59

Dina E. Cox

Dementia moving day hoping he will likethe nursing home,already he forgets

where he is arguing

with my fatherover detailshe no longer remembersbut I cannot forget

necessity isan indwelling catheterno need to peestill he forgets andshuffles to the bathroom

we listen

to Domingo’s Perhaps Love his favourite . . .he looks at the stereoasks anxiously “What’s that?”



60

Dina E. Cox

“Where’s Mum?”he asks softly,I hesitate too long my father doesn’t remember

she’s gone

after my visithe promptly forgetsI was therelost in each passing momenthe steals even my memories

will I livelong enough to writeof this sadnesssome days I fear I will livelong enough to know it

in silence

cherry blossomsfall softly . . .in his growing darknessmy father listens

˜



61

Tish Davis

christmasthe nursing hometakes down june

without a word a nailreturns to the same hole

easter week i return

with colored tabletsa white lily withersin the chair

nurses week watching someone elsepass the medsit is her turn to sitin the big chair



62

Raffael de Gruttola

the Village poet is deadat ninety years oldgrackles leavethe leafless treeoutside her window



63

Melissa Dixon

this wintry day— treating myself to lunchI allow the waitressto grind extra pepperinto my pea soup

once I playedto the back row of an audience,grateful for applause . . .now in my secluded lifebirdsong in the yard delights me!

it’s obvious I’ve shrunk— I find myself gazing upat my grandsonand looking my granddaughterright in the eye

at times a senseof happy completion—but

what does it mean? will I or will I notopen my eyes tomorrow?



64

Melissa Dixon

October afternoonI am stretched out on the bed . . .a pale sunfails to rouse me—I have earnedthe right to lie like a stone

remembering windin my face as we drovealong the sea wall . . .missing your presencemissing being me

the secluded park that someone used to tendnow you are gone

wild grasses hide the log where once we held each other

soft grey silk it may look dull to youbut with this fabric— you will see!—I’ll clothe myself in elegance and poise!



65

Melissa Dixon

knowing clearly Who I Am at this advanced age— try me!I can face down anyone

who wants a challenge!

icy sidewalk— resorting to a walking stick black and eleganttelling myself it’s not about agebut simply style . . .

head back arms open to the sun— breathing deeply this is how I was born to live



66

Marje A. Dyck

through your new eyesmight I see againsome magicin my faded worldlittle grandson just arrived

—for Ryley

autumn geesetwo by two they droponto sun-glittered waternorth windrising

rain for daysraining againI draw the curtainshide myself in an old song

heavy-heartedas the sun sets— the grandsonI will never holdbright flame gone out



67

Marje A. Dyck

in my notebook over a decade of poems— still blue waterdeep blue sky fills me again

sobering the realizationeven the “young” onesdon’t seemas young

stillthat chill in the aira lamentin their voicespassing geese



68

Jeanne Emrich

a window opento spring birdsong— I pray for the samein my old age

nursing home visit— it dawns on meI could dieon someone’slunch break

like an arrow shot into a cloudthis mindalways a little surprisedat passing through

a pear smoothiealong with a lecture— accepting bothhow meekly I becomemy daughter’s child



69

Jeanne Emrich

don’t take meinto your old age

with you, mother— even the waning moonkeeps its distance

˜

long winter hours . . .in my parents’ absenceI feel the “his” and “hers”slip away from the humidor,the sewing machine

at her gravesite with head bowedI think of her talentfor ripening peachesto perfection

did the young girl

she once wasslip back into her body I saw her on my mother’s faceas she lay dying

˜



70

Jeanne Emrich

wondering for years what would bemy life’s defining moment— an egret staring at meme staring back

summer solstice— the hint of lavenderin her empty room

vanishesthe moment I notice



71

Margarita Engle

cave artthe ancient manpainted himself holding a rainbow trapped underground



72

Amelia Fielden

Easter Day table for two, quietreminderadult children havetheir own lives to lead

how many timesin half a century have I thoughttoday is different,this is the first morning

spring birds sing in the golden wattleby the path

where a lame old man walks his ancient dogs

holding himthrough all the hospice nightsthinking you won’t be hereto love me when I’m dying



73

Amelia Fielden

trapped in trafficmy sixty-year-old self,flying the jetthat soars up ahead,my twenty-year-old heart

When All the Men She Has Loved Are Gone

in the flames warming her single roomthere glow againSunday night family supper and chess games

on the lawnshifting patterns of shadefrom spring treesabove her favourite bench— hands too shaky to paint now

drab these dayssliding into nightstill humidbehind closed curtains

what colours remain

˜



74

Amelia Fielden

stop trying to remember meslender fit— in lumpy old age

we’ll still swim along

gathering storm— love letters in the sandtemporary like teenage promisesand twenty inch waists

purchasing black bananas to feedthe wild possums,a woman claims a discount

with her pension card

aged auntcreaking, opens the doorof her freezerto display the latest linein designer cakes



75

Amelia Fielden

this morning my grandmother’s figurein the mirrorreminds me I amsixty-five years old

tired tired“I’ve lived too long” her voice

whispering on a public linefrom the nursing home

at the marketan elegant old lady stoops to choosebundles of purple irisfrom a scarlet bucket

breezy morning— a wild iris, white-headedstands aloneamong the young fernsand tossing bushes



76

Amelia Fielden

so sultry these frangipani nightsand you too tiredto want to tangodown the bedroom hall

at seventy-threehe returns from the clinichappily talking of his prospectsfor the next twenty years

four yearsafter his funeralDad’s striped apronis still hanging behind the kitchen door

as if chasing aftera tumbling summer hatI will go back to my hometownrunning along the road



77

Amelia Fielden

when I am with my friend who has lostour hometown accent— the mocha coffee tastesthat much more bitter

nothing will reject mein my hometown,I feel rather lonely— cherries in the sun



78

Stanford M. Forrester

autumn drizzle . . .i findan old love letter

with promisesof a sunlit sky

alzheimer’s ward— i bring my grandmothera bouquetof forget-me-nots

in your gardenthe cosmos & sunflowersbloomed . . .i wonder what happenedto the forget-me-nots

my memories of youfade with each falling gingko leaf . . .now i realizeyou never loved me



79

Bernard Gadd

birches

for the fortieth seasonthree silver birchesone after the other

suddenly turnsun’s light green

all evening between silver birch leavesfirework trailsand in the quiet housea smell of smoke

luckily birchbark or leavesare uselessfor writing onand later regret

ah comradeOdysseus, you and Iforever starethrough birch branchesat Sirens and seas



80

Bernard Gadd

will we fell the birchtaking sunfrom the house,

the huge treeold as us?

we keep a big yard:lawns where infants run,“forests” of shrubs,birch trees for catsand children to climb

each pulseis a triumphjust when encouragement’sneeded the silver birchshows green hearts

catching my breath watch layers of cloudsbehind the treerush this way or thator drift in icy calm



81

Bernard Gadd

watch my heart,on the monitordance green and

cheerily as a birchin spring gusts

birch trunksremind of walking on rock through cold spray our pace quick,and always under blue

once I knew so many of your wordslips, birch, leaf, us,today the memoriescome silently

now it’s only the silver birchesin the tall mirroryou always turnedaway from



82

Bernard Gadd

leaves quiverbranches metronomeeven the curtains

in this loungesail bulge

as I watchsun fades from leavestrunk darkensthe tree hunkersin its black soil

if my ashesare dug inaround a birch

will leaves sproutin sets of five?

˜



83

Denis M. Garrison

whose hands are thesegrown graceless, thick and slow;not enough fingerstoo many thumbs to use— my god, whose face is this . . .

my father’s workshop vacant since his strokehow quickly eventhe finest tools corrodeand lose their cutting edge

the steam whistle’s song my dreams are g o n e . . . l o n g g o n e hope’s checked out, checked outthe train lights grow faint, go dark

vanished into plains of night

empty courtyardhowls with wind and rainhollow desolation— all night in your chairlistening for your voice



84

Denis M. Garrison

late in the seasonthe lingering storm breaksits gusts snap branches

winter lightning father fights the war again

I can’t wait for echoesI am the age of dustboundless and drab my emptinessyet I trembleat the touch of living flesh

she smoothesthe shoulders of my coather touch familiarand gentle as dusk if only I could speak . . .

after all these yearsI can hear her eyes speak

when words failmade mute by grief, by pain,I talk by touch



85

Denis M. Garrison

he asked meto bury him when the time camenot so far away I said Yes, of course . . .even now, I see his pale eyes

in the long nightin the darkness of grief blind to hopeand deaf to prayersI hold tightly to your hand

the brief cloud of snow as an axe strikes this oak a staggering blow after his diagnosisI can’t hear the doctor’s voice

I am still here working my sliver of earth— the oath I swore,barefoot on the river stones,to whispering cottonwoods



86

Denis M. Garrison

come close, young woman,I’ll tell you about onions:they are the last sumof all their layers, oldestand youngest . . . yes, come closer

we smile through tearsand make hopeless plansas if we had timeone of us is dying and both of us know

an empty lotexcept these five stone stepsgranite solitudethere is so much to pass onbut no one there to listen

my darling barfly,spandex taut over ‘depends,’dry makeup flakes off

when you smile and yet your eyes . . .fires smoulder in the ruins



87

Denis M. Garrison

sandstone garden wallblushes vividly once more

warmed by the late lightyour rouged cheeks and rosaceaglow in the winter sunset

rye whisky burns my gut, so, cheers!I’ve lived so long an enemy of deathI know pain is proof of life

the boy sayshe wants to see it all— shaking my headI wonder what he’d doif the scales fell from his eyes

forty yearsare not time enoughto forgetthe shouts of “incoming”—

waking to my own raw voice



88

Denis M. Garrison

and whenthe sand runs out?the stillnessof the hourglassand I are one

seasons come and gothe lake has changed,days are darker now— dwindling and loss, yet, I’m rich

with your hand in mine

since you leftI sleep very deeply alone in our bed— good practice, perhaps;since coffins sleep only one

my childhood replaysscenes of sunlit clarity over the long yearssince my vision has broadenedto a certain haziness



89

Denis M. Garrison

afloat at last inmy gossamer canoeacross a darkling deep

wait for me, mother,beyond the breathing sea

father, you werebefore ever I drew breathnow, again, you’ve gone beforeI follow in your trailfrom my first home to my last

things go well.my friend says . . . well. well.adjusting his coat sleeveto hide a soiled cuff I peer across the street

intensive careall the chirping monitorsinconsolablesong of the cicadasrising to a deaf moon



90

Denis M. Garrison

my fingertipssting again with paper cutsas I count out billspaying today’s pricefor loving you

unshed tearsI’m told they’re highin calcium . . .enough of them, your heartcan turn to stone

yet chilled to the boneI go out for morning choresa breeze rises with the sun— the old windmillscreeches into motion

as I turn her broochto read the inscriptionthe pin draws bloodif she knew she still can hurt meshe would smile



91

Denis M. Garrison

as the cold gurney shudder-squeaks down the hallfor one more examyour hand in minemakes us safe

gone so long days pass withoutremembering

waking to your voicecalling my name

some nightsall I can do is leanagainst the old walland know that stone is cold

in my dreamsDad does chores with me

we work and laugh, work and talk . . . but neveronce about the nursing home



92

Denis M. Garrison

mayfliesyou swarm and diein daysI will not pity youI am the childless one



93

Victor P. Gendrano

she offers to dyehis gray hair black for their dance party he declines with a smileit’s my knees honey

the face looking at mefrom the mirror today has heavy lines and silver hairyet underneathI don’t feel my age

alone at closing timein our favorite barone more for the road pleaseI didn’t tell anyonetoday’s my birthday



94

Beverley George

your childhood home– let my foot fall softly hereand pausein all those unmarked spacesthat gave shape to your life

what can it mattermy slowing step, your white hair?I still waiteach night for your gentle kisseach morning for your greeting

sun going downand the white cat snoozing on the worn brick wallafter half a lifetimeour love still holds its heat

losing your loveI learn the strengthof mine. . .a she-oak whipped by windthrusts deeper roots



95

Beverley George

lonely nightsmy mother working secretly in the quiet house– all my dollies in new clotheslined up to surprise me

A Christmas carolread aloud each year— apple peel falling in unbroken spiralsfrom my father’s knife

so much yet to doto think, to feel, to beit is absurdan unmet assassincould be lurking inside

one more friend’s namestruck from the Christmas mailing. . .she wonders

would it now be fairto own another dog



96

Beverley George

autumn harvest. . .persimmons mellowing on a bare treeI too may beat my best—so far

twilight worldthoughts swirling in gloomy dusk until I hearmy husband chopping vegetablesa moorhen honking on the lake

mist on the mountainsas a child I soughtinvisibility only to find in older lifeit came to me unbidden

the cat who wakes us through the night will probably outlive usunlike the bladder

which does ditto



97

Beverley George

if you left me now after all these decades. . .could my minddistinguish devastationfrom inconvenience?



98

Sanford Goldstein

old-age anecdotes: tanka thorns

for years after confirmationI sat on the synagogue benchnext to my grandfather;

wordless throughout, he left room

for me to pass when the service was over

in his cozy leather armchairand watching soap operas for years,he cried and cried;not once did he say a word aboutthe long-ago abuse to his kids

no blisteron his ancient forehead,and stillhis string of infidelitieshigher than kite flight

a teenager then

and helping my grandmotherat the new fish store,I saw her thumb-load the scale— drunks, she told me, would waste it on drink



99

Sanford Goldstein

Lear,you asked a daughter for loveand more love,and the desire withheld, you demanded

the gods convey sterility to her womb

bliss to be alivein that dawn of Revolution

was heaven for youth— Wordsworth, I never heard anyone say old age came within a million miles of that

out to the back porchI looked down and saw the neighbor’s grandfathermoving with that girl on his lap— I rushed inside to my bedroomand hid beneath the bed

over the decades

passing old men limping in baggy pantsand bent-backed,now I see myself in slow-motion,the young passing with blind confidence



100

Sanford Goldstein

the wisdom of age?at gatherings I sit sofa-boundand watch the parade,sometimes a nephew waves,

sometimes I am handed crackers on a plate

at my retirement party,I listen to the moving speechof my elder brother;at the end he breaks downand I rush over to hug him

I have spokenof the Door of Sandand its proximity— it seems right to see it that way

with no soaring words blurring the end

my mother’s tears

about not locking the doorto the basement,my grandmother in her blindness,bloody and dead at the bottom of the stairs



101

Sanford Goldstein

use urinefor a stye, my old aunttold my mother,and I stood trembling

with the cotton in my hand

my grandfathercame for the weekly doleand I watched,my pain on seeing ancient fingersreaching for the green

her old manafter my wife’s brain surgery rushes us to the plane;anxious and biting down hard,he breaks his lower plate

˜



102

Sanford Goldstein

passing through: a tanka odyssey

how often I hearmy features beliethis ancient me— I let those comments fly by

as if a wind teases my tie

be thankful,they continue to tell me,you are not so ill— I find the world a huge muddlemade for slippery tongues

tell me,my muse of this tanka world,if you’ve grown old too— if so, head me into a poolof wisdom to remove multiple cinders

I know

death is up the roadahead— each newspaper I opennotes the deceased was in his eighties



103

Sanford Goldstein

tired, are you not,of advice from the grey-hairedknow-it-all’s?— and still, no waiting even a moment

for the young to slow down the ephemeral

I sometimes wonder,even now, if my grandparentsever knew my name— I listened to their quarreling,I heard dishes rattle in a sink

waited all these yearsfor a button I couldn’t get through,like Lear in his old age,and still, each time I findeven a small cuff hole’s no puzzle

offered

advice by his three kids,he listens and nods;he plays his role to the hilt,a couch potato no longer sucking kisses



104

Sanford Goldstein

long ago— was it four decades?—I set downno causes to uphold,and even now I carry no flag,

offer no startling resolutions

long agoI gave up handwritten listsof New Year desires,and this coming year, what then?I will wake to find snow or no snow

I listento my grandchild’s joy that God is by her side— her faith is a stark beaconshe shines on herself

phoned yesterday

by my former colleagueabout an armpit lump— he asks my age and wondershow I got through all the nightmares



105

Sanford Goldstein

another famous one,the morning newspaper tells me,is gone— oh, Seidensticker, how your Genji

and Makioka sisters brought me joy

on my computer screena photo of the dead one,her youth, her favorite pin,and memories cascade,anguish and all the rest

the dead one wanted the Zen masterto stay and stay,and even now decades laterI cannot remove the anguish

at the last

my mother a frail wisp,her memory a blur,I sing for her the old songsand help her tap a knee



106

Sanford Goldstein

rare is itfor me to think of my fatherin any kind way— he sat in his favorite chair

as if the trap of age had sprung

the old farm lady, with her old loaded buggy pushed along the road,remains for me a samurai ghost,eyes prepared against all odds

the neighborI visited on his death bedlay there,eyes in a wild frozen staretrying to penetrate moving lips

Polonius,

they think of you as a foolHamlet dragged off,and still, how wise your wordsto your son before his sayonara



107

Sanford Goldstein

no longercan I remember lines that fellso easily from my lips— I urge myself to try, to recall

and fill with magic that poetic void

againboarding a crowded planefor the trip back— I take no pride in asking

vibrant youth to help with the lift

this ancient me wavesto each passing car on my routefor the morning walk as if to remind myself that greetingsare not yet as wasted as my face

˜



108

Sanford Goldstein

Anne Frank how you scribbled,endured,and now I tramp up these stairsthey hurried you down

selling his dead mother’s dressesat the Salvation Army,he keeps two red onesfor midnight

how dark this coffee shop worldbecomesin the fading autumn light

down a narrow streeta bent female form slouching

without looking up,her load of vegetablesdark green in the evening light



109

Sanford Goldstein

in my small villageall the curtained windowsare dark,no old or young men leaning out

with philosophic pipes

my elder sistersitting across from meat her table,that quiet moody face,a reminder of my own aging



110

M L Grace

in your bare roomno shred of you remainsfrom the wheel chairmemories taken outdusted every day

lotus eaterbeware the bitter corethat saps the mindkakadu dusk comes swiftly the magpie geese have gone

old horseput to pastureobsoleteI twirl my stick and pretend to fox trot

no answerto my knocking your anxious faceparts the curtainspaint flakes on the blue door



111

M L Grace

limping through another day sleep comes deepIn red heels I’m dancing

wrapped in a froth of tulle

I shakethe sand from my shoemyriad grainsI too started as oneI too am worn to pieces



112

Andrea Grillo

midmidlifeI teach myself to paintand for my toenailsI choose a bright red

as I age toward cronethe inside-out beauty of the new moonseduces the quietin my life



113

William Hart

goats grazed here when this park was lushnot so many years ago . . . yet

we were young back then weren’t we?

your father in his dotagepaces out his days,my mom got lost in solitaire— makes you wonder, doesn’t it?,

what we’ve been dealt

during uncle’s last dayssparrows fly in his windowsto join him for lunchand our aunt, who died young,looks down from the wall

ah, monsoon puddles!heavens high and low!even the old woman

who walks bent overtoday goes cloud viewing



114

Michele Harvey

her life would be different without the kidsshe told them daily so they wouldn’t forget

so easily other lives bought and soldat the flea marketthe family photographsfor a dollar apiece

She preferscemetery peacethe carefulspaces between family measured distance between lives

taking piecesof his life from the garbagethe neighborsunfettered by memoriesleave only his shoes



115

C W Hawes

a few coins clink in my pocket while I walk down the streetfor a wad of greenbacksmy brother and I don’t speak



116

Peggy Heinrich

old home moviesMother still dancing the Charleston— day-long snow fogs the window



117

William J. Higginson

The Sea of Okhotsk

Journal Entry Begun over the International DatelineNorthwest of Alaska, 28/29 November 2002

endless crimson

the far horizon’s edgethese hoursfloating over the dark sea of arctic clouds

The pilot said we’d be flying over Russia. I had assumed hemeant the east coast of Kamchatka, the huge peninsulaextending southwest from the eastern end of Siberia, as

routes across the Pacific often do.

in dark Chechnyathe rebels make plansfrosty cloudsreflect the sunlightnot reaching Siberia

Instead, we flew north, over Canada’s Northwest Territor-ies, skirted the polar side of the Alaskan coast, and thencame down over the eastern end of Siberia, the old SovietFar East, miles inland from the Bering Sea, heading for thenorthern end of the Sea of Okhotsk.



118


in growing lightI read old wakaof autumn dusk the plane six miles

over freezing Siberia

Siberiawe cross the coastlinewhere verticalfrozen cliffs becomethis frozen sea

a daily dreamthis geography of my youththe Sea of Okhotsk I never thought to seeso many shades of ice

The planes and ships that plied this space those yearsago—all in my mind. The Soviet fighter pilots who calledout cheery “Merry Christmas” messages to whomevermight be out there listening in the dark.



119


no fractalsformed here—insteadendless floesfrozen into one

Sea of Okhotsk

cloud bandsform thin elongatedrainbowsacross the icy depthsSea of Okhotsk

˜



120

Elizabeth Howard

across the lakefrom the park caféan oddity to touristsa lonely homesteadan old man push-mowing

a classmate deadI recall the gold heartburied under a fieldrock for fifty yearsmy heart not in sync with his

a dream of floating down rainbow stairsto a house of clouds— hopes for her recovery grown grim overnight

driving alonethrough a tunnel of fog far aheadat the end of sightthe glow of a new dawn



121

Elizabeth Howard

each OctoberGranny left for a month

visiting her relativescame home with storiesfor the winter hearth

field of ironweedI think of one

who designed his gravea pall of purpleevery autumn

the fridge’s racketat the country inn— last night’s talent show an old man rubbing a washboard ditty

glowing in the dark my grandmother clock giant red numerals

we keep nightwatchover each other



122

Elizabeth Howard

great-grandmother’sred-clay pitcherfilled with dried flowers— the memory of buttermilk brought from the springhouse

high school reunionold strangersI’ve never seen beforeall asking the same question— do you know who I am?

hills shiny with rain,the graveyard a green box;one flaming red tulipin Uncle Joe’s garden— I place it in his urn

hummingbird lostin the garage ceiling— how confusing stairs, wings, corridors, exitsin the office complex



123

Elizabeth Howard

I cannot recall your namenor your youthful faceyet when I close my eyesI see your arm with no handskipping rope, tying shoes

laughing,great-grandfather and Iplayed our daily game of chase— me racing around his chairhe caught me for a hug

motionless shadow of broad wingsover the backyard feeder— that old worry darkening yet another day

old-time veteranstands as former marine,sailor, soldier, airmanhis wife tugging his sleevehe salutes the flag



124

Elizabeth Howard

the rusty wheelbarrow spills hoe and garden shears—

what good are grandmother’s tools without her green thumb,her blue ribbon roses?

shelling field peas— great-grandmother’s gamethe reddest apple for the child

who picked up the greatest pileof her spilled peas

sister who loved flowersI pick perfect liliesyour face still, eyes closedI weep for the yearsI gave you no bouquets

the spiderwebglossy in the sunan old 45Oh, to swing once again

with Benny Goodman



125

Elizabeth Howard

strength gone to cancerthey bring the newbornto his bedsidehe blesses his great-grandchild

with a finger touch

the suave fellow getting his hair permed— does he not know about the coffee stainson his crisp white trousers?

two granddaughtersin the high school bandclarinet marching eastsaxophone west--now I’ve lost both of them

up the stairs of lifeeach step a challengechoices narrowing— yet as the pilgrim climbshe sings joy each morning



126

Elizabeth Howard

viewing the mountain— season after seasontwo lawn chairssit under the sugar maplein the overgrown yard

fog curling from the roof the garage morphsto grandfather’s smokehousehams hanging from raftersbrine on my tongue



127

Angela Johnson

our handsmine cold yours warmtouching— how many yearshave we lived with this?



128

Joyce Sandeen Johnson

Evening in Paristhe perfume you woreall I have leftthe blue stopperfrom your last bottle



130

Kirsty Karkow

thoughtsof you dying first . . .the half-moon holdsa darkened globe

belying the scent of death

violetsspill from a ribcagehide the rusty trap

half moon beacha gathering to scattermother’s ashesdad removes his hat

rose petalsand ashes blow out to seaa white sail leansinto sunset



131

Kirsty Karkow

roof tilesyellow with lichencrusty the two aging gnomesthat dwell within

still gardening as my years decline . . .I have becomeadept at pulling weedsboth obvious and covert

a small graveyardover-grown with gorsesadly even with family tiesI am forgettable

the mirrorreveals round shouldersI practice againthe tai chi movementsthat once developed poise



132

Kirsty Karkow

if you thoughtyou saw the grim reaperhooded in black it was only me pausing among your rainwet roses

he travels the world with briefcase and cell phonegiving speechesis it the earnest lifestylethat shortens every kiss?



133

M. Kei

thumbing throughmy little black book,I noticethere are more doctorsthan pretty girls

my old car,like me,cranky and stiff and hard to startafter a rain

orange needles . . .even pine treescome at lastto the autumnof their lives

I have heard of love thatlasts for fifty years,now at forty-five, I think I would settle forfifteen or twenty.



134

M. Kei

a banana moonin this tropical heat,dark spotson yellow skin,I grow a little older

tomorrow we’re taking the old lady to town for oysters

with two young menand a few good wishes

this heron knowsthe hunched grief of autumnand the grey weedsof widows

give me an old dog (his puppy years worn out)content to lay his muzzleon my knee whileI sit beside the fire



135

M. Kei

this rainy day,she keeps company

with the little brown sparrows,Mrs. Cardinal in her

widow’s weeds

veterans hospital . . .starlings pecking atlast year’s pine conesscattered onthe lawn

thirty-five yearssince the dust of Texasstained my boots,I wonder if I canfind the family graves

this scarred fingernever hurt me all these years,

why now, whenI am not ready to grow olddoes it begin to pain me?



136

M. Kei

memento mori— the white bonesof a deerslowly sinking into the loam

an elderly friendslips into his dotage,in the distance afast moving freight trainleaves this town behind

After his strokesI did not go and see my father.

The strike of his handagainst my child face

would not allow it.

the ache of my repaired teeth,the ache of my damaged

wallet



137

M. Kei

double silverrings around my smallest finger,dressing up thearthritic knuckle

playing withthe ringsplint,

watching it spinand rattle,a little like my mind

the willow treetumbled but not toppled,nearly leafless,but its roots still cling to a rocky shore

Her favorite flower,daisies decorate her casket.

At the grave side servicemy brother remarks, “Mom’sreally pushing up daisies now.”



138

Michael Ketchek

the steam pipes banging completely out of rhythm

with the old jazz recordpacking up grandma’s thingsfor the move to the nursing home

wet snow falls onthe old lady’s blue hairit takes a long timethe short walk to her Buick

old man with Alzheimer’sgets no visitorshaving outlived everyoneeven himself

listening tothat 1968 recording I can almost imaginethe better world I thought

we’d be living in today



139

Michael Ketchek

getting old when was the last timeI worried aboutblowing out my speakers— Cream’s White Room on the oldies station



140

Larry Kimmel

touch . . . touch . . .the skipping stone hitsthe farther bank . . .suddenly I am oldand understand nothing

here where the riveris wide and smoothand red leaves drift by slowly— here . . . remembering whenthe dream was clear

the river snakesacross the plain intothe blue distance— it’s not so much a fear of what’s to comeas of nothing left to do

season’s end.in the field above the house tonighta lone chirring— o brother cricketI know I know



141

Larry Kimmel

New Territory

while I sleptit snowedand a tree fellold age

uncertain as a winter road

some thingsare never going to happen againothersnever again, that way,and still others, never

having entered new territory —a tundra at dusk— I await,anxious and somewhat fearful,the undefined adventure

˜



142

Larry Kimmel

as twilight gathers,the white boulder inthe stone fencegrows luminous— some things take a lifetime

along a narrow sidewalk as two lovers pass me,the snag of a privet on my sleeve

in rural Vermont we strollinto an October calender

timethe enemy of lovers

at the chapel window the wind-stirred bittersweet . . .lately,and I don’t know why,great age seems unnecessary



143

Larry Kimmel

looking up, I gazeat the faded reds and goldsof an autumn hillside— the story in the old tapestry not at all what I remembered

the scrape of curleddry leaves along the patio—

whether I write itor not the past is now only so much literature

first lightand again I’m brewing coffee— like an anton a moebius stripthis dailiness of survival

where a careful stitching patches the screendoor,toil-cracked fingers snap beans— her bib apronall day, every day but Sunday



144

Larry Kimmel

scuffling through dry leavesthis blue October day— when did it leave me,

exactly,my strong confident stride?

since morning 3 pears on a green plate are 2— aloneI craft these wintry lines,the afternoon silent as granite

journal entry— a word I no longer understandwritten on a day I likened to

a New England postcard autumn

this creek torrential in spring a trickle now

all the things in methat wanted voice



145

Doreen King

After Twenty Years now he has embarkedon a new affairi stir my stew that brims and bubbles

with bones and gristle for one pondering

whether my rambling rose will flower againthe other woman

walks by

come evening waiting for love's arrivalat my broken gatethere are only night cloudsfor me to look at

˜



146

Doreen King

Three Flowers for My Daughters

like old times we have ourselvesa good holiday the pink bell flowers

brighter than ever while my daughtermakes tea because i cannoti idly watcha bee landon the next aster

my daughtersbring home to mepetalsof the yellow mountain rosein overwhelming sunlight

˜



147

Kathy Kituai

eager to greetthe gray haired womanin the mirror,getting to know megetting to know her

I traveledover sixty yearsto be hereat the centerof this climbing rose

lavendercolourless and dry— old as you areI brush against youdizzy with your perfume

softer than usualthose women who say Hello

what is it they seeyour arthritis my gray hairor two lovers holding hands?



148

Kathy Kituai

how truthful the treesoutstretched and bare this winterno leaves to clothe them— how honest your nakednesshere beside me in old age

It’s not autumn yet well at least not for a week— how soon the leaves falland all those golden yearstumbling tumbling from my mind

are they clichésthe last of the falling leavesgolden and tornfriends come togetherdrift away far too soon



149

Philomene Kocher

over the yearsthe wound on the elmhas closed and healedlike the placein my heart



150

Don LaMure

in the park laughing at the small stageaging Granddad

waits anxiously for the show’s endto become heaven’s newest puppet

pleasant picnicalong a passing streamtime is frozenas I hear my audible groangetting up to find my coat

popping dropson the blurry windshieldcascading down out of sight waiting to pick up my new glasses



151

Gary LeBel

Nothing to be said

The boy breakfasts happily with his grandfatherat a Tennessee motel,one path his Disney slippers

will always remember taking.

Ashen, the moon above usas we lose ourselves to old times,the cinders of memoriesblowing hearts gently to flame again

Longing once hammered into gold leaf by fierce desirecuriously now has its own wooden handle.

First light comes

and then a town slowly rouses:how infrequently

we herald each fresh day with the trumpets of a monarch.



152

Gary LeBel

Nothing to be saidafter twenty or more years

with mouths dry as sandfrom the deserts we left behind

in our footsteps.

The god offered its hand which was a leaf, and then said, Greetings,and turned into wind: NNNice to meet you,I stammered, too slow to changeinto anything else.

Pan would soon runfrom these woodlands foreverif only he knew

what secrets are wilting inside my heart.

At times late at night

when the day’s eyes are dreaming the rooms of every housein which I’ve ever livedplay Hide and Seek.



153

Gary LeBel

What’s in my heart? About a thousand broken threads,and a handful of afternoonsI wove into a tunic

to keep it warm.

This is how big,the boy showed with his arms,the measure of a worldas yet without citiesonly low-lying farms.

So many yearsI let spill to the groundyet I’m still a drunkard

wiping this summer day on my sleeve.

After thousands of miles

and a few dozen years,in hayfields I tunneledthrough the grass at ten,I go barefoot again.



154

Gary LeBel

Excitedly,she turns to a page so luminousit glows:I put on my glasses

to see a star in its throes.

somehow the melodies of childhoodlive on in the bonesfor I heard yours crack just now: what song?

Three hundred and eleven yearsof experience lay in the ward’s four bedsbut the sounds of leavesstriking glass behind the curtains

was all I could hear.

˜



155

Gary LeBel

Temporary Throne

With two kids in carsI wonder where the time went,but then again,the shore never asks the river

where it’s been.

How does it go,that song Frank Sinatra sings?asks my octogenarian fatherteaching me his way of remembering things.

All my old lovesare gone, she sighedas her palsied hand nudgedmy cowlick aside

Watching Capra together

I said, Everything’s easy in black and white. Then maybe it’s color,says my old dad chuckling,

why things ain’t right.



156

Gary LeBel

Do dolphins get old?the child had asked.

Yes, Sweetie, but the oceanlooks after them,

until the last.

Late-summer kudzuenvelops the old pinesin tall columns of leaf,history returning the sword to its sheath.

After hours on the trail,it’s as if the woodshad smiled,grateful for the timbrein the voice of a child.

These long lonely shores

today I know with certainty that some are not builtfor a life

without crows.



157

Gary LeBel

On a busy street cornerthe same old man sits day upon day as if waiting to hear the next name

Robespierre will say.

Field after fieldof dun-colored goldenrod

way past its primethat sound of a door being slammedI pretend isn’t mine.

For each mud-turtle,its warm noon stonecradled in the poplar’s roots,I, too, rule the day from my temporary throne.

With these gentler mornings

of landscapes drapedin tepid miststhe world also quiets,shortens its lists.



158

Gary LeBel

Straight through the fleshthe autumn wind races,

whitening the soul’s leavesand ballooning like a spinnaker

their ageless tree.

Sawing the brushwoodfor an evening’s fire by the surf,I sense in a glancemy grown children’s own measurementof kerf.

A half century of tideshas smoothed our footprintsinto loose sand againto where did you follow it,the path you began then?

˜



159

Angela Leuck

forty-first birthday looking at watches—so many different stylesall of them telling of time rushing by

spring cleaning I shake the dust from

white lace curtainsand wonder where she went— the girl who dreamt of bridal veils

watching the new organistI weave fantasiesof a life together— evening light shinesthrough the stained glass lilies

men’s eyesstill follow the curveof her waist— letting myself go I grumblelike Martha in her kitchen



160

Angela Leuck

first day of autumnthe spring flower display still in the window of the beauty salonI choose the younger cut

through the window a glimpse of a younger versionof myself— she and her escort rush pasther long silk scarf streaming behind

waiting at the crossing as the train rumbles pastplenty of timeto considermy own heavy freight

outside the wind picks up— remembering how it blew

when I was young impatient for the paradeto begin



161

Bob Lucky

too old to divetoo young to accept I can’t— Ultimate FrisbeeI realize I’m wearing my reading glasses

I’ve lived long enoughto see the futility in converting— kilometers or milesI’m just along for the ride

dodging wheelchairschoking on lilac perfume— geriatric clinicgranny tells meit won’t be long

it’s notthe thinning hairI mind . . . buttrimming the bush in my earsplucking the end of my nose



162

Bob Lucky

once I’m truly oldI hope to understandyouth— the time I spent looking for everything I had

anniversary in the elevatorI squeeze your ass— a quarter century onyou still get pissed off

the schlepto the toiletin the dark— the bang of the seatthe cracking of knees

“when I was your age”— I catch myself just in timenot to make a fool of or fool myself



163

Bob Lucky

I haven’t spokento my father in a year— complications

with his hearing aidhe can hear everything

life’s ups and downsmake for a long journey,clichéd existence— but at the end of the lineI’d like to push up daisies

relativesliving and deadscatteredfrom sea to shining sea— and in the seas

at his funeralno one knows

what to say— generic phrases molda life out of death



164

Bob Lucky

I’ve lived half my life with the same woman— new hairstyleover a cup of coffeeshe gives me that old look

half awakeI hear a soundlike your laughter— is this how it will beafter you’re dead?

I no longer desireto go down every lane— adventurelies in the long way roundto the shortcut home

a paperweight bustof Chairman Mao on the shelf— chic Chinese caféthe masses here are too young to be wary of the past



165

Bob Lucky

who knew the world wasn’t flatback then

we ventured outand never dreamt it would end

when I sing the song I wrote for you long ago,it hurts— both my passion and my rangehave settled down to earth



166

Jeanne Lupton

in this townof the elderly and their parentsi am oneof the bundled-up women

walking in the noonday sun

let her gothat lithe summer girlit’s autumnand she never thoughtto linger

60th Septemberhoneybees wildin yellow blossomsI was bornfor middle age

from summer hills we watchthe shooting starsmy last auntand I



167

Laura Maffei

Thanksgiving— in the guest bathroom

with the fancy soapsshe ignores the new wattleunder her chin

the fold-out kneelerin the Catholic church— these past few yearsshe really needsthat vinyl cushion

noting in the mirrorI’m of an age now

when a slight flushdoes wonders

bank clerk— is she older than me?or do we alllook a little bit wornaround the mouth now?



168

Laura Maffei

her mother’sfavorite flowermy mother choosesfor the china patternof her retirement

neighborhoodbeauty salon— I wonder athow roughly they brushthe old women’s hair

this friend who made out with the same boy in college— when exactly did we start discussing colonoscopies?

I leavethe silver strandalone in my hairthinking I ought to havea little wisdom by now



169

Thelma Mariano

a sudden hushthe day before Christmasat the nursing homethey wheel out the body bag of a woman I knew

chilly day— I pore through a book of exotic flowersso many times I’ve settledfor less than the real thing

inertia when I try to move forwardI wish my life

were more like the river— how effortlessly it flows

a night train whistlesas a pale orange moonbrightens the sky love with all its beauty leaves notes of sadness behind



170

Terra Martin

uncle tellsthe same old story

without missing a beatour deaf auntnods

the bathroomnow, becomesa revolving door

where, age winsover beauty

the notched shadowsof bare branchesswaying the many forksof lost memories

in a water glassinstead of a treeappearing nightly the wonderlandof a dentured smile



171

Terra Martin

sweeping the spider webout of a cornerI recallyour last wish

grandmother says“he never listens”

winking grandfather turnsup his hearing aid

armed with trifocalsready to battlethe crusade of a second marriage

after teaching my aunt photoshopall her imageshave becometen years younger



172

Terra Martin

dressed for dinnerat the retirement homethe musical chairsof women out-numbering men

the catmeandersout on a limb

with grandmother’steeth

wind-beaten fernsagainst the rocksthe dry whispersof night nurses

withdrawing care



173

Francis Masat

Do youremember allthe things we planned to do,the places we would go some day?Did you?

Saturday Party in an Alzheimer’s unitHappy Birthday sung again-and-again and thenagain-and-again again

folks gather arounda new face—with one suitcasein a noisy loungeto hear the same old storiestold by family and friends

willows— old folksbending with the windI listen to the soundof Grandfather’s watch



174

Francis Masat

a ribbonno longer holdsthin silver hairno longer holdsa ribbon

the stack of booksI want to readgets higher

sleeping moreas I get older

out of Mom’s wheel chaira tattered doll tumblesMother and I smileshare a glass of waterin the empty dining room

sunset— alone on the roadI climb the last hillshadows creepacross my path



175

Francis Masat

fireplace— the last glow from Grandpa’s treethe last crackling soundsfrom Grandma’s piano

sunset beachashes blow in a memorialan open handreceives a shell

fall leaves— pinned on the wallsfor show and tellat schooland at the rest home

bleeding hearts in bloomI open a Valentinefrom an ex-loverhis name the sameas my grandson’s



176

Francis Masat

something about shelves,how they arethe collectorsand wethe collection

Mom’s attic— silence hangson her medals

cobwebs fill the archof my ballet slippers

Key West retirementI pick ripe tomatoesin warm February sunlightafter watching the Weather Channelrepeat its blizzard reports



177

Karen McClintock

All her daysin one house,living with cats and ivy— and the memory of her fiancé,

who died young.



178

Michael McClintock

as a young poetI traveled to Innisfreeto draw out the root:the lake was a small, mean placeand no swans anywhere

tell me a story make it lastall night

the child is deadwho asked this

I sit up watching the summer moon fade

a man my agewhen awakenedcan’t sleep again

going back to my unpacking . . .one winter long agoall I could think of were thesebreaking waves



179

Michael McClintock

day after day loveless, doing my dutiesthe years passtrampled to deathby mammoths

a few were right to call mean idiottonight I think of them

with deep fondness

the old waysback to the fieldsreliably

when winter endsthe water remembers

today there’s an houryou want to catchand linger over—

mulching the garden,toes gripping the earth



180

Michael McClintock

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

silenceseeks the centerof every tree and rock,the thing we hold closest— the end of songs

an old photoof my parentsyoung and happy—

of all the things I own,that is the saddest

admiring the oak and knowing, of course,I haven’t the strengthor roots, or simple desireto stand so long in one place



181

Michael McClintock

planning a funeral— as in daily lifearguing each and every small point

coming back as a corpsesurprised us— twenty years he’d savedfor that vacation in Europe

for myself,tears have never come easy yet now I’m feeling I might have done betterto have really let go

about problemsof middle-age,I don’t know—

what are the chancesI’ve forgotten a few?



182

Michael McClintock

crossing the borderfrom hill country to mountain,the veeries grow distantand something else falls away my heart wanted to keep

the moonlit cedars,an owl or two— I’d like to stay up all nightbut I’ve work for tomorrow and days grow short

a few rubber bandsto hold up my socks,I wade the shallowssearching for the shoes I lostplaying Crusoe with the tide

what a thought!to choose one’s own time and placeto lie down and die—

who’s got patiencethat monumental?



183

Michael McClintock

holy ritessoftly spoken . . .I lose the wordsbut my heartknows the prayer

folding her death robe— the less brightreverse-sideof the fabric

the mausoleumand the weeping willowsinside the old brooch— slowly it dawns on methey are made of hair

closing the book— I note how the clock has movedremorselessly away from the time the day was wholeand I was immortal



184

Michael McClintock

when life endsthe number of thingsI leave undone

will be fewer, if today I tell no lies

many days aftercultivating attitudesrich in depression,I go outside for the mailas if on a great journey

once I was young and once at Lake Okeechobeespring arrived

winter-thin and very late with an ibis in the willow

amid worn furnishingsstacked in the cellarI tread with care, oiling the hinges of chests, smoothing creases on dust covers



185

Michael McClintock

the body dies, yesbut I’ll be right herefor you to find—

words in ink on a pageread in apple-blossom time

I saw the young girl, too,in my mother’s faceas she lay dying . . .I saw her late in the day as they left together

imagineon the last nightof the worldthe stars wake up as birdssurprised, and fly away singing

a clear, cobalt sky and a boulder’s worn hollow— here’s where I’ll sitgiving an hour to loveSeptember emptiness



186

Michael McClintock

the quick robin bobs,chirping, balanced just soon a thin twig— that is how I will livemy day, too, on this earth

an aged beauty looking outon the park foliage

someone combing her white hair

some new cerealpoured in a bowl— poking at it

with a spoon, I begin to seesmall, aged faces of friends

of the many hillsheld just now in my gazeany one will dofor my ashes



187

Michael McClintock

I’ll grow my rootsinto the ground,I’ll make a greenish tree;a song of sorrow keeps me late,slow-crafting this short elegy

of the summer day,a friend’s death leaves nothing— not a single colorcan be seen on the meadow or in the orchard beyond

bent with age,my neighbor the beekeeper—

what is it he does working bare-headed and aloneamong the tall sunflowers?

nursing a mouthfull of aching teeth,

well past midnightI close the book of poemsabout the solitude of mountains



188

Michael McClintock

ah, bird of fallmust you fly off even beforethe last walnutsfill the basket?



189

Jo McInerney

eyesight failing . . .in newspaper marginsshe draws

with a firm handthe film stars of her youth



191

Vasile Moldovan

Alone with one’s thoughtsa blind man crosses the street. . .here and therethe dog brings to a stopto lie in wait for his owner

Reanimation Hall— at the head of the bedtwo white chrysanthemumsare lighting each other



192

Joanne Morcom

reading his diary after all this time . . .

why didn’t heever tell methat he loved me?

lunch date with an old friend . . .I borrow her glassesto decipherthe menu



193

Amy Mylander

When I look back I want to say to myself I stepped on no oneto get me to where I am.It takes hard work to bring luck.

Ruined Christmas feastmy Grandma who can NOT cook!carving shoe leather

with giblet bag still inside.Hey! Anyone for pizza?

A Colonoscopy!uncommon poetry wordBut hit fifty andPow! There it is in your face

Well. . . not really, but sort of.



194

Linda Papanicolaou

thread and thimblea string of pearl buttonsmother savedmy childhood memoriesin her sewing basket

purple heartin the dresser draweryears laterhe would only talk about the food

masked ballfor Mardi Grasat the nursing homeeveryone knowsher walker

cheeks flushedby an intravenous dripas if young againshe gazes past the ceiling of the ICU



195

Jack Prewitt

a dead hollyhock determinedly upright,

who dares tell ityour time has passed,you’re an embarrassment

realising how few will cometo my funeralI stop planning it,spend the money on whiskey

at a park benchtwo old timers soak up sunshinefaces full of yesterdaysand cake somebody left

my passageinto autumnal yearsall mapped outnow the botherationof falling in love again



196

Jack Prewitt

her nameescapes my mindbeautifulsmells of violetssleeps in my bed

the milky way and my death poemunfinished

how stars twinkleeven for the nearsighted

a fish skeletonbleached and scouredlight as a leaf I wish my friendsfind me so in death

she tucksa sprig of golden wattlein my white hairI scowl so everyoneknows I’m not in love



197

Jack Prewitt

having livedseveral concurrent lives

who is to say which is the real meand who gives a hoot

the gardenI’m too old to tendthrivesdid it really matter

which we called weeds?

the pillsfor each day separatedinto compartmentslike tiny coffins

a bed of rosesat different stagesof dying

what is love called when it has withered?



198

Patricia Prime

lingeriediscardedfor flannelnow he is no longer hereto see me at bedtime

retirement party the barbecue set outbeneath a treeI planted thirty years agoat the height of my youth

the elderly mantakes a radiointo churchto get the cricket scoresmeanwhile singing lustily

cows bellow as they hear his stepsacross the paddock the crunch of gravel beneaththe old man’s farming boots



199

Patricia Prime

a Shakespeare volumeits woody pagescurling with ageI remember saving my pocket money to buy it

so much sunshinein the old photographsin the albumghosts staring back at meumber in the fading light

out of placeand suddenly oldin a night-spot

where my daughtercelebrates her graduation

grandfather— I see him reading in the afternoonsitting with a glass of wineand a half-smile on his face



200

Patricia Prime

granny returnsto her family from an overseas trip— plastered on her walkertravel stickers

a war veterancrouches at the bus stopsipping wine

while the moon shines abovehere is his bed for the night

my neighbourleans on her walking stick to talk to mebeside the picket fenceshe once used to leap over

broken hipshe lies on a gurney in the hospitalnaked feet poking beneathone thin blanket



201

Patricia Prime

dementia— she doesn’t know my namebut remembersthe scent of day liliesI bring from her garden

second-hand shopmy granddaughter and Isearch through dressesfor her ‘sixties’ dress-upbirthday party

picking up the boxcontaining his ashesits heavinesssurprises me to tears

it’s not in sleepyou come to haunt mebut in little things;the scent of after-shave,an old letter or a song



202

Patricia Prime

grandfatheran old man in his chairpeeling apples

with his penknife for a childhardly able to walk

inheriting this garden from my husbandI miss his bleached hatmy inexperienced handsdon’t know what to hope for



203

Carol Raisfeld

Starlight

the new dress,a moving gardenof peonies …she smiles and I see

her mother again

we gather acorns,laughing as music flaresin the park . . .most of all I rememberthe joy in her smile

visiting day . . .at noon, her eyes quietas she rocksback and forth singing the same child’s song

in dying light

the doctor touches mother’suncombed hair . . .old knotty willows brushthe windows with snow



204

Carol Raisfeld

in the hospiceshe whispers “hold me”and pressing into the beat of my heart

she lets go . . .

broken-hearted,he breakfastsin his son’s kitchensipping teafrom her favorite cup

looking up,mother loved the night sky;her eyes smiling . . .can I open her graveto let the starlight in?

˜



205

Carol Raisfeld

all the yearsof fitting our bodies togetherand stillheat spirals at your touch. . . your mouth, magic

sparking memories,I talk about the children . . .in the quiettouching your cheek’s curve,you don’t know my name

so many stars!how will I find youbeyondthe moon, pleasestill be there for me

the winter windswirls a light brown leaf the colorof my mother’s shawl . . .I can still feel its softness



206

Carol Raisfeld

you dozeto the sound of my voice,remembering my face a moment ago . . .please, don’t go away

wedding day she treats herself to a bikini wax— her grandma’s moustachenewly bleached

the snow,it seems heavierthis year . . .your back, my back,resting side by side

nodding into sleepthe breath of the moonon your back;I pull you closer, holding the light between us.



207

Carol Raisfeld

how bittersweetthat last look in your eyesknowing allthe might-have-beensnow are truly gone

pink slipperscrossed, she lingersover tea . . .sympathy cardscatch the winter light

at the reunionin the middle of a crowd

we hugged . . .a smile to melt the winterhe stayed the night



208

Moira Richards

odd painslittle twingesjust ageI tell myself not wanting to know more



209

Edward Rielly

warm, still day— our daughter expecting her first child,love growing each monthinside each one of us

each week a different floweropens. . .our impatient waitfor the next grandchild



210

Alexis Rotella

Before bedI read the Thesaurus

wizened another wordfor shriveled— the pill I need to fall asleep.

Old high-school friendsmeeting under the choke-cherry the excitement, the hellosand how are yous,then out of things to say.

Mallards quacking on Old Man Creek and you and I, as we approachold age, still searching for a place that feels like home.

Years ago I saw the painting of a woman

walking alone on Christmas Eveunder a full silvery moonand tonight I think of her.



211

Alexis Rotella

I misdialed Mom’s numberbut the woman

who answered remembered meas a childso we talked about her flowers.

The widow’ssmall gardenthe scarecrow she maderesembles herself.

A lullaby in the nursing homesung by one old womanto another.

My 61st birthday approaches . . .Grandma,

what are you doing in my mirror?



212

Alexis Rotella

Wishing for the Impossible My angry friendtells me over lunchhow her husbandat eighty-four

no longer wants to travel.

Then maybe it’s time for youto travel by yourself,I tell her. . .but she’d rather blame himfor ruining her life.

He used to be so adventurous,she continues,and now he won’t even goto a restaurant. . .says they’re too noisy.

The hearing aid he spent

a fortune for?It sits in a drawer. . .our every conversationa yelling match.



213

Alexis Rotella

I look back at his photothe young manI first met— how I loved him then,

how I still love the man he was.

I want him back,the man I married. . .she tells me, weeping. . .

he’s never coming back, I say,don’t torture yourself.

Old age,it’s such a curse, she says,I envy the young peoplejust starting out. . .their possibilities.

Why waste another moment

wishing for impossible things?It’s not too lateto train your mindto accept what is.



214

Alexis Rotella

What would you know about aging? she snaps. . .

Are you some self-appointedmaster of wisdom. . .

who has all the answers?

The tempura arrives. . .it seems to floaton its white cloud-plate;

The wooden Buddhaon the counter silent.

˜



215

Alexis Rotella

Surprise party I carry in the cake

with 80 candles burning Aunt Millie screams The piano is on fire!

Her riches gonethe old womanin the nursing homeevery star now her diamond.

After throwing outthe withered vineinto a pile of weeds,a single morning-glory pale, but blooming.

All the memoriesI chose not to makeout of shynessor afraid what someone

would think.



216

Alexis Rotella

For a full yearI watched my uncle dieand now this morning in the mirrorthe face of grief.

Should I have brought upher face lift?My friend who oncerevealed her soul, now her wordsas thin as filo.

My friend who waits tablesleaves a dollarfor our elderly waitress— not eventen percent.

Buying mums in every shademy elderly motheris coming to visit;the elation I feel in my heartdays before her arrival.



217

Alexis Rotella

He doesn’t remember a thing about his childhoodexcept for honeysuckle vines . . .

The famous bard tells meas we walk Robert Frost’s dirt road.

Her blind datehe talks abouthis three marriagesthat went sour,and his recent heart attack.

I walk on eggsaround herthe woman who learnedface reading from her Chinese grandmother.

The sound of distant musicas I awakemy 90-year-old unclechanting prayersin an ancient tenor’s voice.



218

Alexis Rotella

We may never seeone another again, old friendDean Martin’s voiceon the loudspeakerslipping away like silk.

Life is good again,I tell my motheron the phone— I’m so relieved, she says,

with an illness of her own.

In clinic this morning,the spirit of bambooan old man with back painstands a little straighter,a little more himself.

Still I get wobbly before I passthe construction siteold enoughto be their mother.



219

Alexis Rotella

Towing a womanthrough another autumnof her life,a retriever the colorof maple leaves.

Both brothersin their winter yearsthe cold moonbetween them from the start

will be there till the end.

I rode all nighton the dream-train,Dad,trying to find youafter you died.

Breakfast is ready,my husband callsMy 66-year old love,I only met youyesterday.



220

Alexis Rotella

Tibetan god of longevity— now that I’m 60, I placethe mask in the Good Will binfor some otherstarry-eyed seeker.

At sixty-one,my aunt rides with mefor the first time–

why do I feel like a teenager who just got her license?

It refusesto be erasedby the morning fog old ragged pineon the hillside.



221

Max Ryan

wedding pages— the bride,my old flame’s daughter,mocks me

with her mother’s eyes

overnight train— an old couple savourtheir home-made supperin the window glassI nurse my cardboard tray

ninety years oldDad reads his Li Po,phone off the hook,I listen to mountain winds

watch the mist roll in

broken windowstall grass over the front path…nobody lives hereyet, on the breezethe voice of a child



222

Max Ryan

wave after wavedies on the shoreeighty years are gonethe tidehas no way of turning

that old manmade his fortune gambling,ran off with the mayor’s wifehe’ll buy you a drink if you listen awhile



223

Naoko Kishigami Selland

I remembertraces of hopscotchon the roada placeto come home



224

Adelaide B. Shaw

another spring and I easily forgetmy age;for a few weeks I float

with cherry blossoms

coiled energy— this October sunshinereleases a spring;all that I have done,all that I wish to do

sleep and snow falling— before we leave, sage advicefrom our children;in this progression of life

when did we shift roles?

the beach sunset— with hands held tightly we witness changes;deeper and deeper huesuntil the light is gone



225

Adelaide B. Shaw

is there spring againat the end of our winteror is that a talespun of gossamer threadsto soothe the weary?

high school yearbook— the springtime smilesof hope;my best friend’s nameon a stone marker

pushing through the day small reminders of ageforce a slower pace;this season of winter becomesa quieter time

lately my thoughts slipinto the long past;so ripe and pungentthese memories, I couldpluck one whole



226

Adelaide B. Shaw

sacks of leaves— a tale for the grandchildrenabout bonfires;so much forgotten

with progress

which face is mine,the one in the mirroror in the phototaken fifty years agobefore life happened

he takes my handsqueezing tightly as he did

when I was fiveI fought the restrictionnow I let him lead

your birthday today so many years we came

with gifts of love;a spring celebrationno longer observed



228

Adelaide B. Shaw

daffodilspoking up through ivy,brown with winter burn;the “what ifs” and “could have beens”forgotten in spring’s arrival

the family tableall the stains and scratchesunder a lace cloth;how can I remove memoriesleft by those who have gone?

summer heatin the shade of bougainvilleahe sips coffee alone;the deep paths of memory lining his face



229

Andrew Shimield

those thumbnail children we conceivedthat were not born

—I never think of themat least I say I never do



230

Billy Simms

ashesmy grandfather’s lifepacked in an urnmy father and Ihave nothing to say



231

Guy Simser

still, sixty-years onacid-etched neurons fireSparky’s one patch facenot found until spring plowed into a snowbank

in a Tiger Mothmy open cockpit stall-spinah yes, Icarus(as I loop-the-loop, twice)I understand

in black and whiteshe and I hugging the old corn silo

who of us then, had heardof a phallic symbol

Imagine! Neverthanking mom for rowing beside me each day that July, just to prove thatI too, could swim a half-mile



232

Guy Simser

this lake’s twilighta watercolour washreflecting onthat little gold starfrom my art teacher

another monthanother pale mole popsmy thin skindemanding of me, againa pious acquiescence

vitreous humourthese floating grey thingsdriving me crazy

writing poems of aging gracefully

in the coffeehousereading Kafka againperhaps my last timefrom someone’s iPod, Wherehave all the young men gone?



233

Guy Simser

moonlight reflectionon the creek’s furrowed snow a casket’s satin naponce again, I bury themmom and dad

old toad, sloe eyed andsinking into clay, I amyour echo—both youand I, croaking and slipping backwards our own way

seventy yearsand dying for a last danceshad fliesat eventide

that brilliant full moon which only traces by hisbedside window frameeach late spring, greatly pleases this old man



234

Guy Simser

The firefly’s ardouron and off, on and off an old man’s memory of nature’s heatin tall wet grass

yes, I do stompat my age, green-eyedby this bog by that cocky glee clubof swollen-head frogs

starless nighta test for atheistsdying like meto sneak a peek, beforethe last cock crows

now, with four childrenand our careers long goneit dawns on mehow much my dear Janloves to just sit, and chat



235

Guy Simser

This visible lossof body massmy soulshedding baggagebefore final flight



236

Paul Smith

toothlesssmiling back at mefrom the mirrorthis man who saidhe’d never grow old

memories and hairbegin to leave

with the passageof so many moons

shuffling along the high streetalways a stepor twoafter my thoughts

once so tautand smooththis skin of mineno longer seemsto fit



237

Paul Smith

hanging by a threadthe last leaves of autumngrowing oldno longerjust a thought

those two little boysnearly forty now can’t quite believehow much has changedhow much they haven’t

presented withher to do listI ponder

whose life is itI am living

by the window watching the willow bending in the wind

wondering what freedomI really have



238

Richard Stevenson

the emerald hour— that time when the grassis its deepest green,cottonwoods whisper

what the wind knows.

ash in the pipe— grass a deeper greenin the shade;the retriever appraises me

with his one good eye

Making a big show of folding yellowed notesinto paper planes,our sad history teacherimportunes the third floor breeze.

red-cheeked apples— prettier than they taste;prettier still wizened

with snow caps, waiting for the cedar waxwings



239

Richard Stevenson

“Nothing gold can stay,”the plaque on the bench says— the mourning dove coosthe same few notesin the branches above

Younger in lamplight,your shoulders beneath the sheetheave gently, your eyessofter, no crow’s feet, laugh lines— briefly the girl I married



240

André Surridge

a photographof my great great grandfatherDr. Ponsonby carrying his Gladstone bag a part of him in me

another fallthis time a broken hipthe old man groanshe’s sick of hospitalsick of it all

obituary the sum of someone’s lifein a paragraphfleeting wisps of cloudthis wild spring day

losing my hairon the wash basinscattered strandsthe setting sun througha thinning silver birch



241

André Surridge

shaving mirroris that really megrey going on whiteget out of here!

Otaki Beachthe old man next door

walks the dog a long leash hanging outof his car window

meeting an old friendunmistakable accenta plum in his mouththey say he talks that way because of his dentures

complainshe’s off fishing againdoesn’t she know a diet rich in troutprevents senior moments



242

André Surridge

aching back getting dressed to visitthe doctorthankful to the inventorof velcro on these shoes

health scarea timely reminderthat life is shortremembering the nameof a forgotten flower

he borrowsher tweezers to pluck grey hairsfrom both earsand the bridge of his nose

wisteriabranches entwinedold loversthe deeper resonanceof their embrace



243

André Surridge

playing marbles with his toddler grandsonfor five minutesgrandma has to helpthe old man back to his feet

searching through the phone book the pagecloser to his nosethe numbers still fuzzy

Age Concern Centremeeting her for the first timeshe tells me aboutflooding her kitchen twice inten minutes conversation

winter winda creak in the big oak end of the day the all over acheof old age



244

André Surridge

running lateforgetting where I putthe car keysmy ten-year-old grandsonfinds them in the fridge

café lunchold friends talk about old timesfifty years marriedstill finishing each other’ssentences

meal timetraffic jam at the rest home

wheelchairs and walkersthe clatter of cutlery as it falls to the floor

running onto the ground to fieldthe cricket balla little boy spectator

was it really fifty summers ago?



245

André Surridge

the old woman with a walking stick bent overher daughter’s gravelike a question mark

in the mirrorthe shock of it allthe tragedy— can this broken downold thespian be me?

in my dreamI grow younger, walk talland straight againthe wind gathers blossomsfastens them to the trees

from the groundeven on tiptoeI cannot reachthe oak’s lowest branchplanted when I was born



246

André Surridge

chronic illnessthe hill I climb to getback to the housefrom the letterboxday after day after…

her firstpension chequeshe spends iton champagne and caviarand a shirt for her boyfriend

favourite printCanaletto’s Veniceafter thirty yearscolours have lost their lustremy hair thinning to grey wisps

funeral serviceone by one the mourners leaveI pausea moment to reflect

who will be next?



247

André Surridge

I am an old foolto think that your love for meis anything morethan that of a good friend

whose company you enjoy

I thought true lovecould only be experiencedonce in a lifetimeyet here it comes againthe rose has a second flowering



248

George Swede

A sunny day yet a surge of despairand a dull ache— once more things unspokenhave their say

Last night’s dream the firstin which I no longer wasa younger man— I square my shouldersin the heavy summer air

The autumn meadow awash with the colorsof wild flowersyet an autumn chillhas entered my bones

Morning bedroom sun:the new leg and foot veinsan updated mapof all the roadsin this particular life



249

George Swede

Still in the shedgrandfather’s bootscovered with the mudfrom his last sowing—againI leave them there

Mother has senta photo of her facelift— behind her an ancientFrench cathedralcovered with scaffolding

The cemetery more green than the park across the street— once more only good deedsin today’s obits

Among the tall pinesa mass grave in whichmy father’s bones might lie— the green grass flat fromthe weight of its length



250

George Swede

Side by sidethe same way they used to siton the country store porchthe three old timersin their graves

With us from the startalmost four decades agothis stainless steel teapotstill reflects facesnow scratched and blurred



251

Carolyn Thomas

approaching sixty reaching to place the milk cartonin a dish cupboard— how did i become someonei don’t recognize?

the winter moontoo bright to gaze uponbut for moments at a time. . .i close my eyes and feel the windon my age-lined face

carrying excess weightthat age has broughti move a little slowerand take more timeto learn a new game

my mother-in-law the things she says out loudthat she wouldn’t have said

when she was young— i find myself saying them too



252

Marc Thompson

riding a busthrough the Oklahoma heatan old womantells everything that mattersto someone else’s son



253

Michael Thorley

an old tapeof my piano practicecaught your voicecalling out my namefrom a long way away



254

Julie Thorndyke

I fold your shirtempty your trouser pocketsof coins, cryptic wordson crumpled paper, the lastnote you ever wrote yourself



255

John Samuel Tieman

this morning I founda Mass card for an old frienddead now 14 yearsI don’t know where the time wentsitting here all afternoon

original artcovers my living room wallbut all I see isthe blank tv screen in whichan old man is reflected



256

Kozue Uzawa

a winter apple treegrowing inside meI protect it keeping my heart warm

seeing one leafless treein the backyardmy mind slantstoward winter

a tiny green frog on my palm jumpedinto the pondI still remember the airof that prairie August



257

Geert Verbeke

cliff-dwelling swallowsgather for new migrationour mother still singsgolden hits of yesterday down by the lazy river

sonorous echoesof the Himalayan bowlssounds of Kathmandumother gazes with open mouthon her head a newspaper

a family tree with so many special names vanished in timeon mother’s bedside tablea few weather-beaten faces

mum slips out againfrom the party for a walk how fragile the night

who does this hat belong to who does this head belong to



258

Geert Verbeke

on her night tableone wrinkled airline ticketand her old pillboxa stewardess with a pastnow flying without future

on her garden chairthe summer vegetablesand a love letterall higgledy-piggledy the addressee is unknown

the whole family congregate in the rest homeuncork the red winemum is a sleeping beauty nothing to disturb the peace

on the windowsilla sparrow frozen to deathmum points with her headshe remains silent for hourslater in the day she will scream



259

Geert Verbeke

in the goldfish bowlmother throws one of her pillsin troubled waterthe goldfish floats on his back exasperatingly slow



260

Ella Wagemakers

year’s endthe stones on whichI stumbleas worn outas my knees



261

Linda Jeannette Ward

somewherethere’s that lost sister who’salso grown old . . . iceat the pond’s edgeopens to patterns of lace

Mother advisedfill a treasure boxto leave for your heirs. . . how to containthe moon in your touch in spring

forgotten faceof the tall strangerI waltzed with all nightthe brush of his linen suitmy only memory

flamenco with closed eyessnaps and flourishesfrom the aged woman’s handsall the tales of her life



262


like a preludeto the final movementall these little deathsin lovemaking emptiness becomes full

encasedin crepe paper skinand reptilian elbowsI forget how they clash

with tee-shirt and jeans

if I live long enough will this lifeshriveled to a black crustbegin to peel asskin from a roasted pepper

lemon moon— adolescent angereven in old agethe realization that youthink I’m someone I’m not



263


a heavy moonlights one side of the housethe sun rises on the other— too late to start againtoo soon to die

only at sixteendid she take the risksshe takes now at sixty . . . all those years in betweenthinking there was something to lose

promisesof our life togetherbarren now, this buddleia

where butterflies coloredits summer bloom

I peer out atthe resurrection of spring from a prison of dead cellsand misfiring neuronsthat will never rise again



264


walled up aliveinside this withering shellI give up the fightand wait to be absorbedinto the large womb

more and more this needto discard all these thingsand start over again . . .the apple tree cracksunder the weight of apples

old now, I quitmy secure job anyway

walk a cold beachuntangle drowned ladybugsfrom tide-line detritus

another year gone by waiting for the right timeto leave . . .the old mill’s dune of sawdusthard packed by rain



265


the years behind suddenly longer than the years ahead— in the flooded churchyardthe couple’s tombstonesprop each other up

calmly dressing herfor last ritesuntil the sightof the finely darned patchon her gown

seventy-fiveon her wedding day late winter winds— the uprooted apple treeblossoms

turned twenty last monthsixty the week after— in the curtain’s sheer lining just a single flashof firefly



266


aging now I yearn more and morefor wildernessand one night of love

with a total stranger

what world did you inhabitMotherthose final yearsthe path through the moongatea tangle of vines

dangerousto live as if there had been a startand will be a finishto this life

in the coleus planterthe lushest leavesnibbled to tatters in the nightthe relentless subtractionof what I once was



267


Father measures his declineby the number of choresleft undone: goldenrod

woven through oak railsthe bluebird house door, open

last spring’s golden koisuspended beneath thick ice— through days of hampered movementsometimes the vague glimmerof that imprisoned self

lightly touching the inside of her thighshis fingershelp her to rememberhow to tango

a Picassofor the end of this lifebroken blue edgesrearranged in waysunrecognizable



268


our initials etchedinto a beeswax candlemelted to a hardened pool. . . such a deep red we burnedfor one long winter’s night

still, these risky fantasiesenticing to try . . .once I walked dangerous streets

with endless timeto find a safe path again

declining moonfeathered by tracery clouds. . . outside the free clinica hooker’s gray rootsas she lights a cigarette

having cleared upall the mysteries of lifein my younger daysI sink into time collapsedlike a Dali clock gone mad



269


not stealthily as it came to Fumikobut hammering like a hungry woodpeckerthese visits from what’s to come

old cat so thin . . .autumn windbrushes my cheek

with a kissof winter

pointillism in brownlove letterslayered in tatted lacespotted as the handsthat refold them

your giftof a cedarwood boxfrom the prime of my lifei return to you

with the ashes of my poems



270


Father’s stroke-free handreaches for mine . . .a tiny spider, green, greenand translucent as sea glassdescends from the bedside lamp

in a library book of living willssomeone’s suicide note

written on the back of a prescription for pain



271

Ellen Weston

time wastedin being goodfor a myth— Santa never comesto our nursing home



272

Liam Wilkinson

the gaps betweenmy visits to you,like the handleon your shoehorn,grow longer and longer

the long lineof namesbefore you reachthe right one—

mine

all your healthy years,maroon sweaters andSunday papers, fallbehind you as you walk the wrong way

as anotherfamily argument risesover the tableI catch youremoving your hearing-aid



273

Liam Wilkinson

your frail fingersinside the clock— you’re still

working the world outfrom the inside

in the darknessof the wardrobehis old uniformstill standsto attention

after both bypass and pacemakeryou still live by the old songsand smilethough your heartis aching

even though your handscan no longer mend them,

we go on saving the things we have brokenfor you



274

Stephanie Williams

my hands tiedto a celloall the thingsI could never say on my own



275

Jim Wilson

Memorial Day afternoon sun and shadowsa cool ocean breezean old man cleans a gravestonehis grandchildren are busy

a lifetime passeshow many years have gone by?how many full moons?twenty million years agothe valley was filled with ice

I do not feel wellthis happens more often now,since the surgery.

A river in fierce full flooddrags whole forests to the sea.

gray in the mirror,I refuse to die my hair,indulge in despair;brittle scattered autumn leaves,a car with lots of mileage



276

Fran Witham

caring formy old, ailing dog I hope someone will beas kind to mein my last days

a passing strangerasking for the timecalls me Ma’am , not Miss :through bare oak branchesa gray November sky

a simplequestion:

when I’m gone will I know I’m gone?

as the cold, gray weatherdescendsas the holiday charadebeginsI hold on by a strand



277

Harold Wright

Looking Back on Youth Tanka

Were I young againI’d probably do all over

all I did back then,except I’d have more courage

in sports and kissing girls.

Were I ten againI know that I’d take a dive

from the highest boardInstead of splashing girls

over at the shallow end.

Were I twelve or soI wouldn’t just run away

from the big mean guy I’d go and get my bike back

even if it took a club.

I’d not put on boots

and wade through whirling waterafter days of rain.

Still I’m glad I clawed my way out of that swirling sewer.



278

Harold Wright

I’d not pick up toadsjust to let them pee on me

to try growing warts.Gosh, I learned that it was true

and I hated bumpy hands.

I’d not roll in leavesafter they were all raked up

by that mean neighbor;imagine having doggy poo

smeared all over your school clothes.

Were I young againI’d not kill so many frogs

nor squish piss ants…But I’d still like swatting flies

and shooting big squeaky rats.

I’d not come to school

carrying cut off possum feetin my pants pocket

still I’d miss pulling them outand stirring up study halls.



279

Harold Wright

I’d refuse to wearthose green tweed knickerbockers

that itched like baled hay nor sit in that church for hours

on a hot Sunday in May.

I had a good aimwith probably anything

I picked up to throw So I’d not try for Dad’s head

with a frozen hard pawpaw.

Were I young againI’d listen to the old folks

about my postureInstead of always combing

the hair on my drooping head.

I’d not carve my name

in a heart with “Nancy H.”on my desk at school

Nor get myself a paddling in front of the whole fifth grade.



280

Harold Wright

If I were sixteenI’d ask an older cousin

or someone’s sisterhow a guy, using one hand,

unhooks squirming girls’ bras.

Were I still sixteenand sitting in the back seat

of my Dad’s old FordI’d try at least one more time

for a lower blouse button.

I would eat more pieinstead of saving nickels

to buy Christmas giftsfor some old aunt who got me

some dumb game for little kids.

I wish I’d reached up

to that dusty closet shelf and pulled down one book

instead of reading comicsand my uncle’s Esquire.

˜



281

An Xiao

What can you teach me,old couple, that I have notyet discovered? — the sound of yourbickering as I sit alone

i’d write lettersto tell you all aboutthis latest good newslola . . . if you wereonly alive to read them

* lola = grandmother in Tagalog

some nights i wonder if my deceasedgrandmotherstill watches over me

with her loving smile

ten centuries agoin courtly Japan you’dhave sent me a poem— after our night together

what can I hope to receive?



282

Brian Zimmer

a last memory:my asking had it gone fast?“you have no idea…”a new note in her laughher grey eyes faraway

the oracle spokenfrom the prison of her chairnow empty decades:“the days drag by slowly but how the years fly”



284



285

CONTRIBUTOR NOTES

First publication acknowledgements are given below.Tanka that are not listed are previously unpublished.

Anderson, Hortensia — Tanka previously unpublished.

an’ya — “Old and tired”, SH. — “Atop windy bluffs”, HERM.

— “Christmas time”, EUCL , 3. — “Farewell crocus”, moon moths , the natal*light press, 2007. — “It’s here we built”, EUCL 1. — “That final spring”, GUST. — “One quick deed”, AMTK.

Arkenberg, Megan — “october morning”, 3Lights Gallery’s Tankafall , October-December 2007.

Avinger, Munira Judith — “lilac sky”, GUST Fall/Winter 07.

Babusci, Pamela A . —“having hot flashes”, MET Autumn 2006.

Bacharach, David — “seeing him”, SH , Spring 2006. — “you just”, SH , Winter 2007.

— “the box”, MET , Spring 2007. — “will I ever”, “my old dog”, SH , Summer 2006. — “a pile of stones”, TSPL, winner 2006. — “the will directed”, SH , Winter 2006. — “my old boat”, “when I was young”, MET , Summer 2007.

Barber, Collin — “candlelight calm”, MNST Autumn/Winter 2007.

Barnard, Jenny

— “red zinnias”, GUST Fall/Winter 07.



287

— “the spring just begun”, LYNX June 2003. — “all these years”, LYNX 2001. — “we work briskly”, Haiku Light.

— “wind outside the mall”, Growing Late. — “while planting bulbs”, LYNX 2001. — “for years I had desire”, SH , September 2003. — “how ironic”, HBRD. — “for years we used to talk”, LYNX v.11 no. 2. — “autumn chill”, RNVZ v.3 no. 2. — “in a reverie”, LYNX. — “my youth spent”, A Work of Love , Tiny Poems Press, 1997. — “wanting my old life”, WFF , 1994.

— “under a tree”, FRGP Winter, 1995 v.18: no. 4. — “beyond this life”, LYNX, 1995/96. — “showing my daughter”, AMTK #8 Spring, 2000. — “pushed by the wind”, RIBN Fall 2005. — “without fanfare at dusk”, SH , September, 2003.

Clink, Carolyn — “Old people gather”, GUST Fall/Winter 07.

Cox, Dina E.

— Tanka previously unpublished.

Davis, Tish — Tanka previously unpublished.

de Gruttola, Raffael — “the Village poet is dead”, GUST Fall / Winter 2007.

Dixon, Melissa — “this wintry day”, GUST Summer 2007. — “the secluded park”, Winner, TSPL Award, 2000; TTA, 2003. — “head back”, GUST Fall/Winter 2007.

Dyck, Marje A. — “through your new eyes”, Castles in the Sand, 2002 TSAM . — “autumn geese”, Tanka Café, TSAN, June 2003. — “rain for days”, GUST , 2005. — “heavy-hearted”, GUST , 2006. — “in my notebook”, Tanka Café, TSAN , Fall 2006.

— “still”, GUST , Fall/Winter 2007.



288

Emrich, Jeanne — “don’t take me”; AMTK Issue 6. — “long winter hours”; RIBN , Autumn 2006. — “at her gravesite”; HERM , 2005. — “did the young girl”; HERM , 2006. — “wondering for years”; HERM, 2005. — “summer solstice”; YLMN Seed Pearls Tanka Contest, 2005“Very Highly Commended.”

Engle, Margarita — “cave art”, GUST Fall/Winter 2007.

Fielden, Amelia — “Easter Day”; “how many times”; “spring birds sing”; “holding him”; “trapped in traffic”; Fountains Play , 2002.

— “When All the Men She Has Loved Are Gone” (3 tanka set);“stop trying”; Short Songs , 2003.

— “gathering storm”; “purchasing”; “aged aunt”; “this morning”;“tired tired”; “at the market”; “breezy morning”; “so sultry”; Still Swimming , 2005.

— “at seventy-three”; “four years”; Baubles, Bangles & Beads , 2007.

— “nothing”, Kaleidoscope , Shuji Terayama (Tokyo: HokuseidoPress, forthcoming) trans. by Kozue Uzawa and Amelia Fielden

Contemporary Tanka from Japan GUST Fall/Winter.

Forrester, Stanford M. — “alzheimer’s ward”; GUST 5, Spring/Summer 2007. — “in your garden”; REDL 1. — “my memories of you”; SH , January-February 2004, Vol. 2,No. 1.

Gadd, Bernard — Tanka previously unpublished.

Garrison, Denis M. — “my father’s workshop”; “whose hands are these”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM .

— “the steam whistle’s song”; RIBN - Winter 2007. — “empty courtyard”; NDR , Winter/Spring 2006. — “late in the season”; NDR , Winter/Spring 2007.

— “I can’t wait for echoes”; “she smoothes”; GUST #5, Spring



289

2007. — “after all these years”; GUST #6, Fall/Winter 2007. — “he asked me”; EUCL 3, November 2007. — “in the long night”; Distinctive Scribblings award; EUCL 3,November 2007.

— “the brief cloud of snow”; SH , Vol. 4 No. 2, Summer 2006. — “I am still here”; LNFL , 2007. — “come close, young woman”; “we smile through tears”; “anempty lot”; MET 1, Autumn 2006.

— “my darling barfly”; “sandstone garden wall”; “rye whisky”;“the boy says”; MET 3, Spring 2007.

— “forty years”; MET 4, Summer 2007.

— “and when”; MET 5, Autumn 2007 . — “seasons come and go”; “since you left”; NDR , Winter/Spring 2006.

— “my childhood replays”; “afloat at last in”; “father, you were”; NDR , Winter/Spring 2007. — “things go well”; Gusts #4, Autumn 2006. — “intensive care”; Eucalypt 1, November 2006. — “my fingertips”; Eucalypt 2 , May 2007. — “unshed tears”; “yet chilled to the bone”; Simply Haiku , Vol. 4No. 2, Summer 2006.

— “as I turn her brooch”; “as the cold gurney”; Fire Pearls anthology, 2006.

— “gone so long”; MET, Autumn 2006. — “some nights”; MET, Spring 2007. — “in my dreams”; MET, Summer 2007 — “mayflies”; MET, Autumn 2007

Gendrano, Victor — Tanka previously unpublished.

George, Beverley — “your childhood home”; MET Autumn 2006. — “what can it matter”; empty garden . — “sun going down”; REDL 3(2) June 2007. — “losing your love”; STYL 15, 2004; empty garden . — “lonely nights”; “A Christmas carol”; GUST Fall/Winter 2007.

Goldstein, Sanford — “Anne Frank”; AMTK , Issue 9

— “selling”; December 5, 2007, in Kyoka Mad Poems



290

http://groups.google.com/group/kyoka. — “how dark”; “in my small village”, GUST #5,Spring/Summer 2007.

— “my elder sister”; GUST Fall/Winter.

Grace, M L — Tanka previously unpublished.

Grillo, Andrea — “mid”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM . — “as I age toward crone”; MET , Autumn 2007.

Hart, William — “goats grazed here”; TTJ . — “ah, monsoon puddles!”; WIST . — “during uncle’s last days”; TTJ , 2008.

Harvey, Michele — “her life”; “so easily”; “She prefers”; “taking pieces”; MET Autumn 2007.

Hawes, C W

— “a few coins clink”; MET Autumn 2007.

Heinrich, Peggy — “old home movies”; MNST Autumn/Winter 2007.

Higginson, William J. — “The Sea of Okhotsk” SH , 2:6 Winter 2004.

Howard, Elizabeth — “across the lake”; MET , Winter 2006. — “a classmate dead”; RIBN , Spring 2005. — “a dream of floating”; The Nor’easter , 10:2, Fall/Winter 2002. — “driving alone”; GUST , Spring/Summer 2005. — “each October”; RIBN , I:4, Winter 2005. — “field of ironweed”; MET , Spring 2007. — “the fridge’s racket”; MET , Summer 2007. — “glowing in the dark”; HERM , I:1-2, Spring-Winter 2004. — “great-grandmother’s”; AMTK , #1, Fall 96; Castles in the Sand,2002 TSAM .

— “high school reunion”; HERM , II:1 & 2, Spring-Summer,



291

Autumn-Winter 2005. — “hills shiny with rain”; Short Stuff , I:4, Aug. 2002. — “hummingbird lost”; AMTK , #9, Fall 2000. — “I cannot recall your name”; HERM , III:1-2, Spring-Summer, Autumn-Winter 2002. — “laughing”; RIBN , I:2, 2005. — “motionless shadow”; TNHR , #3, 2001. — “old-time veteran”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM . — “the rusty wheelbarrow”; Rose Haiku for Flower Lovers and Gardeners, 2005.

— “shelling field peas”; WHR , 3:2, Dec 2-03. — “sister who loved flowers”; TSAN , V:3, Sep 2004.

— “the spiderweb”; Mariposa , #16, Spring-Summer 2007. — “strength gone to cancer”; HERM , III:1-2, Spring-Summer, Autumn-Winter 2006. — “the suave fellow”; WHR , 2:3, Nov 2002. — “two granddaughters”; TSAN , IV:4, Dec 2003. — “up the stairs of life”; Poets’ Forum Magazine , 17:1, Summer2005.

— “viewing the mountain”; LYNX , XVI:1, Feb. 2001.

Johnson, Joyce Sandeen

— “Evening in Paris”; MNST Autumn/Winter 2007.

Johnson, Angela — “our hands”; EUCL 3, 2007.

Karkow, Kirsty — “a vivid day”; AMTK spring 2001. — “each day”; Poetry in the Light , March 2001; shorelines: haiku,haibun and tanka , Kirsty Karkow, 2007.

— “thoughts”; YLMN finalist June 2004. — “belying”; LYNX Autumn 2004. — “half moon beach”; REDL Vol.1 No.1; water poems: haiku, tanka and sijo, Kirsty Karkow, 2005.

— “rose petals”; water poems: haiku, tanka and sijo, Kirsty Karkow,2005.

— “if you thought”; GUST #6 Fall/Winter 2007. — “he travels the world”; GUST fall/winter 2007.



292

Kei, M. — “my old car”; REDL , 3:1, January, 2007. — “orange needles”; Anglo-Japanese Tanka Society . 2006. — “I have heard of love that”; MET , Winter 2006. — “this heron knows”; MET , Autumn 2007. — “give me an old dog”; Haiku du Jour , 21 March 2007. — “After his strokes”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM . — “her favorite flower”; SKBK October, 2006.

Ketchek, Michael —“the steam pipes banging”; FVLD Summer 1995. — “wet snow falls on”; MET Spring 2007.

— “old man”; TSPL 2001.

Kimmel, Larry — “touch . . . touch . . . ”; RNVZ VII:3. — “here where the river”; RNVZ VII:3. — “the river snakes”; STIL : Two 2001. — “season’s end”; MET 30 June 2006. — “New Territory”; LYNX : XIX; 1, 2004. — “while I slept ”; TTJ 2003; no. 23. — “as twilight gathers”; The Christian Science Monitor : August 30,

1996. — “along”; REDL Vol. 1; no. 2, 2005. — “in rural Vermont”; MET 30 June 2006. — “at the chapel window”; LYNX : XIV; 3, 1999. — “looking up, I gaze”; The Christian Science Monitor : October 18,2000.

— “the scrape of curled”; Nor’Easter : Fall/Winter 2000. — “first light”; RIBN : Vol. 1; no. 3, 2005. — “where a careful stitching”; RIBN , Tanka Café: Vol. 1; no. 2,2005.

— “scuffling through dry leaves”; AMTK : Issue 14, 2004. — “since morning”; GUST : Summer/Spring 2005. — “journal entry”; The Five-Hole Flute : Modern English TankaPress 2006.

— “this creek”; TSA: honorable mention Summer 2006.

King, Doreen — Tanka previously unpublished.



293

Kituai, Kathy — “eager to greet”; YLMN , No 20, 2006. — “lavender”; EUCL No 2. — “softer than usual”; “how truthful the trees”; “It’s not autumnyet”; “are they clichés; Straggling Into Winter , Interactive Press,2007.

Kocher, Philomene — “over the years”; GUST Fall/Winter 2007.

LaMure, Don — Tanka previously unpublished.

LeBel, Gary — Tanka previously unpublished.

Leuck, Angela — Tanka previously unpublished.

Lucky, Bob — “I haven’t spoken”; SH , August 2007. — “life’s ups and downs”; “relatives”; MET , Spring 2007.

— “at his funeral”; STYL 26, June 2007.

Lupton, Jeanne — “let her go:; GUST . — “60th September”; REDL . — “from summer hills”; AMTK .

Maffei, Laura — “noting”; “bank clerk”; “her mother’s”; Drops from Her Umbrella (Inkling Press 2006).

Mariano, Thelma — “a sudden hush”; GUST Fall/Winter 2007. — “a night train whistles”; “chilly day”; “inertia”; GUST ,Spring/Summer 2007.

Martin, Terra — “wind-beaten ferns”; EUCL 3.



294

Masat, Francis — “Do you”; MET, Autumn 2006. — “Saturday Party”; LYNX, XX:3, Oct, 2005. — “folks gather around”; LYNX, XX:3, Oct, 2005. — “willows”; SH, Vol. 4, No. 1, Spring 2006. — “a ribbon”; MET, Spring 2007. — “the stack of books”; MET, Autumn 2006. — “out of Mom’s wheel chair”; REDL, Vol. 1, No. 1, Jan 2005. — “sunset”; “fireplace”; MET, Winter 2006. — “sunset beach”; STYL Poetry Journal, No. 17, April 2005. — “fall leaves”; AMTK, No. 14, March 2005. — “mom’s attic”; Atlas Poetica 1, Spring 2008.

McClintock, Karen — “All her days”; The Meux Home Museum, Fresno, CA.

McClintock, Michael — “as a young poet”; Letters in Time , 2005. — “tell me a story”; Letters in Time , 2005. — “I sit up watching”; BLTH , December 2004. — “going back”; RNVZ , XI:1, Spring 2003. — day after day; BLTH , December 2004.

— “a few”; BLTH , December 2004. — “the old ways”; TSAN , March 2004. — “today there’s an hour”; Letters in Time , 2005. — “for longevity”; BTLR # 10, 2004. — “silence”; Letters in Time , 2005. — “an old photo”; TTA, 2003. — “admiring the oak”; GUST , Summer 2007. — “planning”; “coming back”; “for myself”; “about problems”;“crossing the border”; “the moonlit cedars”; MET , Autumn 2007.

— “a few rubber bands”; “what a thought!”; MET , Winter 2006. — “holy rites”; BLTH , June 2006. — “folding”; TTA, 2003. — “the mausoleum”; TSPL , 2004. — “closing the book”; HERM , 2006. — “when life ends”; “many days after”; MET , Autumn 2006. — “once I was young”; EUCL 2, 2007. — “amid worn furnishings”; AMTK , Issue 15/16, 2006. — “the quick robin bobs”; BTLR #15, 2006. — “an aged beauty”; BLTH , Spring 2004.

— “of the summer day”; GUST , Winter 2006.



296

Ryan, Max — “ninety years old”; TSPL Awards, 2004. — “broken windows”; YLMN , 2005.

Selland, Naoko Kishigami — “I remember”; GUST , Fall/Winter 2007.

Shaw, Adelaide B. — “another spring”; “high school yearbook”; “another spring”; MET , Autumn 2007. — “pushing through the day”; PRES #32. — “lately my thoughts slip”; “sacks of leaves”; MET , Spring 2007.

— “which face is mine”; “he takes my hand”; “your birthday today”; MET , August 2006. — “each with a cane”; “an old woman”; “crabapples in bloom”;HHRV , June 2006.

— “November winds”; PRES , September 2005 — “daffodils”; RIBN , June 2005. — “the family table”; Tanka Café, TSAN , December 2004. — “summer heat”; SH , July 2004.

Shimield, Andrew

— “those thumbnail children”; EUCL 3.

Simms, Billy — “ashes”; MET , Autumn 2007.

Simser, Guy — “moonlight reflection”; Japan Tanka Poet’s Club Journal , #17,2000. Hon. Mention: 3rd Annual Int’l Tanka Competition.

— “old toad, sloe eyed and”; WFF , AHA Books, 1994. — “seventy years”; RIBN , Autumn 2006. — “that brilliant full moon”; MET , Winter 2006. — “The firefly’s ardour”; Bywords Journal , Ottawa, Canada 2006. — “yes, I do stomp”; EUCL 2007. — “starless night”; MET , Fall 2007. — “now, with four children”; MET , Spring 2007. — “This visible loss”; GUST Fall /Winter 07.



297

Smith, Paul — “those two little boys”; “presented with”; “by the window”; MET , Autumn 2007. — “toothless”; “hanging by a thread”; MET , Winter 2007.

Stevenson, Richard —“the emerald hour”; “ash in the pipe”; Atlas Poetica 1, 2008. — “Making a big show”; “Younger in lamplight”; A Tidings of Magpies (forthcoming from Spotted Cow Press, 2008). — “red-cheeked apples”; The Emerald Hour (forthcoming fromEkstasis Editions, 2008).

Surridge, André — “a photograph”; MET , Autumn 2007.

Swede, George — “A sunny day”; REDL , 2003. — “Last night’s dream the first”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM . — “The autumn meadow”; MET , 2006. — “Morning bedroom sun”; AMTK , 2007. — “Still in the shed”; HBRD , 1994. — “Mother has sent”; AMTK , 1998.

— “The cemetery”; something like a sigh, 2005 TSAM . — “Among the tall pines”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM . — “Side by side”; TSPL , 1991. — “With us from the start”; TSPL , 1992.

Thomas, Carolyn — Tanka previously unpublished.

Thompson, Marc — “riding a bus”; AMTK #4.

Thorley, Michael —“an old tape”; EUCL .

Thorndyke, Julie — “I fold your shirt”; KOKA 7.

Tieman, John Samuel — Tanka previously unpublished.



298

Uzawa, Kozue — “a winter apple tree”; GUST Summer 2007. — “a tiny green frog”; GUST Fall/Winter 2007.

Verbeke, Geert — “cliff-dwelling swallows”; “sonorous echoes”; “a family tree”;“mum slips out again”; “on her night table”; “on her gardenchair”; “the whole family”; “on the windowsill”; “in the goldfishbowl”; Sweeps of Rain by Geert Verbeke, published by Geert

Verbeke and Cyberwit India.

Wagemakers, Ella

— “year’s end”; MET , Autumn 2007.

Ward, Linda Jeannette — “somewhere”; EUCL 3. — “a heavy moon”; BLTH , Vol. 14(2) 2004. — “only at sixteen”; BLTH, Vol. 17(1) 2007. — “promises”; HBRD, VXII (1) 2001. — “I peer out at”; “walled up alive”; BLTH Vol. 15(2) 2005. — “more and more this need”; HBRD, XV (1) 2004. — “old now, I quit”; TNHR #4, 2005.

— “another year gone by”; YLMN, 15, 2004. — “the years behind suddenly”; PAPW, Summer 2004. — “calmly dressing her”; Scent of Jasmine and Brine, Inkling Press,2007.

— “seventy-five”; TSAN , March 2004. — “turned twenty last month”; TSA Contest Honorable Mention;RIBN Vol. 3(2) 2007.

— “aging now”; MET, Summer 2007. — “what world did you inhabit”; HBRD, XVI (3) 2006. — “dangerous”; RIBN Vol. 2(1) 2006. — “in the coleus planter”; BLTH Vol. 13(4) 2003. — “Father measures his decline”; HBRD. XIV (1) 2003. — “last spring’s golden koi”; BLTH Vol. 13(3) 2003. — “lightly touching”; MET, Winter 2006. — “a Picasso”; EUCL 2, 2007. — “our initials etched”; PAPW, Winter 2003. — “still, these risky fantasies”; Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM . — “declining moon”; PAPW, Winter 2003. — “having cleared up”; BTLR Vol. 16(2) 2005.

— “not stealthily”; GUST 5, 2007.



299

— “old cat so thin”; PAPW, Autumn 2003. — “pointillism in brown”; EUCL 1, 2006. — “your gift”; GUST 4, 2006. — “Father’s stroke-free hand”; TSA Contest Third Place, 2001. — “in a library book”; KOKA 7.

Weston, Ellen — “time wasted”; EUCL 3.

Wilkinson, Liam — Tanka previously unpublished.

Williams, Stephanie — “my hands tied”; in “i blame sarah balliet”, COLLAGE 36.2 ,Millikin University, Spring 2007.

Wilson, Jim — Tanka previously unpublished.

Witham, Fran M. — “as the cold, gray weather”; MET , Autumn 2007.

Wright, Harold — Tanka previously unpublished.

Xiao, An — “What can you teach me”; “ten centuries ago”; FRPL, 2006.

Zimmer, Brian — Tanka previously unpublished.



300

TANKA VENUES

Approved by the Tanka Society of America for use in its publications.

AJTS: Anglo-Japanese Tanka Society online collection of tanka.

AJTS website at: www.geocities.jp/nichieitanka/

AMTK: American Tanka (biannual, 1996–2003, annual 2004– ,

Laura Maffei, Staten Island, New York)

BLTH: Blithe Spirit (quarterly, 1991– , British Haiku Society;

London, England)

BTLR: bottle rockets (biannual, 1999– , Stanford Forrester, bottle

rockets press, Windsor, Connecticut)

CLLV: Countless Leaves (anth., CD, arranged by Gerald St. Maur.Magpie Productions. Inkling Press. Edmonton, Alberta,

Canada. 2001.)

DRRM: The Dreaming Room (anth., Modern English Tanka Press,

Baltimore, Maryland, 2007)

EUCL: Eucalypt (biannual, 2007– , Beverley George; Pearl Beach,

NSW, Australia)

FHFL: The Five-Hole Flute (anth., Modern English Tanka Press,

Baltimore, Maryland, 2006)

FITF: Footsteps in the Fog (anth., Press Here, Michael Dylan

Welch, Sammamish, Washington, 1994)

FRGP Frogpond : The Journal of the Haiku Society of America

(quarterly, 1978– 1995 / triannual, 1995–; Haiku Society of

America, Inc., New York, New York; ISSN: 8755-156X)

FRPL: Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (anth.,

M. Kei, Publisher, Perryville, Maryland, 2006)

FVLD: Five Lines Down (biannual [4 issues], 1994-1996, Eds.,

Kenneth Tanemura & Sanford Goldstein. Privately printed.)

GUST: GUSTS: Contemporary Tanka (biannual, 2005– , Tanka

Canada; Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada)

HBRD: Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem (quarterly,

1990–, Phyllis Walsh, Richland Center, Wisconsin)

HERM: Hermitage: A Haiku Journal (annual, 2004–2006, Ion

Codrescu, Constanta, Romania)

HHRV: Haiku Harvest: Journal of Haiku in English (11 issues,

2000–2006, Modern English Tanka Press, Baltimore, MD)

ITSW: In the Ship’s Wake (anth., Iron Press, North Shields,

Northumberland, UK, 2001)

KOKA: Kokako (2002– , editors Bernard Gadd and Patricia Prime,

SPIN, 42 Galbraith St., Waihi, New Zealand.)

LILR: Lilliput Review (approx. monthly, 1989– , Don Wentworth,

Editor, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)



301

LNFL: Landfall (anth., Modern English Tanka Press, Baltimore,

Maryland, 2007)

LYNX: Lynx : A Journal for Linking Poets (triannual, 1989– , AHA

Books, Gualala, California)MARI: Mariposa (biannual, 1998– ), various editors, Haiku Poets

of Northern California.

MET: Modern English Tanka (quarterly, 2006– , Modern English

Tanka Press, Baltimore, MD)

MIRR: Mirrors - International Haiku Forum (1988–1995, AHA

Books, Gualala, California)

MNST: Moonset (biannual, 2005– , the natal * light press, La Pine,

Oregon)

NDR: Nisqually Delta Review (biannual, 2005– , Mad Maverick

Press, Olympia, Washington) NOON: Noon: Journal of the Short Poem (biannual, 2005– , Phillip

Rowland, Tokyo, Japan)

PAPW: Paper Wasp (quarterly, 1994– , Janice Bostok, et. al.,

Chapel Hill, Queensland, Australia)

PRES: Presence (triannual, 1995– , Haiku Presence (org.), Martin

Lucas, Preston, England )

REDL: red lights: a tanka journal (biannual, 2005– , Pamela Miller

Ness, New York, NY)

RIBN: Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal (quarterly,

2004– , TSA) [See TSAN, below.]RNVZ: Raw NerVZ Haiku (quarterly, 1994–2007, Dorothy Howard,

Aylmer, QC, Canada)

SCTH: Janus & SCTH [Sonnets, Cinquain, Tanka, Haiku],

(biannual, Sangre de Cristo Press, Sangre de Cristo, New

Mexico, Foster Jewell and Rhoda de Long Jewell,

1964-1979)

SFIT: San Francisco International Tanka Competition, [1995],

sponsored by the Haiku Poets of Northern California.

SH: Simply Haiku: A Quarterly Journal of Japanese Short Form

Poetry (quarterly journal, 2003– , Robert D. Wilson,

Groveland, California)

SKBK: Sketchbook (2006– , monthly webzine: http://poetrywriting

.org/Sketchbook2-3Mar07/0_AEnter_Sketchbook_2-3.htm

Karina Klesko & John Daleiden, Editors.)

STIL: Still (quarterly, 1997-2001, ai li, Empty Press, London,

United Kingdom)

STLT: Streetlights (anth., Modern English Tanka Press, Baltimore,

Maryland, 2008)

STYL Stylus Poetry Journal (quarterly webzine, 2002– , Rosanna

Licari, Australia)



302

TCAL: Tanka Calendar (annual calendar, 2005 & 2006, Winfred

Press (Larry Kimmel), Colrain, Massachusetts and Clinging

Vine Press, Linda Jeannette Ward)

TNHR: Tangled Hair (annual, 2002–2006, Snapshot Press,Liverpool, England)

TSAM: TSA Members’ Anthologies (annual, 2002– , Tanka Society

of America)

– Castles in the Sand , 2002 TSAM

– Searching for Echoes, 2003 TSAM

– to find the moon, 2004 TSAM

– something like a sigh, 2005 TSAM

– Sixty Sunflowers, 2006 TSAM

TSAN: Tanka Society of America Newsletter (quarterly,

2000-2004). (See RIBN, above.)TSPL: Tanka Splendor Awards (annual anths., 1989– , AHA

Books, Gualala, California)

TTA: The Tanka Anthology (anth., Red Moon Press, Winchester,

Virginia, 2003)

TTJ: The Tanka Journal (biannual, 1992–, Nihon Kaijin, Japan

Tanka Poets’ Society, Tokyo, Japan)

TUND: Tundra: The Journal of the Short Poem (2 issues, 1999 &

2001, Michael Dylan Welch, Sammamish, Washington)

WDNT: Woodnotes (quarterly, 1989–1997, Haiku Poets of Northern

California)WFF: Wind Five Folded (anth., AHA Books, Gualala, California,

1994)

WHR: World Haiku Review (webzine, 11 issues, 2001– , World

Haiku Club, Bicester, England)

WIST: Wisteria: A Journal of Haiku, Senryu, & Tanka (quarterly,

2006–, Tony A. Thompson; Lufkin, Texas)

WLOT: White Lotus (biannual, 2005– , Shadow Poetry, Excelsior

Springs, Missouri)

YLMN: Yellow Moon (biannual, 1997–2006, Beverley George; Pearl

Beach, NSW, Australia)

To suggest additions, revisions, etc., please email us at

[email protected]

or write to us at: Modern English Tanka Press, P.O. Box 43717, Baltimore, Maryland

21236 USA.

Copyright © 2007 by Modern English Tanka Press. Baltimore, Maryland, USA.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United

States License.

To view a copy of this license, visit

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/us/



303

Index

Anderson, Hortensia, 17–18an’ya , 19–21 Arkenberg, Megan, 22–23

Avinger, Munira Judith, 24

Babusci, Pamela A., 25–27

Bacharach, David , 28–32

Barber, Collin, 33

Barnard, Jenny, 34

Beary, Roberta, 35 Better, Cathy Drinkwater , 36–37

Brooks, Randy, 38–39

Buettner, Marjorie A., 40–43

Caruso, David , 44

Chevigny, Bell Gale, 45–48

Chula, Margaret , 49–52

Clausen, Tom, 53–57

Clink, Carolyn, 58

Cox, Dina E., 59–60

Davis, Tish, 61

de Gruttola, Raffael , 62

Dixon, Melissa, 63–65

Dyck, Marje A., 66–67

Emrich, Jeanne, 68–70

Engle, Margarita, 71Fielden, Amelia, 72–77

Forrester, Stanford M., 78

Gadd, Bernard , 79–82

Garrison, Denis M., 7–13, 83–92

Gendrano, Victor , 93

George, Beverley, 94–97

Goldstein, Sanford , 98–109

Grace, M L, 110–111



304

Grillo, Andrea, 112

Hart, William, 113

Harvey, Michele, 114 Hawes, C W , 115

Heinrich, Peggy, 116

Higginson, William J., 117–119

Howard, Elizabeth, 120–126

Johnson, Angela, 127

Johnson, Joyce Sandeen, 128

Karkow, Kirsty, 129–132

Kei, M., 133–137 Ketchek, Michael , 138–139

Kimmel, Larry, 140–144

King, Doreen, 145–146

Kituai, Kathy, 147–148

Kocher, Philomene, 149

LaMure, Don, 150

LeBel, Gary, 151–158 Leuck, Angela, 159-160

Lucky, Bob, 161-165

Lupton, Jeanne, 166

Maffei, Laura, 167–168

Mariano, Thelma, 169

Martin, Terra, 170–172

Masat, Francis, 173–176

McClintock, Karen, 177 McClintock, Michael , 178–188

McInerney, Jo, 189

Moldovan, Vasile, 190–191

Morcom, Joanne, 192

Mylander, Amy, 193

Papanicolaou, Linda, 194

Prewitt, Jack , 195–197

Prime, Patricia, 198-202



305

Raisfeld, Carol , 203–207

Richards, Moira, 208

Rielly, Edward , 209 Rotella, Alexis, 7–13, 210–220

Ryan, Max , 221–222

Selland, Naoko Kishigami , 223

Shaw, Adelaide B., 224–228

Shimield, Andrew, 229

Simms, Billy, 230

Simser, Guy, 231–235

Smith, Paul , 236–237 Stevenson, Richard , 238–239

Surridge, André , 240–247

Swede, George, 248–250

Thomas, Carolyn, 251

Thompson, Marc, 252

Thorley, Michael , 253

Thorndyke, Julie, 254Tieman, John Samuel , 255

Uzawa, Kozue, 256

Verbeke, Geert , 257–259

Wagemakers, Ella, 260

Ward, Linda Jeannette, 261–270

Weston, Ellen, 271

Wilkinson, Liam, 272–273

Williams, Stephanie, 274Wilson, Jim, 275

Witham, Fran M., 276

Wright, Harold , 277–280

Xiao, An, 281

Zimmer, Brian, 282



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