New Tanka Poems

Siamese cat wanders
Searches for holes through the fence
To make an entrance
Smells the earth, limbs, grass and weeds
Tip of its tail waves and guides


Bold weed grows through rocks
Thick arms tipped with white flowers
Unknown water source
Thrives on sunshine, wind and air
And words of condemnation


Dryness makes static
Comb dry fingers through my hair
Frankenstein frizzies
Branching out, electrified
Shocking personality

Desert Song

The desert knows no silence;
wind whispers a million legends.
It hears the wails and happiness
of those in the wild, breathing in
the same air, same spaces.
All meet the sky, moon,
rolling hills. Paws leave
impressions in fine soil,
at times scorching from sun,
cooling after rain and cloud cover.

Nature knows no boundaries except
where rain chooses to fall,
forming puddles so plants,
insects, and animals can drink
from the land. So that minerals
sleeping deep in the earth
can grow crystalline structures.
So that cactus leaves can maintain storage
for use during droughts. So life
can see the desert's succulence.
Sand dunes roll into a majestic mountain,
sitting stronger than a fortress,
slowly shifting over hundreds of years.

Every step or crawl on dirt
creates a sound, as wind whips
into a howl, as rain drizzles or pelts,
as a warming touch from the sun's light
kisses shade. Every bark and roar
from friend or foe, every flapping whir
from bee or hummingbird, even
a quiet landing of moth or butterfly –
a desert will never be silent,
though it seems so from a distance.

Finding My Muse

Do poets pay homage to a muse—
invoke by asking for help? HELP!
I need inspiration. I have not studied
the nine muses of Greek mythology.

Where are they?

Today, I ask the epic muse
to help me find my heroes.
The muse of tragedy suffers
because of social degradation and divisive
politicians who destroy America.
Maybe I'll find the muse of lyre music
to set a mood. The muse of hymns
goes to my mother's house. I know,
I can hear her humming. Last summer,
the muse of dance performed Pow-Wow's
in full costume—in blistering heat.
The muse of comedy plays on TV,
just watch the Hollywood crowd.

Where do I fit? Am I like Urania
the celestial muse, cosmic
poet of the heavens, sings lyrics
while holding a globe and compass?
My muse is with life on earth,
wind, trees, birds and sea,
air, light, moons, sun and poetry.
Though I have little clue about the cosmos,
I enjoy gazing at night's endless sky
to marvel at stars and search for UFOs.