March arrives ~ senryū

March arrives
denying winter
brings no change

I was well into my thirties before I accepted that my early March birthday is not in the spring.
I dislike winter that much, although I actually saw one budding tree while kayaking on Sunday, so Missouri does offer that over Western New York. (* click image *)

This short-form senryū is my response to Colleen’s Weekly #Tanka Tuesday
#Poetry Challenge No. 167, #Poet’sChoice
.

Winter’s Dark Blanket Awaits ~ collaboration poem


Winter’s Dark Blanket Awaits

On a fir tree dressed in snow
with a green-white brocade,
pine cones cast shadows in moonlight.
As the old year is put to sleep,
dreaming forevermore in silent night beauty,
its light germinates a New Year.

To create this poem, I’ve woven together my haiku response to Frank Tassone’s Christmas challenge with the tanka response by Lisa at Tao Talk to Frank’s New Year challenge.

Image source: unsplash.com / Aaron Burden
(edited here)

Sol’s Assurance

Sol’s Assurance

For the briefest moment in this shortest span
of daylight, the clouds part to reveal the sun,
as if to say, “Fear not. I am still here,
my light growing, the darkness receding
with each new day, each glance I pass your way.”

 

Image: Missouri, 3:19pm CST  21 December 2019 (7 hours short of Winter Solstice)

Notes, while driving with a love supreme

 

Notes, while driving with a love supreme
    (random riffs recorded on the road)

Layer upon layer of clouds holding
a snow that never materialized
deliver a gray light,
but there’s joyful anticipation at the start
of this long drive home like a pulse
of contentment. A love supreme.

Piano pulls me forward with resolve,
when Coltrane comes in
pursuing that love
as drums urge me onward.

Like a psalm rolling through me,
clouds give way to blue sky,
the hint of home drawing me closer
on this long cold drive.

 

Notes, while driving with Miles

Notes, while driving with Miles
    (random riffs recorded on the road)

Rain falls, steady, and I say so what.
Wipers try in vain to keep the beat,
but this combo is too tight.
The bass just layin it down,
horn and sax sparring.

There’s a fog rolling through the hills,
tellin’ the rain
hold the ice, this is just too cool.

Bare branches, with pines the only green
in a landscape of white on brown.

Wait!

A lone birch like a ghost that knows,
as blue as this feels,
there will be no blue sky.
And that so what refrain slips in
and out.

Narrow roads now,
winding through wet grass
lined with granite and marble.
A memorial among memorials,
some barely legible.
Everything here is blue,

except the pines, white now with big, heavy flakes.
Country roads skirt the mountains,
snow now a powder, hanging in the air like a fog.
Roads slicker than the music.
Hands tense on the wheel.

Piano eases through me,
slowly levels out, bringing me back to the lake,
out there somewhere, blue asleep within the white.