Poems of tanka form but not tanka.

 

So lonely am I

My soul like a floating weed

Severed at the roots

Drifting upon cold waters

No pillow for further dreams.

 

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The truth of longing

Has nothing of nice logic.

A matter of hearts

So uneven, exciting!

But most painful, nonetheless.

 

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The moon floats on wisps

Of clouds extending outward

Tendrils of white fire

Blanketing the universe

Gauzy ghosts of nothingness.

–

 

When nature is known
Reason for awe can be found
In familiar sights.
Intimacy at the core—
Astounding revelation!

 

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Human frailties

wounds that bleed such heated blood

leave a dry vessel.

Without the moisture of love

the clay reverts to the ground.

–

I can no longer
tell my dreams from fantasy.
Which world shall I wake?
Will it be within your arms,
bewildered by last night’s lust?

–

The act of writing
is a powerful gesture.
Women who write poems
weave tapestries of wisdom
and form up lives that endure.

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This is the problem!
Never give your precious life
into a man’s hand.
Plant your roots in deep water.
Don’t let sweet whispers seduce.
–

In the beginning
I offered my heart to you.
You held it lightly.
Unseen, it fell in the dirt,
made bitter by its journey.
–

 

In my heart’s black depth

I kept our secret smothered

although today I suffered

the usual pangs

needing to hear it aloud.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

“Autumn Dusk” and “Mourning Dove”, a poem and a tanka.

“Night Fire Road”, janekohut-bartels, watercolor, 2010

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Photo to the east

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Watercolor, 2006, Jane Kohut-Bartels, “Dawn”

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Stuttering winds blow across

Clouds tinted by the failing sun.

Brittle air softens,

Now a faded blue–

Shade of an old man’s watery eyes.

–

A late flock of Sandhill cranes lift off,

Pale bodies blending in the

Twilight with legs

Flowing dark streamers,

Their celestial cries fall to

Earth–

A harsh, chiding rain.

–

The trees in the valley

Are massed in darkness

As waning light leaches

Color from nature,

Creeps from field to hillock

And all below prepares for the

Rising of the Corn Moon.

–

Even frogs in the pond

Listen between croaks

For the intention of the night.

–

–

–

Barn Owl, J. Kohut-Bartels, 1999, watercolor

–

A mourning dove cries

It is such a mournful sound

Perhaps a fierce owl

Has made it a widow.

Oh! It breaks my heart, her cry.

–

Chessie coming through a flower bed of zinnias. 2000- Oct. 13, 2014. We miss you, Chessie.

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–

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015, from “White Cranes of Heaven”, Lulu.com, 2011.

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Some Haiku and Tanka, posted for OneShotPoetry.

Haiku

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Dogwoods are blooming
The crucifixion appears
White moths in the night.

–

(Dogwoods are a Southern tree here in the South.  White blooms
having the form of the Christian Cross, with nail heads.  They bloom in the spring  right before Easter. They are a symbol of Christianity in Nature.)

–

Under the dark moon

I awaited your return

Only shadows came.

–

The moon, a ghostly

Sliver, sails on a jet sea

Wild dogs howl beneath.

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Tanka

–

The fire of life

Is love. No exact measure.

A whirling dervish

Hands in opposite display

Gathers in the miracle.

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Spring

–
The sound of frog-calls,
In the pond floats a pale moon
Fresh life is stirring
An early owl goes hunting
Wise mice scatter for cover.

–

Thin, silken breezes

Float upon a green-ribbon

Of spring—pale season.

Scent of lilies, myrtle, plum

Arouse bees from slumber.

–

Restless and confused,

Birds cry out, sky darkening

Rain lashes, flooding

Freshly planted fields drown

Wind sails red tiles from  roofs.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011

More Spring in Bloom, and Steve Isaak.

I bought Steve Isaak’s new book:  “Can’t Sleep”, poems, 1987-2007 and this is such a dense collection of poetry, I am having to go through it very, very  slowly.

Steve must have made movies before…in a past life, behind some huge camera.  His poetry is like snippets of some dream-movie, but I won’t blow this review right now.  It’s just an issue of so much imagery to plumb and to pack in.  Review to follow next week when I can get a better perspective on this marvelous and first book by a truly original poet.

The pictures are of my back garden….over a fence and archway.  I believe this rose bush…actually two rose bushes, are “Bonicas”…Nope…they are NEW DAWN) .but they might be something else, because they certainly are climbers.  I love pale, pink roses, and these 5 year old plants certainly are giving their all.  They are ‘constant’ bloomers and you only get that by heavy feeding…which I don’t.  I will have to remember to feed them and all the others, because they are such spectacular plants they deserve the effort.

Lady Nyo

Bonica Rose Bush...we think

more of the same bush

more roses

GRAHAM THOMAS

She stood quietly in the garden, dappled sunlight falling like a tattered golden veil, crushing a Graham Thomas in her hand.  The silky texture slipped through long, bony fingers. A seductive perfume carried upwards, the feel of the petals reminiscent of something she vaguely remembered in the past.

Yes, she remembered now.  It was her sex, soft and puffy, with powdered lips awaiting the frisson of arousal. The man who once kissed those lips was long dead, a pale ghost to her memory.

A tower of rose heads nodded their encouragement.  They watched her season after season, the cycle of bush-life matching her own. Grown thin during the years, all gnarled canes beneath and gall, too. Within years both had become feeble. Soon the bush would cover her grave, dropping its petals in remembrance until it, too, faded from earth.

Now Graham Thomas was pleading to cover her mound with his perfumed beauty. He would nestle within the deserted folds of her abandoned sex. He would make her juicy again.

He promised to leave the thorns on the bush.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008