M. Kei, US

Looking down on clouds
as I wing my way across
a vast continent,
thoughts return to her I miss
although I have scarcely left.


Mother sleeps at last,
propped on plain white pillows,
oxygen humming,
her adult children stand
the watches of the night.


Although there are days
on which the winds do not blow,
there are no days when
I ever fail to yearn for
one who inhabits my dreams.


I write poetry
like the hills of Maryland,
slow, easy, green swells,
rolling from creek to vale,
with all the time in the world.


When I was a child
I brought my grandmother
a picture of bluebonnets;
she cried, lying there
paralyzed in her hospital bed.


The ribbon shirt folds
around her owl-tail headdress,
the box closes on sage;
the lodge struck and loaded,
the Indians vanish again.


Spanish Bombing, March 11, 2004

In Spain
eleven million cry
a deeper grief;
tragedy magnified
in a a weeping world.



 John Daleiden, US

Looking backó
along the sandy trail. . .
emptiness follows
invisible to most eyes
I imagine Indian ghosts    



Shanna Baldwin Moore, US

take me away
with you
to the tall tree country
walking to the sea
on a pine needle path


fir trees
blowing in the wind
outlined in a golden glow
of the mana we all share



Terra Martin, CA

fruits of the winter
red pearls tint the snow cover
winterberry wand
nature's dressmakers demand
sensuous admiration



Vaughn Seward and Karina Klesko

Sprigs of Holly: A Christmas Tanka Renga



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