Welcome to tinywords 21.2
New issue and winners of the photo prompt: To all of the poets who sent in their poems for 21.2, and to the readers who return year after year, we say thank you.
Category: Issue 21.2
seventh summer
we measure his height
in sunflowers
summer sun
coming out of his shell
on the last day of camp
rolling blackouts
cicadas ratchet
up the heat
end of summer thunder slow and far away
summer rain
the pink love note
bleeds into my pocket
the slow sinking
of the wishing coin
summer’s end
straightening
the dog-eared pages
end of summer
empty beach
everything I meant to do
written in sand
rising tide
the clammer’s skiff
begins to stir
end of summer
the cracked face
of a display mannequin
ashfall
the dead
of summer
not just blowing smoke climate change
global warming
the delicate oars
of this lifeboat
bright green needles
on the fire-scarred redwood
what we?ve each survived
(haiga)
day lily
the thing is
you think you have time
telling time
her hands move
across my face
Harvest moon
their wedding rings tucked away
one inside the other
not so long ago
though it looks like ages
dandelion seeds
corn-tasseled sundown
gang tags
on the grain train
fall fair
the caramel apple angle
of the sun
morning chill
the last of the basil
fills a vase
game over
small birds gather
on the bleachers
playground leaves the rattle of hometown ghosts
All Hallows Eve
a ninja races
a fried egg
morning
an egg cracks
from the inside
tattered leaves
the voting line
grows longer
wind chimes the odds of repetition
she denies it all
wind through the tips
of pines
point A
to point B …
is life
ever really
that simple
(haiga)
an autumn leaf
flutters back to zero
on the hopscotch court
wind through razor wire
a small girl cradles
a wooden doll
aftershocks…
the segue from rescue
to recovery
when home
isn’t
owl echoes
autumn surf
a flutter of terns almost lands
then lifts away
cloudless sky
a sloop tugs on its
mooring lines
wind-blown sea foam
a toddler in gum boots
briefly disappears
sunset bells slipping light into the sea
river at dusk –
an otter melts
into the silence
tall grass
carries the scent of the sea
fishing memories
from my childhood
the father I lost
(haiga)
adoption papers
the aloe vera
flowering
bumper to bumper wildflowers along the interstate
between the pages
of a half-price
guidebook —
the colors
of someone’s autumn
(haiga)
twilight clamour
a cohort of cockatoos
return to roost
the ringing
of far-off bells
autumn dusk
sliver moon
a door opens
at dawn
the hurry-up
in a squirrel’s tail
autumn chill
autumn evening—
the man at animal rescue
has a kind voice
total eclipse
a little boy covers
his dog’s eyes
(Originally published on Hedgerow #131)
day’s end
one last thing the dog
needs to sniff
new quarantine
a teakettle
starts to scream
deserted office
a fly circles
the water cooler
drinking fountain
I wait for the wasp
to finish
one person
per cafe table
each left to their own devices
home alone
I change
Siri’s gender
spending time
with an old friend
copper beech
dappled lichen
an empty nest at the end
of quarantine
lockdown lifted
the old man kicks a pebble
down the road
long illness
seeded too late
sweet peas
the day nurse
weighs her every word . . .
cloud shadows
years balancing
on the edge
of words
a son’s silence is
weighing on her
first day of winter
way too much
to tell you
waning moon
day after day
the hints we miss
mountain cranberry
in the sanctuary
of a fallen oak
jack-in-the-pulpit
office mistletoe
in the teeth of
his comb over
carillon
a measure of dawn
strikes the cobbled square
reading scores –
the musician’s hands
take flight
upturned empties
cap every gatepost
farmer’s thrift
moonshine
answering the loon
as a loon
picture perfect day
glossing over
the road kill
graffiti wall
a passing dog
leaves his mark
wharf bird commotion
a sea lion
rolls over
in the narrative of rain blackbird song
my easel stands
neglected in the corner
still flecked
with bright colors of a world
I no longer recognize
(haiga)
wild berries
gathering
what the birds missed
sun through
the suet cage
deep winter
snow saucer
my daughter and I
spin through winter
short day—
the smell of wet mittens
drying by the fire
prairie sky
just big enough
to hold the stars
Painted Desert
the colors of sunset
all day
drought
so many smooth stones
in the creek bed
blazing sun
my wife watering
the kids
solemn nods
of pampas grass–
late summer
craft store
a regiment of plastic buddhas
in the garden aisle
koi pond
the things I have yet
to outgrow
on a field trip
all their craning necks—
turtles on a log
dragonfly between raindrops dragonfly
woodland undertones fiddlehead ferns
I say one thing
but you hear another
hummingbird moth
reminding me
of life’s taste –
hummingbird
cataract surgery
all the shades of blue
in a soap bubble
the more they are the less they are wild flowers
chrysanthemum
the
slowness
of
dusk
scattered thoughts
going where the wind
takes me
(haiga)
old chihuahua
what can you teach me
about the dew
all I see are moonsets
spread over the morning field
(Note: This is a tan renga by Kala Ramesh and Billie
The Triumph of Art
“To be an artist is to fail,” Samuel Beckett said.
Valentine’s Day
my love poem
gushes too much