Paulclem
01-13-2013, 02:26 PM
I've tried to write a few Tanka since the Haiku month. I'd appreciate your feedback. Thanks.
Tanka - a name changed from Waka - is a japanese form not unlike Haiku. It has a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable pattern.
I am connected
with my phone – a safety net
when I’m all alone.
I can e-mail, phone or text.
I’m virtually in a crowd.
I chop up my days,
nuggets of hours and minutes,
into working chunks
that I swallow every day
until I get fat on time.
… and the holiday
dissolves into memories.
Have I been away?
I start my routine, check mail,
my routine to retirement.
He’s on an ipad.
She’s texting friends on the phone.
Couples are chatting.
I read the social postings.
Conversation layer cake.
Cycling down to town.
Puddles gilded in sunshine,
the roar of traffic
filling my senses with speed.
Good, downhill days are easy.
I live in dead time,
between jobs and commitments.
An hour or two snatched
in the mid-day lull and rest.
Thoughts and mind churn ideas.
A promise of snow.
Will the world white-out again?
Blue light and contrasts
beautify every landscape
before the slush and grey drifts.
Writing poetry.
A quiet occupation.
Notebook and pen poised
watching all the endless thoughts
arising from many queues.
Despite the sunshine,
there is a prospect of snow
from draughts in your coat,
from the cold slapping your cheeks.
The sudden chills we all feel.
It’s hard to accept
the fallacy of freedom:
the walls I’ve thrown up.
Dictators are bound by fear,
so what of our little life?
Tanka - a name changed from Waka - is a japanese form not unlike Haiku. It has a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable pattern.
I am connected
with my phone – a safety net
when I’m all alone.
I can e-mail, phone or text.
I’m virtually in a crowd.
I chop up my days,
nuggets of hours and minutes,
into working chunks
that I swallow every day
until I get fat on time.
… and the holiday
dissolves into memories.
Have I been away?
I start my routine, check mail,
my routine to retirement.
He’s on an ipad.
She’s texting friends on the phone.
Couples are chatting.
I read the social postings.
Conversation layer cake.
Cycling down to town.
Puddles gilded in sunshine,
the roar of traffic
filling my senses with speed.
Good, downhill days are easy.
I live in dead time,
between jobs and commitments.
An hour or two snatched
in the mid-day lull and rest.
Thoughts and mind churn ideas.
A promise of snow.
Will the world white-out again?
Blue light and contrasts
beautify every landscape
before the slush and grey drifts.
Writing poetry.
A quiet occupation.
Notebook and pen poised
watching all the endless thoughts
arising from many queues.
Despite the sunshine,
there is a prospect of snow
from draughts in your coat,
from the cold slapping your cheeks.
The sudden chills we all feel.
It’s hard to accept
the fallacy of freedom:
the walls I’ve thrown up.
Dictators are bound by fear,
so what of our little life?