Backyard Jazz:

A Tanka Suite

retriever pants —

pitter patter sprinkler splash —

so gone a day

he’s blonde on blonde, baby,

hunkers his honey ass down!

cabbage white’s

got a hip hop beat,

sizzles wing and stick

on the cymbal of each

sprinkled leaf

dachshund’s so down

on the store-bought bone

he’s prone too, you bet.

the deep green glove of the day

ready for the sun to drop in. . . .

meow, baby!

cat’s on the table

and he don’t need Mabel —

bites my knuckle

away from my beer

old ginger —

your own jar of

unopened marmalade.

what’s under those lids

on such a hot day?

ash in the pipe —

grass a deeper green

in the shade,

the retriever appraises me

with his one good eye

twenty O mouths,

heads like eggs

in a carton:

Guns and Hoses capsize

turning into their own wake

(Lethbridge Rotary Dragonboat Festival)

newly varnished,

the old wicker headboard

now a trellis

for a Merlot vine,

rosary of water beads

Canada Day —

fireworks cancelled on account

of storm conditions,

but what a fireworks display

the spirea blooms make!

the emerald hour —

that time when the grass

is its deepest green,

cottonwoods whisper

what the wind knows

as if to say

my turf, my nest,

hawk’s insistent cry

reeled off at each

and every tree

Kibbles and Bits

flushed out of the car

hood and air ducts?

ah, dead mouse smell

from the air conditioner

our dachshund won’t eat.

sixteen hundred clams later,

the vet presents

a shoelace, bits of plastic,

a swatch of towel

sorry, hummingbird

for the loud colours

of my Hawaiian shirt,

the thrum of your tiny wings

so soft I might have missed you

finally some sun —

I don’t know what’s worse:

the sound of the lawn mowers

or this damn mosquito

fueling up before take-off

nothing erratic

about the placement

of this boulder —

not after two cars

through the fence

(for Brian Bartlett)

dachshund’s frantic:

the new kitten has vanished.

toenails telegraph

what the nose knows

and baleful eyes hope

at the outdoor pool

seagulls vie for table scraps.

one’s feathers ruffle

into a punk Mohawk do.

he’s got a punk swagger too.

bottom of the fifth,

coffee tepid now —

still, robin’s on deck,

scratching at the mound

of the new flower bed

too small and mealy

to warrant picking for pie,

for cider or wine,

but the waxwings and finches

lift hearts from heavy branches

stems still attached,

these little green apples

litter the lawn:

the fuse-that-through-the-flower

gone pffft in the wind