Tanka

cool shadows
cast by an Aegean sun
on ancient walls
the weaver goddess
spins her labyrinth

Linda Papanicolaou, US

The Flick

 

The blond girl had turned her back to the beach,
her head in hand, her guitar flung aside.
I think she was crying. A man walked his dog—
another one jogged; birds in a V shape
flew towards the eye of the twilight;
and no scientist saw the weeping girl.
It was night, on a strand of sand that faced
the mighty Pacific Ocean I so often had crossed
on my way to the land of the setting sun.
A girl alone and me on a beach of forget us not.
I walked over to tell her to go home;
the girl was a heap of golden sand,
her fine guitar was flotsam of a blue fishing boat
and her bikini a tattered plastic shopping bag.

Jan Oscar Hansen, PL