Roy Kindelberger
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I was the daily prompter for July 2018 and November 2021:
www.nahaiwrimo.com/home/meet-the-prompters/roy-kindelberger


Tanka and Haiku published in Scarlet Dragonfly:

scarletdragonflyjournal.wordpress.com/category/poets/k/kindelberger-roy/


November 26, 2022

a song replays
on the radio
stay
in each other’s arms
nightfall to dawn
 
October 20, 2022

beyond the sand dunes
he still smells the ocean
breeze through the trees




August 25, 2022

gentle oars
lap across the water
in sync with
ripples and waves

reflections shift in the wind


June 21, 2022

orange glow
disappears on the blue sea
secrets lost

May 21, 2022 

old gas station
boarded up along
a lonely highway
the stories left behind
embellished apparitions

April 26, 2022

the last orange
washes into the stars

nightlight

Published Tanka

Ribbons Spring/Summer, Volume 18, Number 2 (Page 94)

Silent Piano

My uncle had this beautiful piano. People told me he was pretty good, but I never heard him play. Even if I asked him. I do remember seeing him play his trombone with a big band a few times, though. For years, the piano sat in the den, like a decoration. Only kids really played on it. It's sad. I wonder why he stopped.

his old upright piano
silent in a corner
covered in knickknacks
echoes of old songs
played out of tune


Ribbons Winter: Volume 18, Number 1 (Page 72)

A Moment With Myself

sunset 
over a quiet river
evening cricket song
i turn off
the radio

above the sea
orange fades into
the horizon
incoming tide
washing the day away



Self-Portrait: Tanka Society of America Members' Anthology (2021 Page 61)

grandma sews her quilts
while grandpa tells stories
in the parlor
both embroidering
in their own way


Ribbons Winter 2021: Volume 17, Number 1, Page 48

she let go
of all her secrets
flowing river
of lava erupts
from the mountaintop

https://www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-tree-pose/?fbclid=IwAR3ZkXtaZSq9905J9HnoRkCBMBCAc0258-_ZEATvFvDVP33YDB7jE89w4zE 

Daily Ritual
The sun has risen. I start the coffee. The smell fills the kitchen. As the first drop hits the bottom of the carafe. I close my eyes and stretch. Some morning yoga. Tai Chi. Swimming Dragon to be exact. The movements wake me up. The coffee finishes right about when I do. Grab a cup with extra creamer. Open my notebook.

daily ritual
the little things that get
my day going
later i’ll reread
a favorite novel


Ribbons Winter 2020: Volume 16, Number 1, Page 56,

dying oak tree . . .
still there are stories
to be told
as her acorns
remain
 
Ribbons Fall 2020: Volume 16, Number 3 (Page 68)
 
unfolding
and refolding a letter
how the meaning
of words remains the same
or changes
 
Dance Into The World TSA 20th Anniversary (Page 89)
 
 
we pause on
our daily walk
to look at a snail
lately it’s the little things
simply slowing down

www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-thinking-outside-the-box/?fbclid=IwAR2H7JPCA_ultMyxbEQ4db_YbkGWV09wP-wUVlwIrerc-2uvNoFIuc15JzY

In the Darkness

Winter Solstice Eve. I get home from a long day. My two cats greet me. With meows, purrs, and scratching of the furniture. I empty some boxes of Christmas stuff that came in the mail. The kitties, of course, use the boxes. Climbing and hiding. After they’re through I take the boxes to the recycling bin. Unknown to me, one of the cats, the boy, sneaks out behind me. They are house cats. Hours later, I notice. Where’s Nugget? We search the house and then outside. Neighbors tell us there was a traumatized cat outside our door. But he’s nowhere to be found. We shake kitty treats, search trees, and bushes. It’s cold. No kitty.
​

winter solstice
cowered under bushes
out of the darkness
kitty reappears
happy reunion

He is all wide eyed. And his sister gave him the business. Every time the door opens since, he runs off and hides somewhere in the house.


www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-making-our-own-world/?fbclid=IwAR2bGDNjXc4ZWvqgu-akXmpe_mpZi1Ri5HIX-cZTonYiV7urCH-CFcBfTB8

Late January, we drove along the shoreline. It felt as though the car skated on ice. It swayed back and forth. Sandpiper swept the shoreline. Another group swirled in the winter breeze. A break from the continuous rainfall. The waves rushed in and returned again. My wife and I, almost completely alone. It felt like our beach. And out of nowhere, another bird appeared among the sandpiper and seagulls. It didn’t belong. Yet it did. A surprise.


out of the blue
sun peaks through winter clouds
ocean waves
an osprey perches, watches
from atop driftwood


2019 Tanka Society of America Anthology (Page 31)

beach chairs
she gazes out from the sound
where her friend was

familiar cigarette smell
and chatter still linger


https://www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-up-there/ 

Up There
I decide to stop time. Make time stand still. Not literally of course. Just stop. And walk. I walk some more. I look up at the trees. I listen to the birds. I smell the sea. I sip my coffee. I feel the breeze. And then sit on a piece of driftwood. At some point, I walk again. Time disappears.


i finally stop
observe my footprints
and rocky cliffs
an open journal page
sit up with the clouds


Ribbons Spring/Summer 2019: Volume 15, Number 2 (Page 49)

old friends 
get together and tell stories
with distorted details
i cast my line out
another tale to tell


Ribbons Winter 2019: Volume 15, Number 1 (Page 45)

i seek asylum
from myself 
empty bottles
provide a reminder
my plan no longer works


www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-a-mountain-with-your-name/

The Mountain
The mountain pass. Snowed in during the winter. Closed. During the summer, the windy road leads to a majestic blue lake. Snow still surrounds. Even though many travel. It feels like mine. Peace within.
serenity
something about the mountains
snow covered peaks
across the bridge toward
an unknown destination



/www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-ordinary-extraordinary/

​
5:30. Rush hour. A typical day north of Seattle. After teaching, I join my daughter, Emily, for coffee. We chat, sip our drinks, and read over resume stuff. I look up from our conversation and two ducks peer into the window at us. We laugh and join them outside.
city center mall
outside a café window
two ducks wander
a retention pond
behind the grocery store


https://www.coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-dreamscapes/

daybreak
morning quiet surrounds
dew glistens
trees mirror the lake
deer tentatively appear

2018 Tanka Society of America Anthology (Page 54)

a distant bell tolls
it rings throughout the land
short of midnight
just in time as the king
and queen are no more

Ribbons Spring/Summer 2018 (Page 44)

my grandparents
would stop by
bring me treats and presents . . .
surprise visits
don't happen anymore


https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-oceans-of-our-lives/ 

oceans apart
and somewhere in between
wave after wave
that sweep my feet at
different times in my life


https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-how-music-saves-us/


Healing
He sat at his keyboard. It’s set to Fender Rhodes. Because he likes that sound. He really didn’t know how to play. Yet he’d created the first notes to a song. His song. It echoes through his head. Like a song created over forty years ago. A song that eventually played for twenty-six minutes. A song that started with a single note.



in his forties
he left his old life
and started again
the healing begins
when he lets it


https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-earth-hour/​ 

i doze in my chair
with accompaniment of
crickets and frogs
the campfire slowly fades
into the midnight hour

coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-fragile-and-resilient/    

the airplane
departed without me
a decision
to stay one more day
or maybe forever


https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-the-world-to-come/ 

I​ found a man with his hands in his face. Defeated. A former teacher, now in his late seventies. His Alzheimer’s progresses rapidly. Along with other health concerns. A list. He has trouble communicating his needs. But this is clear. As he sits on a bench. Clear, he’s emotionally exhausted. I go over and sit next to him.

deaths door
opens wider each day
a new journey
silently i put my arm
around his shoulder



https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-building-bridges/​ 

a return
to an old manuscript
feels like new
a walk on the bridge where i
took the picture years ago

http://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-walking-at-night/​ 

meteor shower
on a midnight walk
stops us at a fountain
cascades upwards and down again
there’s always more


http://coloradoboulevard.net/whats-on-the-roof/ 

moss covered roof
of an abandoned home
eight years
a kitten, now a cat
sits on the back porch


http://coloradoboulevard.net/blossoming-memories/ 


i planted the seeds
watered and pulled weeds
and waited
then i stopped waiting
and blossomed


Published Haiku:


Bull-Headed Haiku: Corine Timmer, Editor, 2021, Page 22

kids line up
across the pasture
the cowpie run 

Visiting The Wind: Haiku Society of America Members' Anthology 2021, Page 161

cloudburst
sudden wind gusts
darkness



he holds a ripe
tomato in his hand
grandpa’s last photo


Joining the Conversation: 2019 Seabeck Haiku Getaway Anthology (Page 35)
 
 
time to go in
we follow the fireflies
home
 
Sound of a Leaf (Page 59)
 
ocean shoreline--
waves sweep my path
away


Frogpond Winter 2021 (Page 11)

empty fountain
coins and wishes
left behind


Frogpond Winter 2020 (Page 13)

long hike on
a hot humid day
waterfall


2019 Haiku Society of America Members' Anthology (page 67)

empty glasses--
she only left behind
her lipstick

Hog Wild: Haiku (2019 Page 13)

summer on the farm
children sing Old McDonald
to the pig

zigzag bridge: 2019 Haiku Northwest Anthology

new year's journey--
i search the garage
for my eight-tracks

ginger--
her hair cascades over
​the pillow

2018 Haiku Society of America Members' Anthology (page 18)

rocky shore--
the footprints that couldn't
be found

Frogpond Fall 2018 (page 56)

shattered glass--
all that remains from
the car crash

Frogpond Spring/Summer 2018 (Page 45)


 
roots and stump--
all that’s left 
of our childhood treehouse



Published Haiku from No Longer Strangers: Haiku Northwest 25th Anniversary Anthology (Page 45):

a robin sings
outside my window--
i close my laptop

another shot
into the circular file--
revisions

the record player
skips at the end--
mourning doves coo


http://www.amazon.com/Longer-Strangers-Northwest-Twenty-Fifth-Anniversary/dp/1887381279/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1436382884&sr=1-5&keywords=no+longer+strangers&pebp=1436382885342&perid=13NFMKQNPNG9WZSEZYWB
 
Haiku From Jumble Box:
 
the way--
the circle he paces
at the home
 
Page 123
 
falling leaves--
the day a tree branch broke 
beneath my feet
 

Page 180

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1878798391/ref=cm_sw_su_dp gentle oars
lap across the water
in sync with
ripples and waves
reflections shift in the wind
Picture
Tree of Fear

Hot, humid,
shady pine,
tree to climb,
seven years old.

Tree soars toward
sky,
A beanstalk,

boy reaches,
branch by branch,
stairs toward heaven,
exhilarating until,

Crack!

Branch drops,
feet dangle,
heart pounds,

wind blows,
mind,
surges, sucks,
boy’s soul.

Remembers,
Dad’s story,

Grandpa built bridges.
No fear,
fell once,
forever…

Mouth wide,
quiet desperation,
feet find trunk,
hands grip,

steel.

Down the
steps feet
find ground.

Twisted, splintered wood,
scattered leaves,
lay.

Eyes wide,
mouth dry,
kneels touches

Branch.

Looks up,
sunshine peaks,
blinding.

A boy,
seven years old,
closes eyes,

hugs
himself.


Picture
Clear skies blue lake flows

Evergreens shadows… mountains high

Serenity glows…

Picture
Tell Me A Story


An old stump

sits alone.

Battered, fragmented

a sage.


Other trees

grow.

Flowers bloom,

 seasons go.


But old stump

remembers,

of times past,

 times to come.


It’s not alone.

Old stump has

stories to

tell.

Picture
Tank On Empty

No gas, here, anymore.

No store, here, anymore.

No customers, here, anymore.


Overgrown weeds, faded white,

boarded windows.

rusted red gas pump,

leaning telephone pole,

turned off, powered

only by the sun.


Clear skies, no wind,

time stands still.


Emptiness but something lingers,

ghosts, apparitions,

float from days past.


Everyone’s drifted on

like a tumbleweed.


Yet stories remain…

Picture

Pilgrimage to the Village


Roads been traveled, turns been taken,

for good, for bad, but it’s still mine.

Cancer…Hope…forsaken…

growing old like fine wine.


A voice says it’ll take me,

“That poor man,” head shaking.

from deep beneath the Dead Sea.

I’m sick, my will breaking.


But not poor.

The finality,

even if it’s a blur,

my mortality.


But I’m here,

with god’s blessings.

I’ll always be here,

I’ll see you in the dwelling.


My pilgrimage

to the village…

Picture
Orange Is The Color


I creak up wooden stairs. Faded worn,

carpet squares, a patchwork quilt mourns.

A newel post, wiggles, slants, fits like a top hat.



I enter a dim-lit, back room, that

smells of an old cigar, extinguished long ago,

stacked books, and yellowed newspapers show.


A bible, hands of grace lay near an empty shaped mallard ashtray,

A cane leans against a table, with cold coffee, and pills for the day.


Twinkling eyes peer over bent rimmed glasses, shaky hands shuffle cards.

Game board spread around. Grandfather grabs blue pegs. He lifts his head,

regards.


“I’m yellow, let’s go!” I say, anxiously, grabbing pegs, humming.

He gazes, wrinkled frowns. “My boy, that’s Orange.” Hands drumming.


My mouth, opens, shuts. I smile, and draw first.

“Well, then…” I touch age spotted wrist.

 

“Orange is the color.”



Picture

A Melody of Toys and a River

A river of dreams flows, it ripples, curves below.

A valley of toys roam, rapids carving foam.

Green fields and a river, drifts only to deliver,

a toy box given to a garden of children.

Small hands emerge, small hands converge.

Hands open up anew, a river runs through.

!
Picture
                                         My Footprints

Footprints

           Past, present,

                            I walk sand,

                                              by sea.

                                                  Footprints,

                                                             not a worry,

                                                                              for me...







 
Picture
The Flower King

Morning dew.

A lone bee buzzes, hunting nectar

for his queen.

He circles a bud.

Sun beams.

A flower

is born.

A lone bee

gathers,

now king.

Thanks for visiting my website. Unless indicated, all photos are provided by Roy Kindelberger Sr. and Roy Kindelberger Jr. The writing is provided by Roy Kindelberger Jr. Enjoy!