By David Stallings © 2003
Thirty-five years ago
I visited this rocky coast
with a long-haired hippie woman.
Skagit-eyes filled with the sea,
she ran along the shore,
far to the south.
How long was she gone?
Long enough for me
to become afraid.
Time looped,
anxiety pitted me.
Toward dark she returned, salted, alive,
thanking me again and again
for time given.
I managed a smile,
concealing fears
that shaped me
long after
her final
departure.
La Push, February, [...]
By David Stallings © 2003
January 4, 2003
The bike trail meanders
through jugglers and rollerbladers,
musicians and hustlers.
Drainage canals host gulls that laugh,
and flowers bloom among the beach grasses.
Pumping my rented fat tire bike,
I watch my daughter ride ahead.
Taking a deep breath of the
sunshine-and-smiles breeze,
I let my shoulders fall.
Relaxed.
(No. 40 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
By David Stallings © 2003
Having its share of inflations
and troubles
the boardwalk remains–
a sunny segment of community beach funk.
Too many sunglasses, incense sticks and Tibetan imports,
more rollerbladers than rastafarians or surfers.
Around one corner a palapas set, built for a movie,
Over there jugglers and musicians perform.
No muscle beach, the bodies are normal and flawed.
A red-billed, black-legged gull
reigns over it all,
laughing.
