By David Stallings © 2010
My frayed black leather Day-Timer,
standard size, used to be
the Cadillac of business calendars.
Now, placed in front of me
on meeting tables, it’s surrounded by
colleagues’ sleek, intelligent devices—
purring and synched to company
calendars, email, Twitter, and GPS coordinates.
The pages of my archived monthly inserts
turn like dry leaves, their veins and spots
evidence that I had appointments,
kept notes, squeezed in [...]
By David Stallings © 2009
The sealed jar of artesian water
near Kwan Yin’s right hand
has rested on my altar for nine
years—since Dane and I were whited-out
south of Marmot Pass. We traversed
a wrong ghostly spur.
It was late, an uncomfortable
bivouac likely.
A quick compass reading
through opening fog
pointed to a trail trace
far below.
We came to the spring we call
The Source, drank deeply, filled bottles,
walked [...]
By David Stallings © 2009
The plumose anemone is a sensual
invertebrate, lovely and pink.
It can reproduce on its own
but seems to most enjoy releasing eggs
or sperm from its mouth.
With my new sweety and her sailing friends,
we come across a bordello
of Metridium cached under a rock
during minus tide. Trumpet flares
retracted, shafts detumescent, they hang
like bull balls. In the presence
of such raw [...]
By David Stallings © 2008
One day Louis’ older brother
drops by the Indian Grill,
and we take a break from bussing dishes.
Carlos wears a wavy D.A.,
greets us with a scarred hand.
Louis tells me his brother
wanted to marry, needed a job.
No one would hire him
because of the tattoo
between his left thumb and forefinger.
So Carlos drove north of town,
up into Austin Bluffs, used [...]
By David Stallings © 2008
Ascend miles of Douglas fir, white pine,
zones of Engleman spruce and western larch.
A sunny meadow
lies hinged to the mountain
by the last gnarly spruce.
Springs gurgle amid purple shooting star blossoms
and white-petalled grass of Parnassus.
I nibble Jarlsberg, dried pear,
swirl the soft breeze—
seep into grassy
earth.
(North Fork of the Teannaway, 2005)
(No. 98 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s [...]
By David Stallings © 2004
Scene:
Hotheaded cowboy rides off
to wreak havoc and revenge.
Older friend follows
to protect him.
Friend lassos firebrand,
who falls to ground, furious.
Older man restrains him
until rage is spent,
tears flow.
Enraptured in a front seat of the theater,
half-eaten Three Musketeers bar forgotten,
I feel the snare of the rope, jarring fall,
hot tears on my face.
My body awakens to muscular rage,
the delight of [...]
By David Stallings © 2003
Sometimes friends share the climb
of Cold Mountain.
On a middle slope,
Jack stops to pee—
a large circle in the dusty path.
“If you guys can say something about that,
then let’s go on,” he challenges.
Larry steps into the circle,
sits like a mountain top.
I curtsey to his stone figure.
“If you characters can do that,
we just won’t go on,” Jack asserts.
“What [...]
