the county building.
He bemoans the budget, continued

layoffs, disappearances
of old friends.

Fluffy flakes begin to fall.
I lean to catch one

on my tongue, stop short—
they are down feathers.

We glance up,
spot a peregrine falcon

on a low tree branch.
The raptor clutches

a pigeon in its left talon, rips
flesh with hooked beak.

There are young to fledge
on a tower cornice.

Well, as they say, it’s a jungle out there.

Or, liberally extending M.L. King’s famous comment, “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”

This, despite underlying patterns that may save our bacons for awhile.  For example, urban peregrines strike more pigeons with black rumps than white.

(No. 67 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Recently I chose to retire from my day job–well, OK, a career of many years in public transportation. Though daunting in some ways, this opportunity provided a chance to reflect deeply on the work and heartfelt sense of community that happens when one is fortunate to pursue “right livelihood” with a collection of bright, soulful people.
Before leaving, I interviewed an array of folks I have worked with for years, came to see more clearly how we have deeply and permanently affected each other. What a gift!

And now, the journey continues–further up and further in.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Big Quil watershed, Olympic Mountains, October, 2000

(No. 69 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

There is no better water on the planet than that which flows so purely from The Source, located near Camp Mystery, just below Marmot Pass, in the northeast Olympics. A poet friend, who knows the area well, calls this little spring The Mother of All Waters.

The day started clear and warm. We ate a late lunch, took a long nap, woke in heavy fog. We could not find our way down the ridge, simple as it seemed. After drifting way off course, and finally realizing it, Dane and I spotted, hundreds of feet below, a trail segment through a brief opening in the fog. We took a quick compass reading and, in last light, eventually emerged from a steep, wooded hillside precisely at The Source.

The focused attention, relief, exhilaration and deep appreciation of this experience are with me to this day. Kwan Yin (Sanskrit: Avalokiteshvara– “She who hears the cries of the world”) was listening.  Isn’t she always?

Or, as Han-shan says, There it is, in the midst of Nothing!

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Sucia, San Juan Islands, Washington

Viewing the natural world through a sexual lens is horny, humbling, unifying.  I’ve spent trips to the Southwest pursuing the Ultimate Yoni at the distant head of a desert stream, and had tantrically satisfying sexual experiences surrounded by fornicating frogs.  I hope you have, also.

Sometimes the experience catches me off guard, as it did on the occasion reported here.  Then, it has the power to cut through to the chthonic, and we stand revealed in our animal nature.

Colorado Springs, 1957

Wikipedia will tell you that the Pachuco “youth movement” grew out of Mexico in the 1930s and 40s.  Think zoot suits and a whole life style.  Along the Mexican border, young Hispanics (as Pachucos) defended themselves from some of the white servicemen stationed in that area.  By the mid-fifties the movement had spread all through the Hispanic southwestern U.S.  It evaporated by the early 70s.

In Colorado Springs, us white kids were afraid of Pachucos, or “Chukes” (“They carry knives,” we told each other).  I suspect the local Hispanic kids–who hung together, looked different, and were not all angels–were more “wannabes.”  The homemade, commonly seen “cross and rising sun” hand tattoo was probably more of a cultural referent.  However, among whites, including the local small business community, it was the sure mark of a “trouble maker punk,” or worse.

It was only when I entered the “world of work” at 14 that the vastness, diversity, and often unfairness, of this beautiful, fucked up world began to touch me.

By the way, a “D.A.” was a “duck’s ass”, or “duck tail”, haircut. Long on the sides, coming together in a sort of V part in the back. Hispanics’ wavy dark hair looked just fine in a D.A. Some of the rest of us had less luck with this mid-50s style.

(North Fork of the Teannaway, 2005)

(No. 98 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Each summer my old backpacking buddy Bruce and I spend most of a week further refining the art of “alpine loafing.”  This term refers to a sustained state of deep repose in God’s Country—for which one has to pay considerable dues in getting to and from.  Bruce usually pushes us in the direction of steeper and longer climbs.  Most often my role is to keep the equation balanced in favor of loafing over grunting. 

It’s always interesting to see where we get to and how we got there.  Sooner or later, we consistently manage to enter the loaf zone.  Invariably we are surprised, amazed at its restful quality, its beauty and power. 

This poem describes such a moment.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

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 restraint, the freeing
of a potent
eroticism.

(No. 80 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Another childhood cowboy poem, probably reflecting a) how popular cowboy movies were when I was growing up; and b) the power of film images. Also, probably my first homoerotic poem. This is the sort of childhood recollection that sexual radicals (and lots of the rest of us) knowingly chuckle over, given the innocence and ubiquity of the precipitating image. But then, just how innocent were those images?

While I wound up being mostly straight if a little kinky, what may also be going on here is an early yearning for a healthy container for naturally arising anger. I had no such model or container, and lived to pay a healthy price for its absence.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

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 do you mean?” we ask,
“Look how far we’ve come.”

Storms play across the slopes
of Cold Mountain.
The view is always
perfect.

(No. 60 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

With deep respect for Case 69 of the Blue Cliff Record and my climbing companions.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)