When my mother and new stepfather
moved from Nashville to a southern Alaska town,
I spent fifth grade trying to make new friends, rid myself
of Southern drawl, and avoid
getting beat up. And so,
to help
my classmates decide
which candy bar to eat first,
I suggest, Eeny, meeny miney moe,
catch a nigger by the toe…
What’s that?
No one has heard [...]
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 [...]
My wife and I pack our open canoe
after five nights of camping, head back
to Lund in a rising wind.
We dodge whirlpools, ferry across
currents, break out of eddies. Far ahead
through white caps and heavy swell,
is the rocky point
we must round.
Portage Gap is closer, offers an easy land haul
to a quiet inner bay.
We’ve heard the owner [...]
Everything is new:
my mother’s crude husband,
this small Alaska town,
my unknown
fifth grade classmates—
including Larry Sefrovitch
who wants to fight.
A crowd circles us on the playground
as we flail fists.
Only after a teacher
separates us
do I cry.
I can’t stop.
Seward, Alaska, 1952
(No. 62 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
I’ve searched backcountry ridges,
studied tides along rainy shores,
consumed two sets of black cushions
sitting zazen.
Still, only glimpses
of Cold Mountain, unless
this is it—here,
on this spruce-edged beach
along a tannin creek,
with this dark woman
and her two kids.
Olympic Wilderness Coast, 2002
(No. 38 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
A drip collects
in a plastic tub
placed on a shelf
in my bathroom.
Its source is not rain,
but cold condensation.
I need to fix it.
This wears on me.
To be honest,
containers collect water
in many rooms of my house.
Although it requires
energy to empty them,
many of the leaks
may never be repaired.
(No. 101 in a series of replies to Han-shan’s Songs of [...]
Do one-breath zazen!
my Zen teacher would say
when I complained
I hadn’t time
to meditate regularly.
He would probably approve
my placement of his new book
on the back of my toilet.
Since my prostate enlarged,
I pee more than I used to, making
for frequent short visits with
my old teacher.
*Dokusan—personal interview with the roshi during formal Zen practice
(No. 56 in a series of [...]
My mother, a fifth grade teacher,
works as hostess one summer
at the Indian Grill. She urges me
to apply as a busboy.
The first day, she introduces me to
the owner, Mr. Wadsworth,
and his partner and chef, Mr. Graney.
Great folks, Mother says.
The head busboy, Louis, warns
me that Mr. Graney, like most chefs,
is a drunk—Wiseow, man,
watch out for him!
I [...]
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 [...]
Now that I know where
to look, the little removable
panel in the back porch floor
seems obvious. Lifting it
provides access to a master
water shutoff valve. No more need
to crawl through cobwebs
and dust. I feel the presence
of an agile mind, a hand
grasping my own, and I breathe
Thanks.
