By David Stallings © 2010
Living with your exuberance
near the southwest corner
of my small porch
calls for ongoing negotiation,
understanding of boundaries—
a task made difficult by your beauty.
Even now, in late winter, you are irresistible.
Your naked limbs, titian and sensual, hold flocks
of wandering Black-capped Chickadees
and Ruby-crowned Kinglets. You must know
I can’t resist, though your medusa
ringlets curl my railings,
push away competitors.
As usual, [...]
By David Stallings © 2009
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 [...]
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 © 2009
Thousands of snow geese
shade early morning moon
under a cold sky.
Frozen levee grasses
soak my city shoes.
Overhead, a bare branch—
I glance up,
gaze into great horned
owl eyes.
Eventually,
we blink.
Port Susan Bay, Mouth of the Stillaguamish
(No. 39 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
By David Stallings © 2009
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)
By David Stallings © 2008
We plunge down steep slopes of Mt. Ellinor
through paintbrush and fields
of late larkspur in fog.
The weather is unexpected—
wind and drizzle chill, weaken us.
Muffled voices of Labor Day hikers swirl in mists.
A girl cries to her mother
I can’t climb any more!
Below the next ridge, a panicked woman
with infant child stumbles,
sobs to her husband.
It grows darker,
rain almost [...]
By David Stallings © 2008
I click the latest international news
documenting my daughter’s public recovery
from Internet obsession—
il Repubblica, NYT, Today Show:
“52 Nights Unplugged!”
“A Secular Sabbath!”
Blogs aflame, the Zeitgeist twitters, senses
an addictive flaw—
and need for new web sites
to explore the malady.
Outside my window
a varied thrush, dressed
for upland migration,
beckons. I step onto the porch,
hear a spotted towhee as it shuffles [...]
By David Stallings © 2008
The kitchen scale confirms a truth
my aging body already knows—
my backpack is too heavy.
I construct a spreadsheet,
detail the weight
of each packed item.
Like a desperate wagoner, I jettison,
repackage, replace.
A 23 ounce tent that works,
its titanium stakes too light to measure!
A 2.5 ounce Gigapower stove!
My spreadsheet neighs like a colt.
Soon I will trek mountains and rivers,
embrace sunny [...]
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 [...]
