By David Stallings © 2005
1.
We tried to plant a garden
some years ago.
Even putting in deer netting
turned into an argument.
The soil was not sweet enough,
nothing much grew.
Blackberries, scotch broom,
and sticky weed thrived.
Removing our old netting
required too much
effort.
2.
Spring breathes urgency
into an eruption of peonies
near my porch. Nearby,
Heavenly bamboo
shimmers in the sun
while my newly sown
chard and kale seeds
unfurl to the light.
3.
The [...]
By David Stallings © 2005
Anasazi watchtower,
cylinder of stone
atop mesa remnant.
Green River meanders
far below. Near the
river, sagging log cabin,
pioneer way-station
for TB patients boated
to sanatorium near Moab.
Overhead, jet
contrails in translucent
sky, hundreds of people bound
for places
unseen.
(No. 87 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
By David Stallings © 2004
Coming out of upper Cameron Basin,
then along Lillian Ridge where
mountain wizards craft energy candies
in rock grottoes under
full moons.
Beyond attention, effortless airy
shadow inspects rock slides,
stubby grasses, dried
bluebells and asters.
Marmot monks,
stationed like signal fires,
rip the silence, lump
toward burrow holes.
Raptor vision,
swift shadow,
echoing whistles bring an urgent
scale to the land.
Forget pain in knees,
long day, heavy pack.
Breathe the distances,
find a [...]
By David Stallings © 2004
Red-winged blackbird strides across turf,
crimson escutcheons flared. Conk-a-reee!
But here comes a rival,
a bandit at twelve o’clock!
Scritch!
Knocked to his side,
he’s back up, ready
for hot feathered
battle and
love.
Once my ex-wife told me,
You’ll follow your cock anywhere.
Despite my decades of loyalty,
she was, in a way,
right.
Conk-a-reee!
(No. 52 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
By David Stallings © 2003
Past Last Water Camp, my dog and I
wind up the north trail,
wading deep sprawls of snow
obscuring the way.
Left behind is my city job
and the softness of a woman at dawn.
Yet worries swirl
as I ascend through mist.
I cough a blaze onto the snow,
a shock of redness.
My lungs may be the end of me.
Route finding now, I [...]
By David Stallings © 2002
Climb the Big Quil trail often
and you’ll feel the mountain’s moods,
know the flowers’ changing faces.
Today the wind blows clouds in two directions,
and through the fog
old snags seem to have new growth.
At Marmot Pass the mist makes
your whole life shimmer.
Every day is a good day to make the climb.
