I hold the swaddled package
of my hour-old grandson,
hands and arms golden
in the aura of his
newness.
Though hospital protocol deems him
a biohazard—vernix and birth goos
not yet removed—
I feel the tendrils
of our hearts
intertwine.

I moisten these cords
with tears,
and know
I am
a goner.

(No. 57 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

The hard won arrival of my grandson has been a blessing and teaching beyond anticipation–despite cultural messaging about the marvels of grandparenting that should have prepared me.

I was still trying to figure out how to write a poem about him without being judged by poet literati as hopelessly sentimental and self-centered (Sharon Olds, notwithstanding), when I consulted an accomplished poet acquaintance about the matter.  He had recently published a chapbook of poems about his daughter on the occasion of her 21st birthday.  “Children, work, friendship, nature–it’s just what I write about,” he replied.

Good enough for me.

(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.)

I leave the bookstore,
not knowing what
to make of this performance.

Walking toward a bus stop,
I cross a side
lane, where a driver waits to enter
North 45th Street. Thinking he sees me,
I step in front
as he accelerates.
I leap onto his car hood,
screaming. He brakes, and I land
safely on my feet.
He speeds away.

I have just the strength
of the utility pole I lean against,
my breath,
and the cool night
air.

(No. 94 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Han-shan puts it, “Only when the mind is free of care/can the light of understanding shine/in every corner.”

(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.)

Though it’s charming when a shapely
word leaps to caress us, sometimes
it must be sought and wooed.
A true word Romeo stops at nothing,
however mad, bad, or dangerous
the seduction.

Brother Two-L,
you are
welcome.

John Willson is a fellow poet in my community, an all around nice guy, and leads a poetry workshop I often attend. One night John brought a fine piece which utilized his old high school Master combination padlock as the metaphor stitching together his reflections. None of us could name the part of the lock he was referring to as the “u-bolt,” which was clearly not the right word. Google came through. The true pleasure in John’s voice when he called was palpable, revealing that the missing word was “shackle.”

Thanks, Google.

Ariel, a year and a half old,
wrapped in lambskin
she calls Fuzzy,
speaks out loud to no one,

The clouds are the mountain’s
Fuzzy.

(No. 88 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Mt. Townsend is the closest of the Olympics peaks from my home on Bainbridge Island. I still climb it a time or two a year. One long ago summer day (in 1976), my wife, still-new daughter and I, and a friend/hired hand took a rare break from the log home building project on which we were largely focused. Daughter Ariel (now the webmaster of this site) still fit into her Snugli pack. Her baby care lambskin, then the hottest thing on the hip baby market (but now carrying warnings of SIDS risk if used before the baby can perform the Cobra asana), was our assurance that Air would be fine. I still have a last few square inches of that old lambskin in a file drawer.

I’ve never forgotten Ariel’s striking metaphor, probably an early indicator of the writer she turned out to be.

(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.)