By David Stallings © 2009
She wandered with Pazanne,
her German shepherd;
tended secret campfires
along the Olympic coast,
dipped naked into Cascade lakes,
opened to the datura mazes
of Southwestern canyon land.
Along the road she gathered songs,
traded them for rides.
She would come calling
when her path brought
her back to Seattle.
Late one night I returned
to my befuddled cabin
after a starry walk along the Sound.
Curled in my bed, [...]
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
I lie alone on the wood floor,
eyes closed, stilled
by a day of dance
for the new year.
Fingers brush my left hand—
a question I lightly
answer. We forage a silent path
within deep woods,
curl around each other,
nurture ourselves
with minute movements.
Forever.
When we must rise
I kiss her ear, Thanks—
and let go.
Already daffodils and wood hyacinths
raise their green spikes.
Alder tassels make [...]
By David Stallings © 2007
My partner buried eight human placentas
in a circle at our meadow’s edge.
A midwife, she invoked the feminine
from all directions. In turn,
I carved a twelve-foot cedar pole,
erected it at the center.
When she and I divorced,
the pole traveled with me.
I planted the shaft,
somewhat shorter by this time,
on property shared with my new partner.
Things with her have [...]
By David Stallings © 2007
A smile rides home
with me
after five days
of coastal backpacking
with old friends
and family.
I approach my single
man’s cottage,
know loneliness
is near,
nearer.
Is now.
What vast sweep
this feeling has,
how rich with fear!
I let the waves tumble
and tumble
me into the sand.
Finally,
cast ashore,
I rise
naked
in the sun.
By David Stallings © 2007
Wind gusts
my kitchen window,
plucks
a long-covered note
from beneath a magnet,
thrusts it at my feet.
I feel you don’t listen to me,
or hear what I say,
complains my old lover
from across the years.
Pierced,
I sink
to the floor.
How
can this still
be happening?
By David Stallings © 2006
Today loneliness
trumps my flair for
solitude, and I ache
while checking e-mails.
Suddenly
a box appears
on the screen.
My daughter
wants to e-chat!
But I’ve
never chatted—
how do I make it work?
I start pushing
buttons.
(No. 60 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
By David Stallings © 2006
For decades
I’ve returned
to this rocky outpost,
sat beside this lodgepole pine,
gazed across Rosario Strait.
With wife, daughter,
subsequent lover—
now with only
this borrowed dog.
Sun blurs my tears
into star flies
that moisten lichen,
and call forth a trumpet
of Canada geese.
Somehow
it all makes
sense.
Orcas Island
By David Stallings © 2006
It is impossible
to pedal my bike
through morning air
carrying sadness or anger.
The light is alive,
my knees young
and Queen Anne’s Lace
doilies
the roadside.
(No. 44 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
By David Stallings © 2006
Late for the morning ferry,
my only hope this aging motorcycle
I haven’t ridden much lately.
It’s damp, cold—tough
on the elderly battery.
Flip choke,
pull clutch handle,
turn key,
push ignition.
Venerable 1100 turns over,
not too bad for a first try.
By the fourth,
just a spent groan,
dimmed lights.
Dammit!
Then, something never dared
over years of our relationship.
I stop, breathe, lean down
with leather hands,
embrace the outer carbs,
cylinders, [...]
