By David Stallings © 2009
My woman friend’s two kids
are having babies.
So are my daughter and her husband.
We will be surrounded by gurgles
burps, and frets—unrestrained
renewal.
The effect on us seems
comparable to a regimen
of horny goat weed
and toad shade supplements.
This morning,
as she released me
to the world,
my sweety stood
half naked,
a beguiling siren
at the hand carved
entrance to her
home.
(No. 43 in a series of responses [...]
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 © 2008
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 [...]
By David Stallings © 2008
We haven’t seen each other for years.
At tonight’s gathering, it’s take-out
lasagna and tired salad.
My step-nephew chats
amiably, sunglasses atop
his constant baseball cap. His mother
says Steve’s been traveling—
launching nephew into storied visits
to the Vegas adult entertainment expo.
He fetches photos to illustrate reported
marvels—pendulous latex breasts,
perfect be-thonged bottoms,
astonishingly realistic
woman dolls.
Pictures pass over cheesecake
and decaf in murmured appreciation.
When they [...]
By David Stallings © 2006
Good sex,
and oatmeal
in the morning.
Once I offered
this truth as a quilt
patch, a blessing
for my Zen teacher,
who was getting married.
Her husband proved
to be alcoholic,
and the marriage
soon ended.
Years later,
my bowl
of oatmeal
remains
a comfort,
but a hug
surely would
improve its
taste.
By David Stallings © 2004
Nashville, 1948
My skinny schoolmate, Judy Kay,
lived across the street, daughter
of a Southern Baptist minister.
Safe in the play boat we’d built
in her back yard, I suggested,
Let’s show each other.
Near the fo’c’sle, I pulled down
my jeans, stretched the top
of my white underwear briefs.
Her neck craned with interest.
In turn I hungrily looked
down her belly and saw
nothing. Where [...]
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 © 2004
Scene:
Hotheaded cowboy rides off
to wreak havoc and revenge.
Older friend follows
to protect him.
Friend lassos firebrand,
who falls to ground, furious.
Older man restrains him
until rage is spent,
tears flow.
Enraptured in a front seat of the theater,
half-eaten Three Musketeers bar forgotten,
I feel the snare of the rope, jarring fall,
hot tears on my face.
My body awakens to muscular rage,
the delight of [...]
By David Stallings © 2004
Round. What is round?
The sun, the moon, breasts, buttocks;
this curve of yearning
in my chest and belly.
I am prone to indiscretion.
Take me to that other shore
where each pore of my skin is a yoni,
thrilled by the breath
of soft air.
Alone with craving,
this old man’s foolishness
must cook within
until it is done,
and the heavenly light
of each breast and [...]
By David Stallings © 2003
When the call of the flicker
on a lonely ocean beach
is heard in my belly;
When above and below the heavens,
only I am the world-honored one,
having nothing to do with myself;
When flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtle dove is heard
in our land;
And when the time I am most [...]
