By David Stallings © 2010
My frayed black leather Day-Timer,
standard size, used to be
the Cadillac of business calendars.
Now, placed in front of me
on meeting tables, it’s surrounded by
colleagues’ sleek, intelligent devices—
purring and synched to company
calendars, email, Twitter, and GPS coordinates.
The pages of my archived monthly inserts
turn like dry leaves, their veins and spots
evidence that I had appointments,
kept notes, squeezed in [...]
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 © 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 © 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 © 2005
From my phone machine,
Two-L Willson spoke pleasure,
thanking me for suggesting
he Google “padlock parts.”
With a few strokes he teased forth
a reluctant key word
to turn a recently crafted
lament.
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.
