D's Bones

Retreat

David Stallings — Fri, 09 May 2008 16:04:06 +0000

We plunge down steep slopes of Mt. Ellinor
through paintbrush and fields
of late larkspur in fog.
The weather is unexpected—
wind and drizzle chill, weaken us.
Muffled voices of Labor Day hikers swirl in mists.
A girl cries to her mother
I can’t climb any more!
Below the next ridge, a panicked woman
with infant child stumbles,
sobs to her husband.
It grows darker,
rain almost snow.

The mountain itself—
unchanging.

(No. 82 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Cure

David Stallings — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 21:54:06 +0000

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 the ground;
note movement in the red stem dogwood—
someone with white eye streak, but not
a nuthatch. Now a strange
warbling from those cedars—
a traveler, not yet
revealed.

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Reunion

David Stallings — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 21:01:09 +0000

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 are laid aside
conversation returns
to the Colorado Rockies’ playoff hopes,
then shifts to Hannah Montana, now singing
on the Disney channel.

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Adjustments

David Stallings — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 18:38:10 +0000

The kitchen scale confirms a truth
my aging body already knows—
my backpack is too heavy.
I construct a spreadsheet,
detail the weight
of each packed item.
Like a desperate wagoner, I jettison,
repackage, replace.
A 23 ounce tent that works,
its titanium stakes too light to measure!
A 2.5 ounce Gigapower stove!
My spreadsheet neighs like a colt.
Soon I will trek mountains and rivers,
embrace sunny meadows
gulp cold springs,
become lighter,
lighter yet.

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

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Near Navajo Peak

David Stallings — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 20:54:46 +0000

Ascend miles of Douglas fir, white pine,
zones of Engleman spruce and western larch.
A sunny meadow
lies hinged to the mountain
by the last gnarly spruce.
Springs gurgle amid purple shooting star blossoms
and white-petalled grass of Parnassus.
I nibble Jarlsberg, dried pear,
swirl the soft breeze—
seep into grassy
earth.

(North Fork of the Teannaway, 2005)

(No. 98 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Cocoon

David Stallings — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 01:01:21 +0000

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 ready,
and soon Pacific tree frogs
will chirr spring’s chaos.

(A response to Zen Master Ikkyu’s 15th century Poem Presented to My Friend Ako at the Hot Spring)

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Oracles

David Stallings — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 04:46:31 +0000

Clear and cold,
a bubbly tongue of water speaks
of the pass a thousand feet higher. The way
rises through melting snow, rock grottoes,
basins of nodding avalanche lilies.
Marmot whistles tingle
the thin air.
We climb steep snowdrifts
to grassy ridge tops
southwest of the pass,
lunch over swapped stories
more truthful
because we are
here.

(No. 86 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Perspectives

David Stallings — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 00:48:07 +0000

After the sting
I grow intolerant,
spray a deadly stream of Raid Killer 271.
Alien protein throbs my wrist,
my attacker lies in slimed earth.
But here, another paper wasp—
a long dangly proposition,
exotic in articulation, golden pattern,
curved antennae.
It quivers its way along the fascia board, halts.
Though vulnerable on the ladder,
I relax.
We regard each other for a time, poisons
set aside.

(No. 79 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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House Guest

David Stallings — Sat, 17 Nov 2007 23:09:34 +0000

It looks like a forget-me-not
my daughter, Ariel, ponders,
but how could that be—
here, at over 5000 feet
in the eastern Cascades?
On our descent I pluck one,
examine its five blue petals and hairy stem,
stash it in my shirt pocket.
Hours later I resuscitate and key it—
an Okanogan stickseed.
I email Air the news,
make the stickseed comfortable
in the rich, sea level chamber
of my kitchen window.
We share a week of quiet reflection
before the hardy visitor
gently wilts
farewell.
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Nearing 65

David Stallings — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 02:39:31 +0000

My pack lighter than ever,
the season late,
I haul myself over headlands
to Toleak Point. Near my ocean camp,
cow parsnip that danced
in spring breezes has gone
to seed, its leaves slug-nibbled.
Wild lily of the valley, a once-green carpet,
has grown yellow and wan.
Yet listen as the north wind rustles
the parsnip’s dry pods.
Lower your eyes
to the lily’s quiet fruit—tiny green planets
with maroon continents.

(No. 71 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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