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 sexuality, the four of us
grow closer, more honest.
We stroke the sacs gently,
and the world sways.

Sucia, San Juan Islands, Washington

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Eight years pass—
same 7:05 AM Seattle ferry commute,
same newscast ear pods—
and names toll from Ground Zero.
From sunny waterfront
I stroll to work,
have no urgent exchanges
with passersby.
But never distant,
strangers clasp hands,
leap
into bloody mists.

(No. 81 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Everything is new:
my mother’s crude husband,
this small Alaska town,
my unknown
fifth grade classmates—
including Larry Sefrovitch
who wants to fight.
A crowd circles us on the playground
as we flail fists.
Only after a teacher
separates us
do I cry.
I can’t stop.

Seward, Alaska, 1952

(No. 62 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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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, she smiled hello—
I’ll stay the night.

By morning the bed sheets smelled
of firewood smoke
and the sea.

West Seattle, 1971

(No. 5 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Thousands of snow geese
shade early morning moon
under a cold sky.
Frozen levee grasses
soak my city shoes.
Overhead, a bare branch—
I glance up,
gaze into great horned
owl eyes.

Eventually,
we blink.

Port Susan Bay, Mouth of the Stillaguamish

(No. 39 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Tape adheres to my right arm.
I sit across from the clinic
deliberating over coffee and scone.
Good thoughts, friends, diet and exercise
can’t save me from an errant
thyroid, rebellious prostate gland,
defiant glucose numbers.
Days will pass, results
will swirl with other data.
I will pick through the flotsam
and try to decide
what must be
done.

(No. 96 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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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)

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A drip collects
in a plastic tub
placed on a shelf
in my bathroom.
Its source is not rain,
but cold condensation.
I need to fix it.
This wears on me.
To be honest,
containers collect water
in many rooms of my house.
Although it requires
energy to empty them,
many of the leaks
may never be repaired.

(No. 101 in a series of replies to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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Do one-breath zazen!
my Zen teacher would say
when I complained
I hadn’t  time
to meditate regularly.
He would probably approve
my placement of his new book
on the back of my toilet.
Since my prostate enlarged,
I pee more than I used to, making
for frequent short visits with
my old teacher.

*Dokusan—personal interview with the roshi during formal Zen practice

(No. 56 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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When I was seven
my father offered his secretary
a ride home.
On the way, he pulled
to the side of a country road,
slumped over the steering wheel, died
of a cerebral hemorrhage.

That night my mother tells me
he is gone forever.
I numb, suspend
in dry shock.
-Remember everything he taught you.
-He taught me exactly how to dry
between my legs after a bath.
I’ll remember.

And I do:
I saw the towel forward and backward
on both sides of my genitals.
It works well,
leaves my crotch
feeling tingly.

(No. 41 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

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