Doug Stuber’s 2012 Poems Copyright, 2012 J. Douglas Stuber
Over-Trumped
This so-called life, this enigma wrapped in pain,
surrounded by a sea of nuclear waste, this end-game
controlled by those who can profit the most by the end
of, what? The end of humanity? Oil? Seas? Biosphere?
Planet? “We the People” only included white landowners,
while three thousand cultures got cleaned off the map.
Masonic fascism has only worsened, now infecting the
Christian church to the extent that abject poverty spreads,
a wildfire, as stock prices rise, products move, after raw
material shipped thrice to discover the cheapest possible
labor. This shit is not poetic, but you have to scream,
so how to scream on stage, on TV, at the movies in any
way that will register with the already-brainwashed
populace? Millions more will end up criminals, jailed
on this side of the pond, the “already dead” plus refugees
climb toward five million “over there.” As long as about
half as many as needed have jobs, and foreclosures hover
lower than ten thousand per day, we’ll be alright, right?
It’s just too bad, and if you can’t fight to survive and be
in a lucky location, bomb-free, death will trump poverty.
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Blaring heat
returns late, provides
relief to
muscles, brains, love-starved
newly-matched mates, here
in the land
of the morning calm.
Green Gingko leaves, soon
bright yellow
flutter unpredictably
due to fan
shaped leaf outweighing
stems by so
much. Our mates walk in
and out of shade
forty times
on the sunny side
of the street. Gingkoes
taste too strong
but medicinal value
is high, so
locals eat them boiled soft or
in soup or
tea. Their shade is a
bonus, fruit is sought
after by
amateurs and pros so the
city grows
them down streets in
communal Gwangju.
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New Navy Base Horrors
Historic flutter
returns as memorial
five eighteen
turns into KPOP,
miniskirt dance festival.
May eighteenth being
the day Chun went nuts
on Gwangju:
democracy not
squelched but assured by
U.S.-backed para-
troopers executing dire
overkill,
inspiring rich
kid pamphlet-drop suicides
at Seoul National,
until, on the most
unlikely
peninsula, they
yielded power to
the masses.
A scant thirty years later
tendencies
toward those ugly times,
dictatorial
edicts, a
supposed presidential
suicide,
concrete rivers, eight
beef protestors dead.
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Witness: monk
aflame, broken bones
mutilated girl,
troops sent in
over and over.
This behavior
is emulated in the
new dash for
ever-decreasing
resources. Modified crops
allow huge
population while
stripping collection
of next year’s
seeds. World disasters
assured via food
wars, global warming, auto
mobiles, self-
righteous billionaires.
When we lost touch with nature
all else crashed:
humanity traded for
big money.
Is there resurgent
loving hippiedom
more than fad,
or are we destined to fight
on behalf
of the same rich men
who enslave labor?
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April 7th Poem, 2012
Our “one-world-government” activist from the 50s has lived to see
the economic equivalent arise from the World Trade Organization,
IMF, GATT I and GATT II treaties, in which trade considerations
outweigh sovereignty. This ideal moment for the profit centers of
the world has, unfortunately, been soured from within, leaving him
to wonder about the fate of the next 20 years, but he still reads hard,
is sharp about human relations, forgiving to absent-minded children,
interested in his grandchildren, wrapping experienced arms around
James three, the one who has international eyes, the ability to walk
into any classroom and excel, who takes the Asian rock game “Go”
or “Padook” as seriously as any chess match or soccer practice. This
and so much more make up the experiences he has to thrive on when
the present slows down. This man, advocate for the freedoms won in
many battles, example to us all about how to squeeze everything out
of each day, threw fundraisers one season, lake frolics the next, and
is thought of each day by more people than he can remember, has not
lost touch with those who matter, and finds those good stories to keep
his brain brilliant, to extend new meaning into each day, to live more
than one life, the way he always did, say 40 years ago. You inspire us
from afar; we’ll be alright thanks to your allowing us to be who we are.
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Blibity Blah, Blibity Blee
Long old perm
adds to the tired look
on her face as she adjusts
bra strap, eye-judges,
walks past, then
doubles back to the
most expensive salon in
town: Lee Chul:
Tokyo, Beijing,
and Gwangju? A whopper error
unless Lee’s
mother lives here. It
is parents day, so rich Moms
hoist money at kids
so they can
buy cheesy flower
baskets best suited for a
county fair
in the deep north of
New York State: Easter tacky.
No one is above
suspicious conversation
so ladies
pair off above the
fray to gossip non-
stop, full-tilt,
smiling, laughing, knowing their
rivals are
across town saying
the same about them.
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Burned laptop
allows a mere hour
so the timing has to be
just right to
Skype to fulfillment.
She blushes, washes,
asks for more,
encourages this
love outlet
that becomes a sex lesson.
She thinks he
has tried all of this
stuff over and over, but
this quiz is
a test of our
fantasies as well.
Dawn comes and
she’s been up for hours
preparing
dinner because her work goes
past seven,
and dinner is at six, but
at least her
hubby is willing
to heat recipes
made from love
in the local way and so
close to his
mother’s, he can no
longer distinguish.
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Coffee Lotte
This white-haired geezer professor eases
into a conversation with a new beauty
who half-steps out of her shoes to get
further across the table at him. The back-line
of her sweater is so deep it reveals bra
and hourglass T over beautiful body,
under 42-year-ol face. He’s pushing 60,
so the match is a typical multi-cultural
generation hopping peculiar to Korea in
the pre-war era (2012). Self conscious
shopper bounces hair, boobs, handbag in
a shirt so tight, C-cups have no chance
but to scream attention. You can dress sexy
and still look peeved when people notice
here too. The real competition is among
women, so if men take a gander, hot-dressed
women, as their training insists, react
with disdain and keep moving. Girls
giggle as the aging couple departs. Quick-
lipped conversations float over coffee, phones.
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Congratulations on Your Marriage
Those lips, that face, her smile, his warmth, this day,
one day, could be the only day, but it matters not, as
one day can last forever, even if in Mun Doek, Haenam,
Naju or Gwangju. Some Tibetan temple cascades upward
on a tree-lined river few see. So? You snap a photo of a
love-God and Goddess in the rowboat position, paying homage
to the love of life by using their bodies to make more of it.
Two eyes yearn to wipe away the tears fomented
by one, two, three, four lost siblings. Can you stand it?
This angel, so calm and at home in such a foreign
land, so welcoming, desirous, smiling: a professor at
the “university of smile,” reaches toward him. He pulls her
in, falling forever in love, yet both trapped in the ill-thought
moments, that, nonetheless, brought them together, permanently
tagged by fate. If ever some cynical scientist needed evidence
of a benevolent Creator, this would be proof enough because
their love persisted electronically, circumventing myriad obstacles,
to become newlyweds, because the wait was so long, complicated,
so full of multicultural differences that love conquered. Can you
please stand and cheer for human compassion and love now?
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It’s Your Duty
The ten days
of spring, over now,
bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie
dances under sad
streets. This slow
city offers chance
encounters. Relationships
in tearless land mean
getting used
to work-hard love,
the kind that
pays off in respect.
Still, countless occupations
Influence beating
Hearts so shut,
into lead boxes
that us spoiled visitors can’t
find what we know to
be human.
some make the leap, some
force love on
historical foundations,
meaning they
must connect with those
who know the entire
reasons why
“hard work, no play love” adds up
to good life.
Vanquish excitement,
find love in floor scrub.
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Eat Alone
Hyuntay exhibits
gonads by
denying guilt-iced
request to join a
family dinner.
Sports rule the
day: baseball, soccer
badminton, but no
meal with the entire Gwangju
Park Kang clan.
Previous errors
by his Dad
already strained the
situation, so
mend-chance is wasted.
Still, ill, cough-
filled grandmother comes
back to do laundry.
This proves she is better than
us, but no
more than that,
as aunt stuck to her promise
and will not
help Hyuntay any
longer: endless spite.
This also
prevents lies from coming true,
thus gaining
Confucian high ground
while misery spreads.
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“Excuse me
are you from New York?
I thought I saw you
there in May
or June.” “No Shanghai
but I visited
Manhattan in June, maybe
you did see me there.”
This is how
the opening lines
are played in
his head, but chess is
simple compared to
size, culture
generation gap.
He’s up, the ruse is
a refill at Foster’s in
Chapel Hill two days
after a
home loss too…
But dude boy
is not about to lose this
one, no; cup
in hand he weaves through
tables, stops, pelvis
eye level
as she peers over laptop.
“Yes,” she says,
“Excuse me, are you
from New York?”
“No, but…”
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Gang Bang
Molly, from upper-middle class London
“joined” a gang due to family arguments and
too much academic pressure at home. She was
forced, emotionally, to seek love, and used sex
with violent gangsters to replace a hug and
soothing parental interface. Instead of “School
Without Walls” (see Rochester, NY) she’s passed
her rite, and this has gone on for decades, but as
soon as she started her own sexual adventures
she was demonized as “sket,” Jamaican slang
for slut. This only differs from fraternizing
and sorority-izing in comfort level, as both groups
excel at manipulation, winner-take-all, libertarian
capitalism, unfettered by law, rules or regulations
while free to beg trillions when their Usury schemes
fail then cripple the blue collar backbone over here
in the land of polarization, as in Ralph Nader, Noam
Chomsky and Michael Moore against O Reilly,
Gingrich and Palin. On paper this is a smear,
but in reality we’re as fucked as Molly ever was.
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Gwangju, Korea,
Hands reach for warmth, life, in these
last hours that he has. No matter that
birds flew, flowers grew, barns collapsed, deer
ran, hopped, fought, lost to lead delivered
so easily. This man, so sad, still reaches to find
any comfort he can find. On the periphery
of his own life, sequestered in a place his own
family doesn’t even know. :How, no why Dad, did
you run so far away from what once mattered?
But here, on the other side of the planet,
long removed from the love that sustained us, so
long that brutal cold sweeps through, loud coughs
pollute bus rides, and my loved one plays back
in my town while I work in hers. Worry not
young man, Dad will always be here for you even
if we’re abandoned in this cultural wasteland,
so adherent to the old ways, but you know me, I
have to, simply have to point out the problems of this
flawed species, my favorite? This forsaken peninsula:
always overtaken, owned, enslaved, occupied.
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Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events
Enough concentration camps to hold two million at a time.
Enough new gas lines installed at these converted, deserted
former factories to assure that more than some millions will pass
through, away. Is FEMA worried about an outside attack or
domestic arrests that follow economic collapse? Why waste this
kind of money just to scare us? No, these are for real, with train
boarding platforms, one-way turnstiles, and mass graves and
plastic coffins already in place. Youtube profits beg us to get
out now, while we can. They say the bible will take care of us,
“so just go, don’t worry about money or food.” No matter how
loony they seem, unless you are firmly into the top one percent,
and philosophize to that effect, you may well be on the “list”
to join summer camp, or winter camp: concentration is required
to survive such joints, but history suggests most won’t. Instead
of enacting change after Reagan and Bush I, Clinton just made
matters worse, ditto Obama after Bush II. This is not poetic shit,
but it doesn’t make headlines either. If Jews knew what was coming
don’t you think they’d have left before the SS and Gestapo moved
in? The CIA, FBI and Secret Service have lists. If you KNEW you
were on all three, would you, in 2012, be hanging around the US?
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My love she lives so close to me,
Only a universe away.
We both live lives we love yet hate
But don’t have the nerve to say
Goodbye to the past, hello to the now
No way to shed the tears.
So much to live for, think of the kids
Who get over larger fears.
Why can’t we admit we’ve lost,
Then start life anew?
Why is the chance so hard to take,
Why can’t I marry you?
Because we’ve grown accustomed
To the routine of rotten ways:
Each of them so different,
Trapped now so many days.
So many nights “together”
While really so alone.
All who know detest this
It chills them to the bone.
I ask, I beg, I plea now
Take this gentle hand,
Remind me what it feels like
To be an honest man,
To quit living lies as if noble
To finally take a stand.
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Labor Day 2012
Today’s troops include cross back suspendered shorts
strutting hard over very high heels with a tight fitting black
cotton shirt barging through the usual suspects: schoolgirl
uniforms, parental friends carrying children, well-suited cell
phone salespeople handing out glossy paper quickly discarded
to the messy square bricks of Sinae, the sexy, color-coordinated
monster friend strolling zone over here in Gwangju. Bobby coifs,
sculpted boys with well-done girls, now a solo lady, a complete
rarity in this duet-driven land. Hard to believe the gay scene
is microscopic with so many mono-sexual walk-mates. Anyone
even two inches off normal is way off here, but the ultimate
eye-opener now appears: shorts, a deep blue shirt and fluorescent
green fake suspenders that are sewn on at the top and clip on to the
bottom of shirt or shorts depending on cup size. Eighty-eight cent
coffee deal awaits on Labor Day (May 1 here) celebrated the same
day Russia does. Russia picked the day due to a series of successful
1889 strikes in the USA. By switching it to September in the US
the real history is lost, but not on Helena, the star professor
who wants to write her way out of Russia now, in order to join
this street club, as a social member, for four months come June.
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Love, Korean Style
Ostracized, this time in a crowd of twenty,
love so gone. How long can anyone live without
love? No, better put, what when one believes
that the only way to prove and sustain love is
via manual labor: hauling trees, cooking, laundry,
chauffeur work: splitting wood, teaching games, pushing
more school, more studying, until the child pops,
while the other’s idea of love is wrapped in empathy,
softness, caring, love-making, nudity, hugs, kisses
and the all-important “Yobo, how was your day at work?”
What happens is he cashes in his entire life to try to
win in what he calls love, including splitting wood until
his elbows ache, left knee succumbs, even moving to
a land he can not fit in to, pleading for his type of love,
while she stays aloof, plays and pots, sad that her son
is in her country, while she is in his…alone, except for
maybe a lady here or there. Yet, he works, three jobs,
works in the land-of-a-million-lies. Oh, he has friends
and she has friends she’s willing to pretend, allowing hugs
while quickly calling to our son, “look, we’re in love.”
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Man in the Shiny Silver Suit
Now blossoms fill the space
otherwise concrete gray.
Students scribble guesses
about why she went away.
Poets lounge on benches
even as it rains.
Frigid March springs nothing
the walls are water-stained.
But these are John Pike masters,
naturally branching out.
Students walk, umbrellas pop
few know what life’s about.
But this is not the place,
nor inside classroom doors.
To introduce the counterpunch
to flowers: fascist horrors.
Instead we “Jack and Jill”
these kids, children at age twenty.
We dare not make them think or
work, their banks will give them plenty.
Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties,
it’s a campus fashion show.
Some afford these easily,
others snort credit card blow.
Judgment comes ten times an hour,
more when class gets out.
It’s all about how well you dress,
and what you lie about.
Ten lies a day is not a sweat
but the truth is a big mistake.
To be a globalized professional,
your heart you must forsake.
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News Poem #246
BC, my old pepper-sauce loving friend suggests
I buy a boat in case this here peninsula blows.
No it won’t, but that’s not the news. The news is
“Extended Detention” for protestors, and “I’m going to
focus on Asia,” which is awesome when one considers
the potential havoc coming in Iran. Here, plum blossoms
do the talking above fake windmills, Koi ponds and
German-style stucco/dark-wood Dutch colonial restaurants,
sunny days, half weddings, half funerals. Personal set
of three appears ready to drop, but must be stopped. You
know the routine: lose love, job and house all at once:
some by pink slip (job moved) or foreclosure (homeless
via fine print) or love torn, leaving children confused and
bitter, “exes” smoldering and emotions displayed for
boss to see. Because of the young children you work
four jobs, both parents unable to parent, then, just as
the tulips rise, new hope with them, some major event
steps in to render efforts futile, tear asunder, return
existence to animal instincts. Few find this thrilling but
2012 lowers the common denominator three more pegs.
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Redbuds bloom
some bulbs shoot up in
time to usher in Yobo’s
fiftieth
Korean birthday.
Pottery
and family play
replace the love
of husband and child as she has
Gui Soon now
to make her
house alive, and so
she can paint in Bulgaria.
Her only
reminder of age
is one poor
poem, as her life
is near-perfect with
more time for creative bursts,
less homework.
Can she make
room for all that mess again?
Does she know
how emotional
her son has become?
Will open
arms and open hearts announce
another
chance? We pray for her,
she waits to join us.
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Soul Rumble
This lover, these words
spread onto thin tissue
which passes for a bar napkin
here where jazz flows
only on Friday, unpredictable,
it’s a trip away from pain
inept life, life, so joyous
with family, friends, rockin’
school job, yet unable to
dance with my wife, fill
cavernous soul, having dropped
too many sustaining creative
outlets, but then: music
old friend, joined by three
others soothes enough of the
ache to render energy too:
dance again, punch ol’
Hemingway in the balls.
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Stuber Haiku* Labeled “Dad”
Simple meals
with scrumptious drinks made
up his restaurant
fare. “Pocahontas” was cheese
and bacon
on a split
hotdog, washed down
with root beer.
Vegetables were fries
or fresh onion rings, causing
many smiles,
future diet plans.
Today’s smile, decades
later, is at reunions
short but sweet.
Much water
over many dams
means we pray
daily, move to strong
tomorrows, spurred by writing,
reading; large
ideas continue to
refine thoughts
so you or we might
say the exact right
phrase, sentence,
paragraph that will stick in
brains so full,
hearts so swelled, lives with
little room for more.
*The “Stuber Haiku” has an A,B,A,B, C,C stanza pattern in which the syllables per line are variable in stanzas A and B (but obviously the same in A and B) and the C stanzas are always 3, 7, 3, 5, 5 in syllables-per-line. “A” here is 3,5,5,7,3 and “B” is 3,5,3,5,7. Many of these have been written in the past. The choice of odd numbered syllables is a nod to Japanese Haiku, best written in Japanese, consisting of only three lines in a 5, 7, 5 pattern. Haikus almost always mention nature AND the seasons or a season, or the change of seasons in some way. Some linguists say 7 syllables of Japanese = roughly 12 in English.
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Buddha’s No Rae Bang
cranks up one
more time in late May
to celebrate his
true birthday.
Lumbini swells as
Koreans t\rock out on a
lotus-filled
stage high above the
Najuho Valley. One cute
seventeen-year-old,
Park Jin Hye
steals the show with a
song and dance routine
to die for.
Then, in a shocker,
esteemed visitors and the
seunim join
in minstrel making
merriment. Wouldn’t it be
nice if we
could see the creator smile,
but here on
a hot-dry Monday
we laugh together
each one of
us a god, able to solve
all earth’s
problems with what we
have. Peace now Peace now.
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Kiri pays
on the sly with her
usual smile, on
the way out
of Yeosu. Christian
opts for an early
leave, as expo exhaustion
sets in. We drank his
wine, and Heineken
until four,
woke up at six to
shower with Rebe
first to leave,
presentations at
Yonsei beckoning.
Minor food discrepancy
clears up when Kwang Mi
cooks ribs at
midnight, adding to
long night of
merriment. Red wines form France,
Chile, Spain
and California
assure quick thinking
to catch the
nuances, as thrice-flashed breasts
fill drunk dreams
and hot summer air
streams in to wake us.
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Decade dream remains
unfulfilled, but she
can still talk about
it. Lunch and
coffee reawaken it.
Then she disappears
this time for
good, scaring the life out of
you . If you
never see her, what
will it mean? Dead dream,
dead woman, dead heart?
Sleep deprivation
reaches the
three-week point but semester’s
end approaches and
all you can
think about is how she’s
thrown away
potential just to
abide Dad’s
demands, Mom’s urgent requests
stuck in a
study room trying
to pass one more time.
Oh quit girl!
Chime in, tell him you’re alright;
force out to
the light that awaits
right in front of you.
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O’s 1
Moon beam bounces back
through deck slots next to
palatial
garden hidden in
the heart of Jeonju.
Curved pines rise
over crooked-branched
maple as
workers scurry to wrap up
another food day.
Diners linger long
after the kitchen
closes, as
this sanctuary
is genuine, calm,
respectful
of others, mindful
that this short
life deserves moments that shine.
Beauty surpasses
the anger
grind as oversized, puffy
bread arrives
by immaculate
delivery: a
waiter straight
from the L.A. scene, but
not, just well
trained. O’s, the hipster
joint hangs your work.
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In The Groove
Polaroid, the jazz
band brushes
its first number as
a trio
before maestro sax
steps in to liven
the night in often sleepy
Gwangju, the
City of Light. Close
your eyes and the bassist sounds
natural, with no
chart, and when
summertime bee bops
he cooks. The
Maitre D’ is both
helpful and a touch
suspicious. But by God he’s
given jazz
a place, so our souls’ relax,
find conifers to pull in,
and dreams to
chase over cocktails and smiles
when most joints
only offer smug
teenagers dancing
and asking
how old you are, and ending
the night with
“thanks for the dance sir.”
Is that in the groove?
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Good Luck!
Best dressed and
sluttiest
hit simultaneously
on exam
day. One class fails
the averages
ninety-six.
Few are ready for
the dance. Another
leap awaits
those lucky enough
to score jobs.
Hard to forget money when
still living
at home means having
to rent motel rooms
to be with
your loved one, or at
least partner. Since the
miracle
on the Han
took only fifty years to
propel per
annum income from
one hundred to an
astounding
thirty thousand, one suspects
an equal
drop could happen much
quicker. Depression
is creeping in now.
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O’s 2
Min Hee puts a prime
tiny movement at
station one
that sports water and syrup and
a spotlight. Her eye
surpasses
the Ray Brown solo
in bass register
that floats in
and out of perfect
weather that adds to
immaculate space
designed and
executed subtly
soothing without a
hint of self
applause, a refuge
in the valley that
once housed the
Chosun Dynasty.
Again some
grace of the creator sent
this chance while
the normal drift had
led to dance stardom
among the
slowly initiated,
horrified,
shy, hard-to-describe-
to-outsiders crowd.
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Does one blushing smile,
innocent in its attempt
to say hello and
good-bye at
once qualify as
poetry?
Or must there be some
Philosophical
Underpinning that
Jumps to the fore? Peace
means adult red face
as an opportunity
to blossom, and a
restaurant
where time is itself
worth noting
on this bloody earth,
starved, parched, war-torn tears
flowing, cruelty-
filled type of planet.
So if you’re
munching on plastic chairs at
some seven
eleven, able
to watch life flow by
for an hour,
imagine just how good you
have it, when
in front of backdrop
that’s not so easy.
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Yang Overload
Bamboo surrounds the
hill Jin Hee
studies on. Inside
two abstracts
find a home, the Yin
Yang one for her, dominant
Yang rooster
for Tae Kyung, the fake
red haired soft-face from Seoul.
They plan to
conquer the world by
constructing
personalities
that can win
in the male money club
world; the corporate, legal
bank account
world that assures their
children will attend foreign
rich high schools.
What about
love? The artist asks, but she
is shy to
admit his softness
won’t penetrate her
dreams. She fears
accepting his kindness will
throw off her
hard fight to be Seoul’s
top dragon lady.
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Tae Kyung appears to
be ready
for the rooster now
headed her way. You can feel
the yearning
steaming up from her
loins as you sit with
Jin Hee, now
A mutual friend.
There’s just as good a
chance Tae Kyung will stay
in touch, as
she is less driven,
more conventional, already
settled in.
She’s much harder to
read though, so you’d be
wise to book
a few more meetings
to catch up to her
dreams as well
because there’s this one life, and
it’s half done,
but she’s just begun
to realize the
universe will
take care of her no matter
what she does.
To assist or take
advantage of it?
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Jeonju to Gwangju Bus
One yawn on the back
row initiates
beautiful
trip that reminds you
your young wife
will be back
on Friday. A hair
toss lands on right elbow as
she adjusts short skirt
underneath leather knock off.
Skirts are meant for show
while moving, not to
be looked at
while seated; exposed
blue panties
which, in this
case, match fingernails
and the prettiest face this
side of Meudungsan.
She will not think of using
her left arm
rest, as it is your right one,
even though
you know she “works” in
Gwangju, how dare
you ask what
her job is on a bus?
Kwang Suk would
laugh, or punch your arm
depending on mood.
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Watercourse
Your play time
will be limited
only by life’s plan
so grab a hold and begin
again under lips.
Your hands guide
great deeds. We learn so
much from each
other, yet very
far apart.
The islands
of youth now replaced
by love yearning to
be whole. So we work hard to
make it so. It’s all
just plans now.
neither work nor play
can attain
true love, it comes from
heart magic.
Small waves curl
onto multiple shores at
the same time:
Black Sea, Pacific,
Canandaigua Lake.
One dreamer
imagines these perfect hearts
together
working on projects
made simple by love.
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Loose fitting
summer garb, pink and
white, supported by
cane, walks down
familiar lane to
the center
of Jeesil, the town
between Hwasun and
Damyang, on the far side of
Mudeungsan.
Poems float
above gazebos,
sounding the yearnings
history
tells us once mattered.
Supported
by watermelons,
stone bridge, mysteries
of the past, scattered painters
cluster here,
drink soju,
toast hard working wives who stand
tall when art
fails to pay all bills.
Seven come to fill
commission
scored by Do Gi who has a
son to raise.
Baby and grandma
smile at each other.
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Scraggly crag,
a rock that landed
sideways when
tossed by an angry
god towers over farmers.
Except for crooked
pines, post-war
square architecture, country
apartments,
the green is British
in summer
as fog covered rice
might well be
adequate cover
for foxes dodging hunters.
Old habits die hard,
but here it
is the grandfather riding
his bike to
the park to play “go.”
But it’s not
“go” but Padook, frustrating
As it seems
Simple to the untrained
Eyes, yet as complex
as any
chess match once you understand
how easy
it is to blunder,
hard it is to win.
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Fieldstone stacked to make
a house stands out where
greenhouses
and silos are the
norm. Multicolored
school invites
youngsters to strive to
reach past rural start,
beyond chicken feeding to
some known school
the whole village can
be proud of, the first
student to
matriculate from
this county, later
a statue
built in honor of
the first from Jido
to become a Yonsei grad.
Not all will
do so well,
but this boy’s grandfather did,
his mother’s
Dad, the one who read
a lot, got lost one
time tying
plastic orange ribbons to
red bud trees
so your Dad would not
cut them down in haste.
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Cooking smell,
it’s beef bourguignon
devours the ground floor of
three story cottage.
The attic
is used by
number four dancing
girl, who sips coffee
while working Kia
games for a mere one
point five per
month. “But she may have
a moonlighting job” my friend
suggests pays that much
per weekend.
But this is
wild speculation
thrown around when down
one zip in the sixth.
Then a well-shaved fan
bounces a
few enthusiastic cheers
causing breast
wiggles New Balance
could use in its next
ad, or is
ample replacement during
cheerleader
breaks. Then Lee Young Kyo
makes game-saving catch.
25 July 2012
Kia 3, Nexen 1
Henry Sosa pitches for Kia
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She pinches his nose
and pulls left, snapping
fingers, watering his eyes
then laughing,
biting, pulling close.
She wanders to class
after a
visit from
island friends who spend
more time getting there
than being with her.
She wins bread, cooks, cleans,
does laundry until
midnight while
he plays PC games.
He leaves early, skips
meals, makes no
money and
wants love only once
every sixty days.
So she throws
attention to her children
and teaching,
volleyball and new
Korean words to
try on some
innocent store clerk.
No Rae Bang
fills lonely times when
kids visit in-laws.
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Hard working
Helena has no
time to relax, and
her stomach churns in both
English and Russian.
Aeroflots’
in orange or large
knotted ties
speak with rolled
Rs, take you back to
the bench in
the hidden graveyard,
a place few sit, but
favored by old friend, new one,
this mother-daughter
team, nearly
inseparable,
tired, achy,
overworked,
laryngitis adds
to language
obstacle as hints about
inner child
of targeted man:
“irresistible”
yet squarely
confused at the base of the
pyramid
though he dreamt of an
entry from above.
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You could see
how a teenager
might get a case of
cold feet, or
if there was an age
gap, or if the two
cultures were
far apart, or if
his unreal
philosophy countered hers,
but in this
case, no visible
yield or stop sign comes
into view,
just straight romantic
jitters from being
so lonely
so long. Rather than
countering
with bravado, he lays low
applying finesse,
not his long suit, then
flying off,
allowing time to
ponder which thrust or
parry will
accomplish intimacy.
These two, so
bonded by words but
so shy in person.
26 July 2012
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Copenhavn Logo “Have a Good Time”
If middle class were
this good world wide there
would be no
war, just beer-drunk anchor climb
kanal wall sitting
no aluminum
collecting
in low-slung hat, or
child beggars
or water
and food deprived, just
on big high-heeled sit
down chat with
waffles, perfect tall women,
misplaced Asians lost
in nervous laughter
pulling out
warm beer from pockets
as a cool
breeze allows
brief reprieve
from overheated planet
if, if, if
Copenhagen was
The norm, but it’s not.
Too many
camera-perfect scenes float
past to feel
guilt for long, so you
drop photos, write more.
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Kopenhavn
Well-captained schooner
comes about in a
tight space, two
meters to
spare, without touching
bow or stern
on kanal 9, so
full of Friday merriment
few notice this maneuver
nor count the
forty six moves it
took to get the boat
headed out
to sea. Better shots
taken as football
fan smoker
strides confidently
to greet, as it turns out,
one. Couples of all ages
rule the night.
Some drag thirds
along, and parents take kids
to shield all
temptation, and here
there can be plenty.
The noble
pose is a tall woman at
the end of
a bike ride,, dressed up,
gliding to a stop.
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Copenhagen 2
Intense look
mingles with laughter
conversation that
you sat down
next to on purpose finding
yourself a love, yet
in a group of four,
with limited time to learn
how things work
while fifty
something goes
backless in a black
bra, fluorescent dress,
deep tan, blonde,
of course, seeking any love.
Just your luck, these two
short-skirted happy
party girls remain in full
chat, moving
long hair with
outstretched arms
that raise breasts into an
upward tilt
that conveys desire
without remotely
suggesting
who the target of the move
may be. One
break-up news causes
pterodactyl laugh.
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Copenhagen 3
While butting out
a smoke, pulling out
box for another
auburn-haired
girl keeps listening and now
does her symbolic
hair flip as diners
finish, rock sitters arrive,
pizza and
beer in hand.
Two Rasta
players tote guitars
as laughing ladies
pack shapely
legs, turn but sit back down here
where a child’s Tweety
balloon rises as
swarms of edge walkers come up
and see the
chatters go
to the far
stairs, descending away, trapped
in old lives
that never change much.
Ny Havn strollers
still some in
lace, come look at each other
or themselves
to make sure a breast
isn’t out, or is.
27 July 2012
Copenhagen
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Sweden
Sweden blurs by on
the Violia,
forty six
thousand lakes
and a three hour wait with
nothing to
do but look at the
outside of
Tivoli Gardens
across from
Copenhagen’s bikes
won’t fade, nor Sweden’s
endless fields.
One smart traveler
makes conversation as we
lurch, he now
ending holiday,
you at the
start as Kwang Suk and
Hyuntay sleep.
It’s eight,
two more hours before Stockholm.
Two diners
return to sit and
chat, find less noise in
sleepy car
thirteen. By some luck the one
source of air
is an open aisle
window at our seats.
July 28 2012
Copenhagen to Stockholm train
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Memories of Drottninghoff
Three Asian
ladies decide to
share an elk
fillet in Stockholm,
much to the waiter’s
chagrin. A young man out guns
his mother and sticks
to his cheeseburger order
over Swedish meat
balls or elk.
So his dad
gets the elk, and rare
at that. What
a delight, with top
notch Béarnaise sauce and
a delicious brown glaze with
tomatoes and red
onion, super, and since we
were killing time, topped
by cheesecake
and cakey
tiramisu that could leave
a lasting
memory of our
Stockholm time. I wish
My best new
Friends were here to see water,
boats, lone man
standing in river,
“fly fishing palace.”
30 July 2012
Stockholm
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Skansen Travelogue
On one of many
islands, around which
are docked boats and ships of all
sizes, just
like yesteryear, a
set of old
farms and Nordic zoo
are planted with the
actual barns,
houses, churches pulled apart
and reassembled
with original chairs,
beds, plates, dating to thirteen
twenty. One
sight worthy of note:
a T-shirt
saying “sleep with me,
get a free breakfast.”
Those rumors
About blondes in Sweden are
True, the vast
majority are blonde all the
way. Beauty
here is a lifestyle
except the brunette
waitress who
lost six points for being so
uppity,
bringing the wrong food
and hating her job.
31 July 2012
Stockholm Malmo overnight train
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Three In Three
Once every thirty
years you had
to pull the logs off
your roof to replace birch bark
used to keep
the rain and
snow out in Sweden’s
medieval farmhouse.
Out-in, in-out, it
matters not
which direction as
this is all
you can think about
as you talk to women who
perform the
typical
duties you would wear
clothes to do, while they
wear appropriate
ancient garb.
After half
a day chatting old school with
milk maids and
baronesses, the
three at the outdoor
grill spark warm
feelings, serving “big or small”
hot dogs. One
of each plus you would
be three on three.
31 July 2012
Stockholm to Malmo Night Train
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Wiebke
She’s not changed except
for the relief from
Jule’s coming of age, and
Hellmut, so
loyal, supportive
and full of good taste
in music,
philosophy and
the magic of social life.
Lack of drama sits well on
a gray Hamburg day,
beautiful for a
walk because the rain was short
and light. Years
do not oxidize
closeness attained in
batmobile
moments on beaches,
trading paintings with Liz Briggs,
eating B.C. Young’s gumbo.
Bowie asked
“where have all the good times gone?”
But they’re here,
Harder to find, less
Frequent, still poignant.
No amount
of sadness or delinquent
youth can stop
us from enjoying
our time together.
2 August 2012
Hamburg, Motel One
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Kassel
Hyuntay sports his green
outfit at Documenta,
skipping and
squatting depending
on full or
empty. He
screams hunger between
white walls and the walk
to “New” gallerie.
Mom takes him to ice cream as
Grateful Dad runs through
the yellow building down in
The park. No
special effort has
been made by
the curator
to cover the last
five years, as has been
the custom in the
past; instead, she displayed the
letters sent
to beg for inclusion, but
she only
included their letters,
none of their art! Oh
what a mess
this minimalist version
was: I can
imagine enraged
artists everywhere.
5 August 2012,
Finished Poolside Varna
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Grand Hotel Varna
Hundreds of happy
families flock to
the Black Sea,
end up lobsters, but
sit all day in the sun
without tops, then a
swim, more fun,
all day music and would-be
Olympic
water polo stars practice
in a four foot pool.
Here, the men are so
big I fit
in as medium
sized. What a relief
after being stared
at so long
in Asia. One twenty is
not too much
even for women to sport
bikinis.
Reserving a pool-side seat
must be done
early, as no one
ever leaves a spot
before six.
Novice swimmers, low-flying
seagulls, sand
castles slip to the sea,
happy families.
5 Aug. 2012
Varna
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Bulgarika Symposium
We sit inside, out
of the sun, telling
tall tales, short tales, and
fairy tales,
the inescapable psyche
of the group
as found in folklore, culture
and problem of how
individuals
fit in to these strange boxes.
Pakistan enters
as does the question:
“How well do you speak
Korean?”
I know none or little, so
this question
continues to haunt every
corner of the globe.
Some are hard find
like Camilla, Luiza,
and those who
insist on painting. I wait
for liquid
acrylic paint but
have had some fun with
sand and oil
for textured beachside backgrounds
between sweet photos
of passing
bikini bottoms.
5 August 2012
Black Sea beach, Varna
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Bulgarika 2
A map of Varna
gets passed around so
one can find a shop
to improve
computer performance in
one way or
another. Marina hates
the sun, she being
so pale, and now thin.
She’s an animal, or so
her Skype announces,
but more in the mode
of painting than in
a social
setting. When cultures meet it
inspires new
work, new perspectives, new friends,
new techniques, and for
the brave and sneaky,
new love, new philosophy.
Internal
values, being important,
get put back
as we reach out to
each other around
beer talks
long enough to attack the
canvasses
some new way, with oiled
egos, Slavic style.
5 August 2012
Varna
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Bulgarika 3
Under sycamores,
strange double-trunked trees
that drop cream white bugs
the comedy
continues, and jealousy
is replaced
by multi-cultural jokes.
Our Adam Sandler,
Nikolay Rouusev
makes one about his own art
place, Russia, while the
true Russians hunker
in stripes, a table
for four. When
Nikolay goes into his
giggle, this
boyish cuteness presents a
free man, himself, an
appendage while still
allowed freedom by the strong
Marina,
who, when she laughs appears to
have clown roots:
the frightening kind,
the ones who can so
a lot of
damage if angered because
they have been
through much, suffered for
their art, protective.
5 August 2012
Varna, Bulgaria
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Nikolay and Marina
(Bulgarika 4)
Here in their
new house, the one with
old fruit trees, rabbits,
grape vines and
an apartment for
his parents, a dog,
a cat, two
studios and wood,
beautiful
antiques from Holland, the whole
artist group
invades for “Kvas,” the
Russian bread juice they
line up for
in Moscow. This one
is a touch sweeter
so Hyuntay
and Kwang Suk drink it.
Cheese soufflé
wine, Bulgarian pizza,
fresh fruit and
crepes round out the authentic
local lunch,
as cameras flash,
Marina laughs, and
proudly shows
us Darina, seventeen,
a model,
bodacious, and just
as pretty as Mom.
7 August 2012
Varna, Bulgaria
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Bulgarika 5
Mini disco
at eight pm means
dancing in the sand
after the
son goes down in dry
Varna. Hot
But, with cool overtaking,
Gymnastics ensues
On the beach stage. Are
Nikolay and Marina
still in the
woods painting? Are all
four Russians in the
same room? As
three Ivanas dance
and twenty
others hit the beach stage from
Saint Petersburg, are
they amateur or
professional? Each morning
they stretch to
the commands of the three coaches
who themselves
have more than one set
of priorities.
Then sun sets,
tide rises, a six-year-old
builds with sand
as sisters frolic
a weary lady waits.
8 August 2012
Beach
St. St. Constantine and Helena
Varna, Bulgaria
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Bulgarika 6
Kwang Mi stands guard, up
and down the cove beach
as grandparents swim,
one girl bathes,
the day’s last sand castle is
built. Bright white
occurs on the tops of now
purple clouds as a
tiny threat of wet
weather floats into seaweed
being tossed and twirled
in the air, and one
dancing architect
stops between
moat and tower to get a
Samba step
in. Then he’s laughing at the
Olympic short skit
comedy, then he
learns to swim, tie a bow knot
on his swim
suit; Varna has been a place
to learn, meet
new people, enjoy
relaxed life.
Shade soccer
triangle with a floating
rainbow ball.
Performance art talk
makes big laughs for all.
10 August 2012
Varna, Bulgaria
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Bulgarika 7
Marina, Janez,
Nikolay, Kwang Suk,
Katerina, and
Hyuntay sit
with me under gathering
clouds on the
only cool day for a week.
Lobby bar table
fills to seven at
a table for four, reduced
to four again, one
man, three women, two
of which, viable
playmates, but
not serious, not to lose
to later
take dinner with around fish
at Albatross, one
of many hidden
gems, including green smoke past
blonde hair, so
frizzy, and one clown laugh you
can’t help but
continue to need
to be here, so you
make a list
of all the artists you know.
Luiza
is the one you will
remember: alone.
11 August 2012
Varna closing dinner
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On the Danube
Cliff tram to
palace, taken by
Girlie, James
and James while adults
climb around
fails to deliver
expected crew
at the bottom, so
you wait, by the Danube as
sun sets, in
the hope that
they make the seven
thirty cast
off, but not knowing
whether to
stay another hour
and just make
the dinner cruise in
time, or to leave to stop
the worry.
At the boat
In case they got by you all
Together.
But either way we
should have seen/met by
now. Could it
be that Budapest resolves,
as Johnny
said it would, issues
old and new for good?
12 August 2012
Budapest
Boat Dinner Dance
Dinner on
the Danube with James
Johnny and Girlie comes with
dancing (Waltz to Watusi)
on a slow
boat the provides us
perfect shots
of Budapest as
night. A tall Russian,
four Chinese, and two
really good
dancers (though not in
partnership) one male: ballroom
star, one female: with extra
high-heeled kicks
thrown in to perfect
rhythm in
the most mini dress,
a trophy bride for
successful pink shirt
marketer.
Girlie looks a little hurt,
three months with
child. The pleasure is
new friends, sharing life’s
bounty, as
earth spreads wealth unevenly.
Whether new
or reuniting,
nothing beats a dance.
13 August 2012
Budapest
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Hamburg-Copenhagen ICE 35
Nine scooters
wait on a country
road as the
ICE thirty
five motors
past, carrying one
heartbroken, depressed
man, among
a scant three
cars of train-boat-train
travelers.
A beautiful trip
destroyed by
an outburst brought on
by no wi-
fi capability in the
same place she couldn’t
get any
before. It
was a rigged blast, and
could have been
brought on by a phone set-up
to reverse
back, including my
g-mail, thus pushing
this final
moment of hatred in front
of Hyuntay.
I almost hit my
Wife last night. Such shame.
14 August 2012
Hamburg to Copenhagen Train
which includes a 45 minute ferry ride:
the entire train gets on the boat!
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Hamburgers Come From Hamburg
Wiebke gets
left to Hellmut this
time by, as
the wheat farmers crank
combines, and
dust flies in Germany, north
of everywhere but
the Baltic.
Train travel,
which shall never end
in Europe,
as it has for all
but cargo
in the US, gives
us a view:
lush loam, cut crops, windmills and
sail boats: another
warm cloudless
day to end
a near-perfect trip.
Boats bring tears:
too many memories of
lake days past,
summer swallows, those
studio lodgings
in warehouse
buildings, Lexi Logan and Phil
Floran chased
out. Family is
the new happiness.
14 August 2012
ICE 35 Hamburg to Copenhagen,
while floating across to Denmark
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Fruit Comes from Frankfurt
Two men work
a crane truck in warm
Nykobing,
Denmark at four twelve
under blue
skies. Memories of Varna’s
beach, Beethoven’s house
and cities
we never
saw like Frankfurt run
through dreams of
Oma on a ski
team with a
Korean flag on
her hat as
she slaloms a course only
his subconscious could
dream up. “Fruit,
not hot dogs,
are from Frankfurt,” James
tells the Times,
or some fast-moving poet
he must know
forever to be
the interpreter
of what they
all mean. Small forests between
Half Moon Bay, reach now
for love, make it last.
14 August 2012
Hamburg to Copenhagen ICE 35
Across in Denmark
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View From Train Window
Cubicle feed crop,
farm houses
and power windmills
create a peaceful
neighborhood
in plentiful years.
Distant dust
floats a signal to farmers
only in
August on the first
of many northern
islands, a
touch isolated
except for passing
trains, bikes, cars.
White plastic as thick
as mistrust
wraps round bales for winter use.
Corn grows well,
price doubles due to
failure in
the US. Most salt away
or pay off
debts with a bumper
year paid for well by
a market,
ever growing in size and
need. Denmark’s
luck comes at a time
of mass starvation.
14 August 2012
Hamburg to Copenhagen ICE 35
Across in Denmark
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Thirty-Four Hour Day
We pressed our luck once
James conked out,
and took the last train
to Oslo (not to
Clarksburg) to mingle with the
dancers, whores
and all-night kebob
cookers. Four
corners in
a row of working girls made
us duck for cover
in a pub
the featured disco,
Earth, Wind and Fire, and
a Tom Jones rendition that
missed many
words, but delivered
melody
notes on cue,
adding to the rainbow globe
lighting as
patrons paired off, leaving one
table of old
men to grumble, laugh
commiserate in
a bar that
sported better glasses than
beer. Weisbier
is best in warm booths
watching cold come-ons.
15 August 2012
Oslo, Norway
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Separate
I hate to
see a dumpster full
of broken frames tossed
furniture,
what was once love thrown into
a heap, don’t you? It’s
always love
that tries so
hard to glue that which
is irreparably
shattered: a
heart, or both. Sunday,
work day, is no day
to have to
walk by this to prepare the
new semester, but
there it is
pounding your
emotions because
it’s too late in your
own house, now
sweltering with hatred and
vicious “junk
purges” that are, in
fact, your entire life.
One story,
one magazine at a time
thrown out. “If
you ship these home, they
will become garbage.”
19 August 2012
Gwangju, Churangchae Aparts.
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Viscosity
It’s a good time: questions lead to vibrant conversations
in a meeting of oh-so-many professors. They bus them
in so at least a few will be around to question each other
after their presentations. Is there time then to huddle away
from the noise and aspirations of self-appointed dukes-turned
pirates? Capital Diaspora increases in volume, velocity and
derivatives so labyrinthine and full of contradictory legalese
that determining melt-down culprits becomes so hard it’s not
worth doing. Voila! What should be heaven on earth for capitalists
is interrupted by those who have been oppressed the most, who suffer
the palpable divide of the miniscule mega-rich and massive starving
poor: middle-easterners. Already cordoned by culture, further-assailed
by invading “infidels,” stuck living over oil, virtually landless as war
spreads and rival tribal gangs carve space, steal resources, add
torture to their bag of tricks to cover financial malfeasance in the
age of fascist vitality. The double-eagle (not a hole-in-two
on a par five) rises from newly moved nest. Revenge of its own
well-planned firestorm gives the investment class a few safe
bets outside China, as Halliburton sails again. Dick, Don and George
evaluated, forecast, gave this mess to opponents before the collapse.
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Commemorative
It starts: if we attack, everyone loses, if we don’t attack
We lose, if we lose everyone wins. What to do? Where
to go? What to grow? Typhoon Sanba threatens the
rice crop, greedy “Christians” defy their own book, reach
out to the unwary lonely-hearts. Speculators close factories
to eke out the last profits available: seek and find cheaper
labor, so Camden, Buffalo, Youngstown, Chicago, Durham,
Rochester, Cleveland, those towns are “coming like a ghost town.”
It starts: an ambassador here, Secretary of State there: here a
bomb, there a bomb, everywhere a bomb-bomb. It starts: linguistic
arguments, religious fervor, acute rhetoric, Minnesotan response:
logic, common sense and communal helpfulness trumped by
irrational emotionality, marching orders, and class wars popping
up all over the globe, as money piles higher, yet in ever-diminishing
numbers of piles. They say the first item anyone bought for minted
coins made in (present day) Germany was beer. What will the
last item be? A goat? Arable land? An I-Pad? Song and dance
may not be enough, even Gangnam style, to distract the
masses from the next (last?) chapter in human history. Saddle
up, you’re already on the most important ride of your life.
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Keynote
He hangs ten, podium six to ten inches too far
away. One fears any excitement at all on the part
of the speaker could cause a chain reaction: sprawled
professor, smashed podium, head bruise, twisted ankle.
He’s a joker, one after the other, but one is not laughing
because, like 80% of the day, it’s incomprehensible Hangul,
unknowable Korean, another example of one’s inept academic
forays. Drooping ill-hung banner plus sharp angle gives one
only a glare off the white board, as if seeing the words
would help. On a good day once can pronounce the
simplified alphabet, but what do those utterances mean?
One joined a club in order to gain gas money for speaking
ir fame (and departmental approval) for publications other
than “Modern Russian History” or vanity-press poetry. Just
what is the standard, where did the judges get their
license? He’s a natural, well into his twentieth joke, still
sheltered in the semi-important field of academic prankster
by strenuous high school in the sub-zone attached to the
teachings of Confucius, modified by Seventh Day Adventists.
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24 October 2012
Poet Gary Snyder pointed out that most humans treat animals
As children: men are lecturing and giving instructions, and
Women tend to nurture animals as much as they can, to make
Sure they are alright. To be closer though, one must, as Merwin
Wrote, become silent, observe, allow yourself to be observed,
Then commit to the relationship. Which Lori has done, in the wild,
In her home, among the left-behind animals in Naples, becoming
Much closer to nature than most, and, having suffered numerous
Trials, also gained so much from the comfort of knowing that life
Interconnected is a joyous life. Communication endures lonely
Continents, second-day football, a passing nod to tennis and golf
Champions, but Lori and others like her, knowing how the often
Careless false superiority makes us thinking beings thoughtless
When it comes to those we share the earth with, took up the
Charge years ago to make life better for those around her: toad,
Pelican, cat, dog, bear, fox, squirrel, and even the raiding bluebird.
Anyone lucky enough to also feel this kindness has the double
Pleasure of being able to speak, thus increasing the benefits from
A woman whose greatest gift has been to care. Our goal is to
Carry on having learned something, as if we were that good.
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Little Bear
You dance with two
Other boys and sixteen girls
At Munheung Chodunghakkyo.
The day is pure fun,
Even if an egg falls
Off your plate.
Blue stars on yellow pants,
With Jai Young laughing at
Your side. The miracle is
The way your magic flows
Even when life is so full
Of tasks to do: cello to
Practice, piano to master,
Chinese to pronounce. Your
Beautiful young days keep
Us happy with teams to cheer
For and dances to record on
Video. Friendship beats all those
Hard times my son, so hold
On to friends the same
Way you hold oma: tightly.
If you ever have a hard
Time read this poem
Again, feel my love.
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Worth the Struggle?
She’s back. The one who knows how to joke you into a smile
because, somehow, she’s been through the same convulsions:
love and hate, joy and depression, Stravinsky and Rachmaninoff.
Life is good, but also measured. We humans have to measure. It’s a
shame…think of the deer or fish or hawk they live, they react to God’s
will, they obey internal and external orders but they do not measure.
Our struggles are so temporal, emotional, individual. Can any two
reach that ground where it is safe to drop all shields and jump into
each other? We already did, but what shall we do to keep such place?
Can James Hyuntay be our life’s blood, or do we need more to sustain
healthy attitudes, bright dispositions, a feeling that life is worth living
not as a solo act with social circles, but paired up, dancing our tango?
He is worth all the pain we have caused. But today’s pain is so much
simpler, so easy to swallow without bursting into tears on the quad,
or laughing to cover what one assumed was to be our one true love?
I don’t know where we are. I thought I knew for months now, and
there you are, working so hard, equally committed to this love, yet
much more committed to the steady flow that assures a safe house.
I am not a safe house, I am a hack poet, two-bit journalist, washed up
musician, paint-flinging artist, and emotions are dandy in the creative
world, but life is not just the creative world. Both enticing and so
childish…the exact man to let loose with, but then why do I act in
such a way that makes you wonder? Life should not be a struggle;
and for us it has been: together it is not, this is my offer, my hand.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Fog portends hot day
at harvest in Korea.
Some lose, some
win; the best share crops.
The worst take without working.
There is no
limit on mother’s
endurance for her
children, likewise men’s
penchant for war. Churches tote
the conservative
line, thus expanding greedy
rationale,
inadvertently
infusing evil their flocks
can live by.
Just as many still
retain peace, love and
understanding, so
brotherhood itself fights as
hard as the
abused mothers, choir boys and
acutely
aware children who
work, beg, plead, kill
to survive
without sanctuary in
overrun
villages torn by
drought and starvation.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><
Dark mountain causes
purple fog
minutes away from
being burned away
as assorted insects use
legs to chirp morning
calls in shady breeze
that soon yields to heat
that welcomes
blanket picnics and
daring lovers to
disrobe just
meters off beaten
path on Sunday in
homage to the creator.
Earlier two girls
crossed paths three times with
the man: bus, store, street.
Laughing at
coincidence, they
just miss a
fourth, which would have caught him full
thrust with
his adventuresome hot
baby-doll. But, just
as they might
have heard the two, a pheasant
squawked, flew low
overhead, scared the
two, who ran away.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><
Two merchant types get
my money. The one
whose owner
lives above, as he
knows where to send me
to find what I need,
and the small farmer who comes
in early to sit
at market,
or sends in
his aunt who sits all
day with only beans
and garlic,
collecting less than
five dollars a day.
They come to town by
bus with plastic bowls and bags
full of fresh-picked food
that city
folk drive by
to stores and
pay double for chemically
incorrect
as an old woman
wails, cries, screams at a
man who has
no excuses. A back hoe
smoker dumps
gravel, two ladies
wait for a church bus.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><
Few examples can
be found that
resonate on such
a pure harmonic as when
lovers meet,
both fleeing years of
sadness, gaining hours
of relief, only
to return.
The agony-ecstasy:
spouse as furniture,
smiling child
so, in a town with
no eyes, and playful women
who tease fruit
packers at the bus
terminal, a one
month respite is quenched.
They hug as
if it’s been years, laugh at small
tokens, watch
movies, talk like old friends, and
renew life
knowing not many get
any relief. Small
town, abuzz
with Sunday activity
provides warmth
for two enamored
souls to find refuge.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><
Large peach from
discovered tree makes
a new friend on the bus
down to Joellanam-do.
The first offering,
banana, five years
ago, floods
back, then he offers
tissue, and
a bag to dispose the pit.
Fruit gifts by
strangers hardly prove
cultural softness
or communal spirit, but
in these days of war,
floods, heat and famine,
a kind act
by a stranger shows
humanity
has survived intact beyond
cruelty
to each other. Oh why must
it go on?
When will communal
cooperation
surpass our
ability to extend
greed for yet
another morose
generation, when?
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October 22nd Birthday
How to write a birthday for not on but four?
All of them have been my friend, three of them quite more.
All straddle star signs libra and scorpio,
All stay in my memory, no matter where it flows.
One for decades of fun and nary a bad day,
Another for our start in life, (I hate to be away).
For one we did what few can do to help men live in peace,
In one case we both canned nine irons, to our own disbelief.
But oh the joy we’ve all had in so many ways,
Playing games and making friends in our halcyon days.
Something about this day and me means we’ve kept in touch,
Yet lately we can’t meet face-to-face too much.
Happy birthday Moskula, Angie, Olya, Tim,
Next year let’s get together and start it all again.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
At Munheung Chodunghakkyo.
The day is pure fun,
Even if an egg falls
Off your plate.
Blue stars on yellow pants,
With Jai Young laughing at
Your side. The miracle is
The way your magic flows
Even when life is so full
Of tasks to do: cello to
Practice, piano to master,
Chinese to pronounce. Your
Beautiful young days keep
Us happy with teams to cheer
For and dances to record on
Video. Friendship beats all those
Hard times my son, so hold
On to friends the same
Way you hold oma: tightly.
If you ever have a hard
Time read this poem
Again, feel my love.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
It Happened One Autumn
She laughs, turns potential monumental error
in our favor. He practices Pys’s dance to dazzle
Gwangju patrons who cried when precious
pears fell to soon in summer’s song: typhoon.
A lady in bock colors totes granddaughter’s violin
as Saturday classes defy environmental commands,
non of which rises to priority level as two dressed
in white crawl the well, ring the farm supper bell.
Lately taped to push face spots off, in order to
regain domestic intimacy, yobo wears an additional
mask so less are scared. What spins next from
potter’s wheel? Rekindled love? Sacred native feel?
Her talent rises, as does his, the artisan and music
whiz. Effective again as a group of three, potential
reached, nothing questioned, only this time freedom
means wanting to be home more, or at the art store.
Bright Sycamore blue-backed sends large leaf
that lands between four arms, now six, stretched
in admiration, triple hug. It took years to get this
feeling back, how nice it is to be back on track.
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Gwangju Christmas 2012
Sa Sun and
Beop Jeong trusted deeds
over words even if their
words were so well known.
Christmas rolls
into town and for
true believers and
novices alike, simple
congregation
saves lonely souls who
otherwise
might have slipped away.
So raise a glass to Jesus,
the uniter of
think-alikes.
Even if the deeds
of many devote
Christians lay people in their
graves via Lee Myung
Bak’s water cannons,
Bush’s Abu Graib.
A toast then
to righteous Christians, in hope
that they can
help their priests see the
error of their ways.
Nothing in
the bible sanctions rape
of choir boys,
or Falwell’s use of
coffers to back the
C.I.A.
Hold hands and shed a tear for
three thousand
cultures lost when greed
filled “Christians” went
across and
stole the homes of better men
and women
who loved the land. Rise
Christians, take a stand!
><><><><><><><
Pale orange
infuses hue to
settled snow, mountain
peninsula quiets down
as hoards sleep.
Geographically
strategic, thus played
and owned by all but itself
we settle
for a peaceful split.
Bald brown rice
fields poke remaining
shafts through December dust. Dim
distant light
marks farmhouse nestled
in foothills rarely
climbed, even in summer. Where
do pheasants
go to keep warm? One
jagged peak
welcomes winter walker but
lonely trees
do not get hugged since
movement equals warmth.
Long gray clouds
provide pink sunrise. Busses
move lost souls
to spiritual
connections. Joy Spreads
><><><><><><><><
New world closed system prevails
upon the rest with
the aid of
global tsunami,
greenhouse gas flood/drought and just
enough war
to keep rioters
under ten billion, because
that population
means we all
starve. Concrete chambers await
all successful truth
exposers,
organizers, or
wise documentarians.
Michael Moore
proved that truth ires the
owners when it occupies
Wall Street, demands real
public funds
for long lost
education. The movement
is met by
Orwell’s jaw-breaking
troops, Vonnegut’s sad
dance floating
this time above wage slaves all
over the
feudal world, ordered
until suicide.
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