30 April 2013, Seven New Poems and Seven Old Ones


You bought in
to the principle (al)
that profit is king, and this
was noble
thinking, considering

what the market has
done for you (and me?) but long
ago, after your
brother and I met square-on
in a chicken match

over on
the west side of the
chosen lake, Canandaigua,
Jack put his
foot down on any

with Stuber, except maybe
as client, from a
distance, “managed” once a year
regardless of trite

order to
sell. So we met once again
floating your
fortieth birthday,
but I let you have

your day, skipped
Thirstys, it being your joint
not ever
mine. I’ve done well for
labor, planet earth.


Snow flies through closing
door, bark peels
away from fire log
placed on embers entices
old friend to new play.

Cross country
ski, or boat purchase,
defense on Navy’s
hockey club,
barefoot skiing on

the lake where your Dad
bought the house
my Dad built with his
bare hands. Luck, eh? And down
to Rake’s to fill up,

campout on Squaw, the
small island inn such
shallow green
on a lake of deep blue.

Smokestacks for
the environment, roller
blades for hot
weather exercise.
Children mostly grown,

and the joy
of being a unit for
as long as
possible in the
human realm. Peaches.


Soccer star,
hoop magician, stunned
when A/C gave you all you
could handle
since I was on the

victorious team.
Ah, but I the bench
warmer, was
not you, star center.
What’s new in the lab or out

in the field?
Far astray from our
Barnard Track days, away from
wedgies to
Goldberg, chasing Kim,

Screwing up party
plans by calling on
the day of
the gathering, I
still remember between- the-

leg passes,
wicked slap shots, your first time
stories, as
they were first in a
neighborhood full of

playboys, but none worked harder
to attain
sports fame. Long lost, it
could take time to know…


Commissioner, how
did that chance
to save your family land
work out? Lewis and
Clark sure did

not steal land
as they went, and our
friend Jefferson ended up
millions in debt back when a
dollar was a good

week’s pay. So what of
these bailed out
bankers while austerity
rules the land? Got a
new plan that

can save a
town, village, household?
That’s it! Stay local, make a
place that works outside the damned
globalized, profit,

fascist hold
on the planet. True, people
would have to form new
cooperative farms,

urban style
and barter, to stay
clear of tax-
as-war-support, or
we’re all culpable.


You, thespian, moved
not just into my building,
but down the hall. Showed
up at a party in a
gold Lemay mini that gave

Lee a run for his
money, yet
his hip-high
out-cake did ice the fact

Ben preferred to break
down his own door than
to risk a couch sleep
among such company. Then
the novel-length text message

we had about the
you caused to
yourself when first struck
then annoyed, then let loose by

dreamy one,
only to make eyes at an
Irish soft-
eyed wonder, only
to lose out again,

just in time
for Ben to re-enter, so
to speak, whisk
you from Brooklyn to
Boston. Stay young Q.


The Red Lion Inn,
no matter
who owned it, or ran
Country Curtains,
or who tended bar

in the basement tin-
ceilinged, red velvet, Stormin’
Norman and
Susie-styled stage size,
could never equal

the pure New England
touch of its
ultimate man-of-
the-house, Church
Davis. His navy

blue blazer always
welcoming guests from the porch
to the round
tables-for-ten served
family style. Old

briefly lost then regained your
finesse in
dealing with things
like the stolen glass

in some alcoholic’s small
Stockbridge was/is a
Rockwell/Davis thing.

Lorant Forizs

Your wife wrote

a response to a Christmas

card to let me know you had

died.  You, the swimmer, the one

who escaped

Andropov, leaving


eating out of  a

can, if at all, and

making it to the


Already wise, before “The

Loops and Interfaces of

Man” appeared: you managed to

convince an

inveterate, cheap

liar that

my main goal in life

was to seek the truth.

Not once did  you blurt


stuff, like it was myself I’d

have to fool

to become a truth

sayer.  I’m less off,

less rattled,

less depressed, more able to

love, thanks to

you.  And you liked my

paintings, no kidding.


Fall orange winters
down to riverbed not yet iced
but dry from drought.


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 Shinae, 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. Russian picked the day 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.

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
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
aware children who
work, beg, plead, kill

to survive
without sanctuary in
villages torn by
drought and starvation.

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 starts her own sexual adventures
she’s 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.

Green M & Ms

Rain rolls past silver “Folly,” clouding chances
for ballgame fun, distributing spring water to
farmers as four suits two bondage-heeled, well-
perfumed, mini-skirted forty-somethings, still
beautiful, now trading digits, and this speaks
louder than the announcer who ushers in another
round of K-Pop that will forever mark this
off-trampled peninsula as being silly capitalists.
As in all things, Korea has copied a product (70s
disco) and repackaged it with brilliant marketing:
tall, thin singers prancing around in, uh, mini-
skirts. This behavior so enamors practitioners
of good taste: Chinese men, and the French, that
K-Pop is now making inroads in Korean-American
neighborhoods as well. “Baby one more time,” and
similar lyrics may not change the world but could
nudge shy boys into action in countries that still have
them. Note to audience: just ask, you never know
what he or she will say. Two ladies answer phones
at the same time, one walks out providing noise relief.

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
saves lonely souls who

might have slipped away.
So raise a glass to Jesus,
the uniter of

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

Hold hands and shed a tear for
three thousand
cultures lost when greed
filled “Christians” went

across to
steal the land from better men
and women
who loved the land. Rise
Christians, take a stand!

April 28,2013, Two New Poems,Two Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


You got quite a ride
the day the cat flipped
over and I wasn’t yet
adept at righting
a capsized sail boat.

You, the first
in a long series
of “could-have-beens” have been the
hardest to clear from

brain. Canandaigua
remains your home, and
if, as they say, heart dictates
where our homes are then
this is another

choice not made,
strike two, if you will.
This heart first throbbed for you; yet
I never moved the
Way you had

To have me
move, even uttering that
jewels” line. Legend
has it another

trumpet man
entered, but I still have the
letters you
sent to Holderness.
All’s well, good to hear.


Described by Janz as
adolescent,” but art is
an adult sphere for
those who end

being in
among the swarms of
color-flingers, bright
bulb idea guys,
women with

a brush to grind, you
still wear the
fedora, still hang, Weaver
Street itself knows your
foot beat, smell

laugh. The Louvre
Shack was an art piece
in itself, socked-assed
puppets, some nudist
handed his

to sophomoric coeds who
snapped away
anyway. Your stash
of music was one

of many
lures ladies young and old could
rely on.
Dennis Oppenheim
never had this life.


New Ones Above, Old Ones Below


“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…”


Drenched girls scope
Uchiro, the road
that defines
Chonndae from Humun
scholars from hunters.

Style points must
be made at all times,
now Burberry umbrellas,
black tights and
high-heeled rubber boots.

My love struts
confidently rain
or shine, her
new smile displays what
her mouth cannot tell.

spreads to all who know
her, making
this a spring she will
remember as love

unfolds, brings
new horizons into view.
She may be
only seeing them
in isolation,

but this is
when we need the breathing space
the most, is
it not? Time to see

April 27,2013 II, Two new Ones, Two old Ones,Copyright Doug Stuber


He organizes
volunteers for Sung Bin, the
for girls, young women
here in Gwangju. Former man

with “wheels to the stars,”
everyone feels his
presence when
he enters a room.
Often a room to

raise money for yet
another cause, or quaffing
water at
Alleyways, he’s a
miracle in shades, glad to

be here. He caught the
Gwangju spirit and
as both thank you and
diligence, thus a

card Gwangjuvian, is one
of two I
know who lost daughters.
Such unexpected

sadness was
debilitating only
a short time,
smoothly he returned
to cheer us all up.


Her mane, that
of a Chow Chow, and
DSL beauty
that defines
modern Korea,

walks into Kino
on her birthday, no less, to
celebrate via
of old music stars

she hardly
knows. If the place had
been full she
and her friend
may have stayed longer,

but she’s on to you
and that’s unusual in
a place where square has
a quantum
definition, the

layers of
which can be hidden by light
blue mini
skirt, open
philosophy, then

exposed first
by nondrinking status, then
confirmed as
banter meant to spark
pushes out the door.


New Above,Old below


Does one blushing smile,

innocent in its attempt

to say hello and

good-bye at

once qualify as


Or must there be some


underpinning that

jumps to the fore?  Peace

means adult red face

as an opportunity

to blossom, and a


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.


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.

27 April 2013 One New Poem,One Old, Copyright Doug Stuber


Kyle, you man
among men,
your musical taste
changed with the L.A. scene, sun
setting on strip clubs,

but your guitars soar,
the best at what you
do is collaborate with
lyricists, punch up
would-be dull tunes with

rhythm and
lead riffs. You
break into some of
the most unexpected lines
since Zappa, so don’t do

in music what you’ve
done in love. Find the
driving beat that sets you free.
Free to explore your
gift, free to achieve

what some god
of music must have wanted:
notes many will not
ever forget. Push

your own ass,
or I will come there, wallet
in hand, to
ensure your best shot
is taken. Gadflies?


Dunhwa gets
water-heating pot,
slips on orange hand-
knit or crocheted
slipper socks, rattles
cups behind drawn shade, then she

reappears, uncurls
new rice paper paintings for
to see. He wants them
all, picks one.

Her kindness
comes from magic heart
connected to roots
sunk in old markets:
men without eyes, Eve creates,

men think, women birth,
are attached to earth. First woman
means new life
but paint dries in so
many ways:

over and
over to find the right flow.
Dunhwa hides
nothing, moves forward,
discovers her path

as she goes,
creates as a woman should,
as one who
is directed by
universal tug.

April 26, 2013 Five New Ones and Five Old Ones,Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber


Banana pudding
shows up as a solo act
on a stool at Club
drinking, laughing. No

longer twisted by
what was one of the
notable break-ups
in that it was so
personal, yet the

band held together.
Beehive-professional, she

garnered equipment
knowledge from
her brother’s bassist,

but never could or
would blow the time to
figure the guy (me)
out. So surrounded
by musical clowns,

those who could
and could not stand the rigors
of shit gigs
in order to get
even one Geffen

CD deal.
But SCOTS is forever. She
met him at
a Butthole Surfers
show, quit school, voila.


Oh how could
you remember all
the words to the three hundred
songs we chose
from? In no way a

one-nut, but
mixed nuts can of love,
available to
any woman who so much
as glanced your

way. Oh how
we young men admired
your ability, only
out-gunned by
Charles, in the business,

ever so
delicate, of kind
serial one-night
de-flowerings. If you’ve been
settled down,

do not let
her read this. It is you gift
of singing
that matters. So few
are lucky with this

Fewer still form the right band
that catches
on. It’s now a “Psy”
world, with dancing girls.

Virginia Decker

She was the
consummate hostess,
usually to cats and the
scallywag, but not

to be messed
with, a true friend to
all, and anti-war
activist, and late-in-life
lover of

my third eye,
third oldest friend, and
man of letters whose heart got
the best of
his formidable

brain power.
Oh she could drink back
in the day, dance and
sing all night, keep odd hours and
almost not

care who cared.
onetime she painted her house
and we all
would have lost bets on
that happening. Where

are her type
of neighborhood nurses now?
How can we
raise our children to
share the way she did?


Peace corps professor,
one of a handful
of Mikooks here in
Gwangju in
the early eighties, he must

have fallen in love,
been able
to convince her the wonders of
the Shenandoah
Valley were

worthy of a move,
raised two daughters and
remained a baseball
fan, even
if saddled with the Twins. His

thesis was brave: John
no less. I desperately
want to read the type
of poems

this poster-
man writes, but perhaps he does
not write them,
he devours and then
analyzes them,

his theories with others, the
perfect choice,
the-year, and happy.


Youngest of eight, not
surprisingly Latin, but
acting the part of
charmed American high school
romantic well past your teen

years, your heart,
full of music and
movies, great ideas, and
now one of
the top three fathers

in Durham, if not
North Carolina, you gave
up your shot for a
while, but it’s time to regain
your place amongst unchained

Your back burner done
burnt the pot through, starting a
fire in your
brain that no hose can

put out. Much
more of this self-denial
could be the
cause of permanent

Huh? You? No longer giving
A rat’s ass
About your own voice?
Please sat it ain’t so!


New Ones above, Old Ones Below


When facing the loss
of job, home,
family, each word
uttered counts
on spiritual levels.

Save others,
mend yourself later.
Use time once wasted hurting
your lost love to grow
a new heart.

Admit to errors,
but do not
give up everything
just to save
a life full of misery.

Reach out to
friends, give yourself a
pat on the back. Stop tears by
finding new outlets
for your love.

Keep anger
away from your children, but
speak to them
about challenges.
they will help solve them.

Hard work can
solve problems, save love, retain
some aspects
to ease transition.
Keep children happy.

Gentle Handler

Lowell hands out cameras to women whose
insanity banished them to a shelter few visit.*
Lo and behold, instamatic masterpieces, a snapshot
never meant so much, as the ladies chronicle their
neighborhood, put their stamp on it, and smile genuinely,
as if they were part of the mainstream. By giving
in to their sadness, anger, frustration, these creative
humans have survived outside society’s box, but for too
long jailed as a means of keeping them from reminding
worker bees that everything is not hunky-dory
for everyone. Unleashed, freed of their routines,
their normal impulse to interact is rekindled, as the
first five sentences are script from the project, not who
ran away leaving mother-and-child to fend for themselves.

Staunch Cedar
encircled by vines
continues up though
frail, thin-boughed,
dwarfed yet resplendent.

Winter sun
illuminates triangular
patch for two
herons fly
minutes before clouds.

Poplar whip
sprouts canopy
in January.
Bright autumn
brown remains aloft.

Ten pines sport
pink chop ribbons, so our Cedar
will be rid
of her fierce
old competitor.

But will the
logging crew spare the creature?
Her trunk is
less than ten inches
from tomorrow’s saw.

New spot-lit
needles oscillate light as
if controlled
by adolescent
prankster Koalas.

Cactus Mints

“Don’t cry because it’s over, be happy that it happened.”
(Be happy that is was once good, or that it ended?)
If pushed, or by your own courageous design, you take
a month off and find stress level relieved by fifty
percent or more, the trick is to keep that level when
she returns. Tip: keep your mouth shut, attend to
every detail even if your mate won’t notice: the clean
tile grout in the upper reaches of the shower stall.
Resist looking at, or introducing yourself to the Asian
Claire Danes-alike when she walks slowly into and
out of view. Allow cold concrete to freeze your ass
and smile as her lateness becomes an absence. This
fleeting annoyance provides the impetus to continue your
series of lecture/inspiration poems; though not as polished
as Beop Jeong, they may one day be read by a kindred bereft
lonely-heart. One clot or another passes through your left
lung while dancing at Bubble Bar. This causes a momentary
scrunched face look that some wild woman in a Budweiser shirt
actually notices. Then your shoulder’s tapped by JY, the long
lost gift-giving friend. She’s happy now. Hey wait, so are you!


Can lavender push aroma past these troubles to reach

olfactory solutions where bullets make none?  Are cherries

enough food to alleviate starvation in North Korea?  Can

back rubs cure mutual distrust between the haves and

the have-nots?  Is a visit to a Chagall able to change

a despot into  Gandhi?  Can jokes, good jokes, turn

an angry mob into farmers?  Can cello lessons raise a

child who never hates anyone, nor raises his voice to his

children, nor cheats a business partner, nor backs his own

country’s wars?  Can printing on the back sides of already

misused one-sided documents make love?  Can banning the

movement of goods allow laborers to prosper thought they

rarely have?  Can grandmother’s advice or cooking or tireless

work inspire her family to embrace endeavors that lead

to success?  Can fresh voices create the basis for the next

“revolution form below?” Can cooking pans drying after

use and washing cause the next user to write an economic

solution that is fair to all?  Can your next hair cut provide

the fresh impetus to finally ask her directly?  Can green,

ever-present, inspire us to slow down and save the earth?

April 24th, 2013, Four New Poems and Four Old Poems, Cipyright Doug Stuber


Soaring guitar, melodic
symphonies cranked via new
midi you
saved up for working
as nanny, tailor, unpaid

music star.
Your struggles were matched
by success,
until finally
you wound up

in Miami twenty years
later. So you stopped by my house,
found Kwang Suk,
and the next winter
I was slammed domestically

so our long
awaited meeting
waits in the
corner, another dance
to be a

growing a life of its own
despite your
best efforts, and my
book on Russia. I

hung up all
three bass guitars to make a
better life,
but Roanoke was
“better life,” and you?


You are too young to
know these are
my love poems to
those who may have a large
or small chance of tears

if ever
they heard of the demise
of fat flame
left many
wondering why. As

in WI dance or darts
or other
ways to fend off the
confusion losing union
can bring. It’s good you

know your Dad
again but your Mom
needs you more,
fought for you,
stayed in desolate

until she fit in, but with
nothing like
the life she knew. You
get to make any

life you want.
So go out and grab it, do
not be tied
nor bound to follow
anyone but you.


Yours was the
first I felt after
a four year layoff.
It was in the hall
at Anclote,

you expected a
whole lot more
so we retired to a
bathroom in
the back of the hot

kitchen I
washed dishes in to
complete what had been
started with a kiss,
a finger,

a smile, and this strange
longing for
human contact where it was
banned for odd
reasons none of us

could get a
handle on. A Florida
sub-group as
small as sequestered
grand juries, yet, though

love starved to
the point of insanity,
were thereby
restricted from love.
They closed that fucker.


There have been billions
of crossroads, but none meant more
than the time, up on
Leslie Lane, smoke in hand, when
your roommate was in

laughing full
romp, and I failed to
grab a left turn, stayed
straight, and twisted in the wind
of bad stars,

my own poor life that
turned good to bad, and simple
bad matches. Oh you had
a huge heart for me, and a
compost pile, and the

exact same
outlook, but I had
not grasped the hint your
mother threw, nor did I know
I could be

so lucky.
Your art, your humanity
Must be a
Great mother by now.
I checked out of the

co-op, not
knowing I would never see
you again,
but never has come
and gone. I fucked up.


New Ones above, Old Ones below:


Once, when I spilled,

No one cared.

(The cleaning was so simple.)

  Imagine the tender

  Thoughts that evolved

  From an experience unseen.

  Feel with me

  What I felt that day.

  Share, if you can

      (with me)

  What I have done,

  What you have done.

  An experience


  Our own, to own forever.

  Eachness into a

  Oneness of unseen . . .

Now, when I spill,

Someone cares.

(The cleaning was so simple once.)




There, in the bush

At the hill

Under leaves


On this blue

And often hazy day,


A soft reflection of you.

Memories of the times

(few of them ever knew)

A slender subtle line.


A curved, not bumpy rock

Apparently not hard.

It came as quite a shock

To find the grain so sharp.


So, there, in that second,

While it lasted

In its warmth,


At that moment

Loved you.




Two needless chairs expire,

Water drops on rust.

New color happens.

Man-made polyethylene lasts

While metal slowly syrups

To a puddle on cement.


The splashes splash

Much smaller in the

Thicker, sadder pool.

At the time of April

Water (loving self)

Splashes higher into water.


Needles drop on scene

On time, from pines.

Dark and bending branches

Promise further litter,

It changes green to tan

Then brown amidst the rain.


Sand is hardening, to

Become a crystal image.

Chipped-off paint adds

Yellow to a widening

Scope of dismally

Contradictory experience.




A oncebush, nowtwigs
Juts into the plane of
A window. Someone cut off
All the flowers, leaving
Sticks in the air.

I would have thought
This to be wise
Except that this is April.
Gray shadows interrupt
A piercing spring sun.

Spiny arms reach out
From a hanging plant.
Uneven knots combine
To hold the pot, attached
By rounded hook to roof.

Shy little light pokes
Out of the wall, its
Shadow doesn’t cause a stir.
Oncebush nowtwigs solid
In its presence stays.

April 23, 2013 Four New Poems, Four Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


You stayed a
friend when most just up
and disappeared. You
are surrounded by
complete, low

uncultured fools with nothing
better to do than
shoot up the neighborhood. Your
patriot glory
was short lived,

but you keep
smiling in the face
of adversity,
a lesson we could
all learn from

if we were in the mood to
actually lend
an \ear to such a hard fought
life. But who takes the
time to sit

and talk when
keyboards, pads and unmet “friends”
take us from
real banter, real needs,
real community?

Techno beat
our ass with screens long ago:
settled for
TV characters,
let’s gather again.


One day, while flying
Solo at Occoneechee
Golf Course, I
paired-up with someone
who would become my best friend.

It’s the best
Moment golf ever
Brought me, and that, up
Until then,
Included: ESPN

sending my brother
and I on the Concorde full
of major
stars, to the British
open, a handful of sand

blasts, putts and
six-irons for eye-
opening eagles
and growing
up on CCR, with scratch

golfers as
friends. Still, that day, maybe in
’02 or
so ranks as golf’s large
contribution to

this small life.
because this upstate man is
so kind, raised
great daughters, always
is happy, loves well.


Songwriter of the
highest order, you also
reminded me to
keep playing.
one story turned the

Roanoke days to
The Gadflies, and your
CDs kept coming
even after children blessed

your home, and the ups
and downs of life stretched your time:
squeezed into
precious spare moments.

You did it
your way, married for
love, gave your knowledge
and true kindness to
everyone in your path, so

lucky we
have been know natural
human love
expressed without thought:
a daily practice.

You must have
Achieved more than most, since your
Self-made pure
Karma remains near
its peak: nirvana?


Chris Craft in
boat house: a touch of
as solid as your winter

summer eight iron
chips that save five or
ten strokes per
round. “Consistent” must
be a trait that helped

our forebears
to flourish: allows
us to play
on weekends, teach and
read or write during the week.

I don’t take lightly
those who witness golf’s
Mine? One twenty five
over water for

eagle. Yours? An
ace at Tobacco Road. So
you saw some
serious hacking
too, but always cheered

even small
luck, the constant supporter
of friends and
family, being
human, do mess up.


Old Ones Below


Atlas Shrugged
(BB #6)

Lotus leaves in fountain pools behind the
Metropolitan Art Museum reflect sun rays,
but not in ways Monet would understand.
Cellos ascend to bless the ears of diners
from the donor class, while those lily pads
and lotus landings resonate on levels only
guessed at by geniuses and amateurs alike.
Room after room after room after room after
room stun mere humans with the peak
moments of nearly all the masters: ancient
relics full of universal hum. Feeling visitors
tear up, once cynical multi-cultural couples
soften in amazement. The hoity-toity mingle
with Asian tourists in a surreal scene Yves
Tanguey would get a kick out of. But it’s the
quiet ripples in the pool out back, the tumbling
leaf in the now-safe park, the sad chatter
of the magnet peddler whose addiction isn’t
clear, but whose profit must be small, that fill
sensory memory to capacity.


Beauty Realized

Aspiring long-trunked Lindens
send leaf seeds spiraling
into Highland Park. The Peace Wave
dances, sings, paints, plays and eats.
A fully trimmed church social
for progressives, pot heads and artists.
Activists all.

Five women in pajamas dance
fertility, entrance patchouli-laden
jaw-dropped gawkers as their
seductive gyrations glaze
the eyes of men and women alike.
Loins slither, mingle, fling
jubilant torsos across the full stage.

Red scarves tie waists together
in a sweet maypole offering
officiated by throngs of soft naturalists.
Star city of the South nurtures
self-made lives, little cash flow
but long on love. One family fills
buckets with magnolia pods: art objects.
(BB Poem #4)

Frowsy ne’er-do-wells, agitated tennis fans, nervous
businessmen and large-rimmed ladies angle for seats
on an overbooked flight to La Guardia. Takae enjoys art,
travels from her post in Tokyo to tour the U.S., perhaps willing
to yield to a man with strong character, but not in a hurry
to give up her homeland, her dreams, her loves, or her smile.

Sewer gas diffuses from the “innocent” stitcher who claimed
the last seat on this bird full of humans, so close, but so far
apart in the way they respond to this life. Unattainable goals
rule the minds of most yankees; gold is religion, nature is
hostage. Instincts suppressed for ten generations, supplanted
by profits then cleansed every Sunday by parochial Baptists.

It’s the time of starvation and gross atrocity, when
genocides play out due to no food, when clubs formed
at Yale control the whole world, when one country’s
debt causes collusion resulting in deaths to thousands who
have no idea why the bombs explode. Internal resistance is
labeled “insurgent,” while TVs spread lies to zombies back home.

The scuffle ends at Detroit’s Metro Airport when NWA 427 finally leaves.
Precious life fades behind us no matter our fate. Takae slumbers, maybe
dreaming of Kawabata’s “Snow Country” cherries, soft spring blossoms,
nature’s offerings plentiful, but how many see? Our stitcher, whose
art is Santa, hollowed be thy name, thy shopping comes, thy
economy hums, the slaughtered allow all these gains.
For Lenette

Big Ed of Big Ed’s drives a big Hummer now.
Down-home antique kitchen supplies hang over
serious conversations: it’s interracial in a downtown
southern redneck way. Walked by this place seven
years without stopping in. Eight waitresses smoke,
waiting for the lunch crowd. A forty-year-old with
tight braids down her T-shirt, bouncing horse-like
in the light that pushes between moving legs, and
customers who openly defy non-existent tobacco
ordinances too, but no one cares or notices except the
pen-pusher plonked in the corner. Braided lady
adjusts her chest by loosening her shirt from her
pants. Does it matter that some pretentious wanna-be
from the factory is more proud of his security badge
than a Cherokee warrior would be, returning from battle
victorious? Big Ed’s sign says, “no checks, no credit
cards,” hence the Hummer. What matters here is a
respite for the homeless. A five dollar warm up
in January, full of info, like “it’ll be fifteen minutes
before we start lunch, you want to wait?” Yep, he’ll
sit in a comfortable chair, pondering how to spend
street-hustled change for some time before deciding
what to eat. Gentle respect and hard work gain large
nods from the spirits floating in bedecked open rafters.