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.

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