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.


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