May 19, 2013 12 New Poems , 12 Old Poems Copyright Doug Stuber

L aka BH

What must it
have been like to be
led around Hamburg, in full
by Wiebke, as it

were, “introduced” to
the fair city’s most
and least notorious? But
it was that first show,

mud flowing
aside that blew our
minds. Had I been a
prophet I’d
have had them all, but,

alas, stuck in poor
yet humorous trades,
I still feel happy to know
the grown up artist,
as our loose

via ADTEC: your father,
my second
cousin, never would
have kept us in touch.

To art then,
not for art’s sake but for the
binds it ties.
be more productive
my friend: exhibit.


Our June day
so similar, and
perverse (?) desire to
mate with new
friends, granted, from different

points of view, angles
if you will.
How magic for you
to offer so much
to those trapped

or propelled
by art, those whose true
talent doubles as
refuge in
a world long lost to profit

and war. Isn’t it
that more would flow to
break into a world
that doesn’t

reality in any
way? But you
could color your dreams
like few ever, thus

making a
formidable mentor, so
rare among
the “truly gifted
artist” group. Good job!


Piano brings in
the Do-Re-Mi here
where it is
of concern, but I like your
art the most. Not too

many can
be as supportive,
stir such a lemon
ice cream, smile, laugh learn
while teaching humanity

as if a course was
needed, but in this
age it sure
is. You help make foundations
for those to follow

their dreams in,
go further with their
art than they ever
thought, like France, Raleigh,
Macedonia. Simple

rarely turn commonplace or last
on a face
to face basis no
less artistic

level love.
Your shine spreads in ways we all
a shine that makes our
quick lives more joyous.


How did we
lose touch? What are you
doing? When is your next show
in Cologne?
Is Frida still in

your house, or has she,
like most loves
or people, moved on?
No one ever spent
so much time with her art, or

deserved a
major break the way
you do. Investigating
color smash
combinations, the

way you pile it up
until the
surface is imbued,
multiple subjects
come and go, but obvious

lens effect
games are not your style. Express
those rough
lines my friend, German-
style while pushing art

your way, as
your heart alone is the one
that beats new
meaning out of an
old form, unique star.


She runs through
the minds of every
boy or man who ever knew
her in the
eighties. Palm Harbor’s

finest: blonde red hair,
freckles, a
touch darker than forever
tan, sported
for all to admire,

dream about,
sprout about, and one
of my friends got to date you
for a while.
Us men don’t forget

the names or face of
a beauty
like you. It must be a big
burden to
have to dust off so

many men
all the time. So what did you
do with your
choice? Maybe you are
still single, that would

be a hoot.
My last viewing was as you
walked in from
your car. We trailed you
but got no invite.


You asked me to lunch
then went straight to the
shower. I took that
hint, and we
stayed friends, then loose friends until

finally I missed Panthers
hockey, and, though just
one beach up
we lost what
may have been our last

chance to meet face-to-
face. Here May’s wind moves
Buddha’s birthday signs,
Doctor Seuss
looking furry needled pine,

or conifer of some type.
I brought my son to
the border
of insane
in South Korea.

I hope you
read that this life finally
settled down
to domestic bliss.
Raising one son has

given me
something more than watching you
play tennis
or eating tuna
together: new life.


You drew those
incredible fun
characters, adding
life to regular
poems in the Obelisk.

Your Italian style
tennis was nearly
flawless. Your
face, physique, almost

So I got you to
join me off the court
in as many ways
as I could devise without

scaring you away.
Just to be with you,
laugh, gave such
pleasure at a time
when motoring to

school on a
moped was embarrassing.
Your prompt pushed
me to four visits,
mostly Tuscany,

and my own
art, perhaps improved, goes on
all over,
like Bulgaria,
Korea, your heart.


You heard bass
guitar coming out
of stereo rig
in Brandywine. Being a
player we made Lewis and

Clark, went to
Seattle, tried to
record, stayed with Bill,
Charlie. David was

just born, life
was merry, but we
could not sing, lobster
dinners were the best part. You
allowed my friend to park her

van many
years later. After
Amy Grant, country
tour, practice
with budding bud, some

kid whose Dad
paid you to practice. That’s how
good you are,
and your wife, children
band mates all prosper

due to your
positive vibe. Brazil is
in your blood,
magic guitar, you
kept me playing hard.


are you still selling
cars? Is your strong will
still alive?

goes a long way when
the family name does not
apply due
to being so far
from Manila, yet your friend

count was so
high back when we roamed
for used cars, and I
settled for
a seventy three

Volvo one sixty
four. You advised for either
a better
car, or a lower
price, but “the Boss” went on and

on, maybe
still floating around Gainesville,
who knows. Did
you ever pick just
one woman, or has

your career
bachelor status remained
past middle
age? Memories crank
back. Pinay rule here.


The loop box,
a rewinding and
playback effects was
but it was the jams

at the power lines
illegally that drew big
crowds: second

round of youth
hippies started soon
in Florida where
babies came
naturally in

teen years. So nineteen
eight was the age when
everyone’s parents were hip,
large doses

of fun were
not scolded bur applauded.
Before you
my days had been trapped

inside walls,
plexiglass, miasma of
my making.
Music, salvation
in four strings, strong beats.


You cared for me and
know escape would be
hard because my family
could keep me
in forever. We

hugged, an allowed contact on
the patio, the
scene of past
writing, none better
than when you were on my mind.

Your tongue protrudes in
a small square photo
tucked away in the second
drawer of
my sister’s old set

in a storage room rarely
visited, except
to see old
pictures. Most are hung,
but I slide the drawer to see

you more than
you’d expect. That was back when
love was love,
money came easy,
sun baked us to tan

not red. I
bet your life, due to looks
and youthful
must be great by now.


Your genuine smile,
hidden Ingrid Bergman style,
with scarf, dark
sun glasses
shows the depth of emotion

to be natural,
nor method,
on stage, in life; yet
some are allowed
to interrupt your

life’s pursuits. Some, like
me, are children, sincere and
seeking hard
answers to
seemingly easy questions.

You act, but it is
Not acting.
Every, any part
Becomes you. You are
Every part. Not a

tear nor drop
of sweat out of place, as if
you and the
playwright conceived not
just this drama but

your entire
lives together somehow. You
walk on the
way others refresh
their lives, friend to all.


New Ones above, Old Ones Below


February in Rochester

Here where the gray clouds are so pervasive
They effect the way we behave,
A small gift of color replaces the flowers
Long hidden by Winter’s parade
Of snow slush mud, snow slush mud,
Snow slush mud, snow slush mud,
Snow, that comes at us each day.

So, roses go floating down the brown water
Out to the iced-over lake
A week or two after they passed their prime
In celebration of Valentine’s Day.

Which, as you recall, was warm with
The love we have shared for over a decade.
So here’s to the moments when smiles
Follow laughs and soulmate’s connections are made:
Of grow love hug, grow love hug,
Grow love hug, grow love hug,
Grow, that make life just like getting laid.

Nonsense Birthday Poem

One day in a field of swaying corn stalks
Bill spotted a young lass (Anne-Marie hawks).
She was out for a stroll on the ninth of July,
A day to reflect, but not to ask why.

Some calendar told him ‘twas the day of her birth
So Bill wondered what a surprise would be worth
As he snuck up behind her in order to scare
Some life into the day (it wasn’t a dare).

On his volition he whispered “boo,”
She turned, quite amazed, and said “how do you do!”
He said “Happy Birthday, and many more!”
She said, “well, I hope so, but right now I’m bored.”

So they chatted about what one could do
To spice up a midsummer afternoon.
The obvious pass-times were discarded as dull
So they picked sweet corn and began to cull

The best selection to eat in raw form
(A curious habit, but fun when it’s warm).
They sat and ate some where the hay lay
Which put the icing on Anne-Marie’s day.

The Daily Word

The Catholic church is a ruse
Handed down by God
Through the Pope, of course,
That is being used to sucker
People into using contraceptives.

Just as when Nancy Reagan declared that
Our drug-using youth should
“Just say no.” while her hubby’s
Henchmen were inventing crack,
Importing coke and turning big profits,

NOW, the Catholic church opposes
Contraception in order to get you
To try it! Apparently it’s working
As birth rates are dropping
And our kids are as stoned as ever.

Local Story

I was standing in Wegmans, floored by the
Thirty percent jump in produce prices in the
New Pittsford NY 14534 store. “Disco defies
Categories,” she says to her friend as they check
Out at register number seven. “The deal with
Marilyn Monroe was that she was THE bombshell.
She was extremely upset that the studio hype
Wouldn’t ever let her get past that.”
A negative nod returns, as this month’s tabloid
Topics rebound from one check out conversation
To another, in an era when paparazzi
Are blamed for Princess Di going to a 121 MPH
Grave. Yeah, RIGHT! I know tons of famous
People who would agree that 121 is about
The right speed to go when getting out of
The way of snoopy photo-hounds. It turns
Out that 121 MPH is NOT quick
Enough, however, to elude her ex-hubby’s
Henchmen; motorcycles just got a bad name.

Double Sonnet

A cellist floats behind you and taps you on the shoulder.
Your heart explodes as Coakley finishes up a 45-minute set.
You never forgot her curled tresses, warm smile, gentle voice.
Last summer, in three days time she alternately played,
Vanished, played until you were one with the moon.
(Botticelli never saw hair like this.)
So she floats back in off a west wind, sits long enough to
Write out her address and asks, like a .22 caliber bullet newly
Lodged in a calf muscle, where Ilya Kaminsky is. Kaminsky, if
Only he could see her now! But he’s not here, she’ll have to
Settle for his address because there’s no way you’re committing
Emotional suicide by handing out his phone number.
Last summer, in three days time she chose the muse,
Leaving one dangling slab of manhood, cozy, familiar, alone.


You sit, hoping she will stay. Your penis stretches out
Like an uncurled finger, or a winking eye. So, like her, you
Stand: maybe she’ll notice the oldest symbol of affection
Bulging. But the room is dark, she would find it rude,
And you’re better off, as your four minutes of fame is
About to begin – hard or not hard. After you’re done
you light up. A typical evening of artsy-fartsy debauchery
Races through your mind. How can you let her
Slip away without another poem, painting, concerto?
That’s it! Forget the “how-do-you-dos,” just write her
A concerto. Cello and flute. No, no. Cello and Tenor Sax.
How often does the beam of a soul shoot out to the world?
Can she possibly return again? You sit wondering when,
Clutching the address of this decade’s angel.

Slam This:

I’m just a C.I.A spy
Sent in by brain-fuck to
Toy with the liberals so we can
Take names and bill your trust
Funds for the inevitable 7-year
Stay in Chestnut Lodge.

You’re just a pseudo wank who
Can’t trade the head games for work: can’t
Break the S & M delusion to love again, but can
Proselytize from the merits of Gwen Stefani
To the body of Ani De Franco.

Me, I’m just a wayward lime-green puff ball:
Floating seed, fertilizer of art. What,
You don’t believe me!? Try this:
If you let me bend your ear for a poem or two
You’ll be a purple\pink sunset,
Or just as good.

One Night at Java Joe’s

Fourteen claps, spangled, bald, hopeless:
Fine Young Cannibal commander speaks.
This time he speaks! He says “go ask the
City fathers for a new parade.
Go cry eleven years down the drain!”

Piss on the flowers that keep it colored;
Color the wins that loosen your life
So you can get back on the road.
Sometimes the talk is so good you
Forget to play. You play so hard; so
Much rehearsing for so little play.

So, even though the Jeffreys still
Complain about the three-month crabs:
Is there enough plaid to cover the
Chains that persist through heroin eyes?
When the bird falls dead, you cry.
When the $3.50 bouquet wilts
You clutch small foreign coins and die.

Don’t die now, don’t die now!

Flowers and Rice
(or, how to have fun without getting married)

Flowers, Jennifer.
Rice, Donna.
This is beginning to read like a
Wedding invitation list. Anyway,

It all started way back when. . .
These knights, who were dashing
Around the count(ryside) in search of
Flowers and other booty, like grails,
Diamonds, Hemp and Water,
Decided to try to find a way to plug
A whole without wasting any Dykes.

So, they put their finger in it, but
That was not very satisfying.
The quest became the search for a
Way to plug a hole, have fun and
Not impregnate any sheep.

The quest, which the Scottish have
Come to refer to as the “quest of
The heirless nobles,” ended in a
Less-than-perfect contraception:
The device was 95% effective
But only worked on farm animals.

So, in an effort to have fun
With their own species, the nobles
Turned to the ancient Greeks for
Advice. Well, we now know that
The Greeks wrote extensively about avoiding
Pregnancy, but, even with Aristotle on
The throne (presumably to take a dump)
The best they could come up with was the 2-hole.

Although satisfactory as a male pleasure provider,
It took years of training to convince
The female population that a bung was
Preferable to a baby. The protests persisted
As women wanted their cake (babies)
And to be able to eat it too (see Isle of Lesbo).
The resulting decline in Helenic culture
Was looked upon with dismay by the Scots.

Plan B was devised by a taxidermist
Who discovered that a well-cut sheep’s
Bladder could be attached and used to
Collect sperm samples and prevent babies.
The resulting switch in history is now
Legendary as women started to demand
Jobs, day-care, equal pay, political offices
And, ultimately, all the stress men used to
Take on. The final result was less babies and
A lowering of the Gross National Golf Handicap. (GNGH).

Blue-Eyed Girl

Laurie arrives from Nordic Minnesota,
Only to find that it is colder here,
In Rochester, NY. Lawyer’s Co-Op is a
Famous company in this city. Mercury adorns
The top of the “Aqueduct Building,” commonly
Known as the Tower of Babel or the Tower of
Legalese. She hovers, first explaining why the law
Still matters to the poor. Laurie, being of Liberal
Mind, says we need to edit our books
In order to give the law the ability to represent
The poor just as well, if not better than the way
The law fondles the rich.
So, she sets up programs with
Encoded data that reads one way in the electronic
Version (for the rich people and fancy firms) and
Spits out words completely different for the
Judges, Pattern Jury Instructions, and Public
Defender’s office. This way, when a rich man
Meets a poor man in court, the rich man
is made to look like a fool, with misquotes and
Improper citations, while the poor man soon
Dominates the arguments with logic and truth.

Flowers, Condolences, Royalty

There was a young lass, young Spencer,
She loved and was abandoned. She longed
For closeness. Some said she just tried to
Climb, or sleep her way to Royalty, but
Let’s look at the facts. For all the gold and
Gowns, her real needs were love,
Passion and a bond with a friend. Sadly,
Charles, and others like him, have been trained
To sire sires, then ignore the wife, ignore
The kids, ignore all but polo balls, bullocks,
Bogatas, and bombers, or in Charles’ case,
Goofy new chopper-landing navy planes.

William had better lasso Andrew, but it won’t
Matter, as soon as weeks from now. Soon
The public will dismiss Royalty as antiquated,
Soon the status quo will be tilted toward
Every man, the common man, the starving man.
Soon, and I mean really soon, the monied gentry
Will be in the fields again, joining their former
Serfs in an effort to eke out a living from an
Earth, forever scarred by the greed that has
Been allowed to go on too long. The biggest
Problem on earth, they would have you believe, is over-
Population. Wrong! Try “the unequal distribution of wealth.”

Natural Smiles

The ultimate natural smile, I guess, would be
The constipated grin of the Mona Lisa. You
Know the feeling I’m talking about, and you know
Why she was so happy. Her natural reason for
Being happy was the friction caused on the pedulla
By an unmoved bowel. Follow along as we
List other natural smiles, and their causes.

1) Shit eating grin – just smoked pot
2) Japanese buck teeth – just masturbated successfully
3) Smirky squiggly smile – posing for a photograph
4) Devilish grin – just farted
5) Sheepish grin – just dipped a candle wick
6) Jack ‘0’ Lantern smile – became a doppelganger
7) All-Knowing, raised eyebrow smile –
just one-upped William F. Buckley, Jr.

Now that you know about smiles,
Please pass this information to people who don’t
Smile. You know the type of non-laughing
Sufferers I’m talking about. The poor, the
Ignored, the old, the less-than-skinny, the
Homeless. Although lots of these people smile all
The time, if you EVER catch someone
From one of these categories not smiling,
Tell them something funny. Spread natural smiles.


In the good ol’ days (say the early 1980s)
A laptop was a kind of naked dance
Performed by the ladies over on Orange Avenue,
Orlando, Florida. These days, other than the
Usual Chihuahuas, which are laptops, in a
Sense, or lesbians, who would rather lap
Fannies, but have been known to lap tops,
Laptops have come to mean something else.
Let’s look at the German derivation. Lap,
Which in Germany is l-o-p-p-e, comes from
An ancient contrivance of the executioner’s
Song. The axe-man, or murderer, as he
Was known to the locals, was actually a
State-sponsored executioner. The people had
Made the error of allowing their government
So much power that, instead of
Rehabilitating the unfortunate souls, who, by
Nature or nurture had “sinned,” they just
“Lopped” off their heads. Hence, a laptop, or loptop
In the oldest sense, is the severed head of a sinner.
The hope here is that one day, our government
Will distinguish between the sin and the
Sinner. Then, maybe the laptops will merely be
Computers. Or, loving, licking attached heads.


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