20 May 2012 Three New Poems, Three Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


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
own hands. Luck eh? And down
to Rake’s to fill-up,
camp out on Squaw, the
small island in such
shallow green
in lake of deep blue.

Smoke stacks 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.


Rouge cheeks and
Bright eyes over the
Same loose-fitting hippy dress
And gray T-shirt.
I wonder

how precious time is spent when
not reading, and guess
she works and plays and uses
make-up to try to
cover exhaustion.

Straight As, and
a team player, she makes
new friends, most do not. Once she
sat in on class long
enough to

know it was too hard. She said
she would be back, so
here she is, shining not to
be known as best, but
happy anyway.

Too many
students never get involved;
they waltz through
classes as if their
looks or family

name should be
enough to score a grade, as
if Chonnam
were Harvard: then come
the fresh real learners.


Every noon they take
flight over Gwangju,
not just as a check,
nor reminder of
air force glory from

the nineteen
fifties, but these days
because noon is not
enough. Continual guard,
vigilant patrol

in case Kim Jung Eun
is not “Kid”-ing, but
truly will goad
a reaction, a step

up ladder
to ramp the creeping
world war three that, as
historians will recall,
began on August
thirty first
nineteen ninety seven when
and Dodi died “by
accident.” Then nine

now and evermore battle
for oil and
resources that can
make the rich richer.


New Ones above, Old Ones below


“You Are So Nice”
(or, how to impress the press)

The dogs of May smoke packs a day
Here on the banks of the Jenny.
The press hounds race, though out of space
For the photo of Di, there are many.

The homeless walk with hands that beg
While suits go walking by.
Jesus walks among the dead
To look into their eyes.

Peace to all who hit the mall
To Christmas shop in June.
The rush now precedes the leaves of fall
(Doesn’t this seem too soon?)

I think that Christ, were he here now
Would not rejoice to see
Material greed replacing vows
In the age of insurgency.


Neal serves another “Frazier”
To a customer, who, after
Pondering the fate of the world,
Orders two pieces of pie.

Frazier, as you well know,
Drinks lattes in Seattle.
Well, Neal, being a Rochestarian,
Doesn’t cotton to all that mess.

He pulls out a revolver and kills 

The man, due, as the police report

Testifies, to the fact that that he 

Thought this “Frazier” was gay. 

Now Frazier is not gay, but
Just the appearance of being gay
Can get you hurt in these parts.
So, gray anti-gay Rochester

Lives on under the cloud of
Former liberals. You know
The list, a litany of spiritual
Awakenings that never came true.

First the Mormons, then the
Spiritualists in Newark. (Some
Say those ladies were witches.)
Then the political healers:

The pope will step in
To save the day until it gets
Way worse than this. But
Why not send JC back

Early? You know two
Or three years before the
Millennium, that way, the
Kooks who would have been

Spooked by the year 2000
Can just get over it and
Neal can go back to golf
And tending the coffee bar.

But, sad to report, the Pope,
For all he knows,
Has not been informed of
An “early” return. Boo Hoo.

R.I.T. is Latin for C.I.A.

Back when the campus was run by a Rose
And experiments ended in greed,
A wise guy, once human, now dead proposed
A game to switch the polarity

Of earth as we know it, a true Canard,
A gift from a jester, Olympus bound.
East became West, and South is now North
What more coincidence can come to confound?

“Oh, plenty you dumb ass, it keeps going up,
Look at the way you lick lips!
Look hard, you can see the swirls in your cup
Of Earl Grey or Ginseng rose hips.”

So, come with me now as we learn a new phrase
That enlightens a couple of spies:
Eat shit you sadistic bum-fucking apes
I’m sick of your tactics and lies!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s