May 22, 2013 Seven New Ones and Seven Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


Tennis may
have been the first glance
grabber, but your squash,
hunting, fishing just as
strong. Rumor has it you let

loose those last three weeks,
thus pushing
for some type of tie
when we all
knew none was ever

Why it took until
the final hour is
explainable by the way
you measured each shot down to

dram level so as
to keep the
bar bountiful, and
not incur
what must have been a

major load
of wrath if over serving
and friends. You were
the sunny side of

Whitney Lane,
never saw you mad. Each
putt you left
short meant one whisky
poured straight from the bag.


Saint Pete Jay Cee had
a few lunatics. Some were
certified, out on
good behavior, others dropped
not far from their fathers, and

made perfect
roommates for, among
other things, Gator
bikini girl shoots,
and we watched the changing room

openly, or three-
times-the-speed-limit races
home from the parking
lot. Tops was “Recovery
Eighty Five,” in which huge jugs,

of fifteen hundred
per nostrum were spent
on bending nights in
places like Cedar Key, with

Amy, or
whoever, ruined for five
days or so.
And we drove back! What
Of Guppie or Miss

Bonfield, known
as Bon-Bon? Media Blast
was all ours:
the best J-School drunk:
over three hundred!


When dungeons
re-emerge, not in
Guantanamo, but
F.E.M.A camps, will some players
be able

to conquer the beasts
save crying
princess, beat
concrete gas lines and
train “depots” that lead straight to

hell, not for
passengers, but for
all humanity?
you sir, have the power to
change lives, live

large, due to lucky
combo of
brains, nerve and
What will it be, strawberry-

blonde lover,
or public crusader, beach
lounge, or at
every meeting, all
marches, screaming for

love, kindness,
mercy in the face of such
evil as
no comic has yet
devised. Come join man.


You were the first real one, and
I went off to caddy like
a dumb ass.
Your smarts for
psychology is only

surpassed by the care
you give to
diverse and
crazy patients. Six
years after you snuck through

the window at Brandywine
I dropped back down for a year
and called, but
your full life
had no time for the past. I

never would have known
my own good
side if not
for you. Every car
seat conversation is clear,

and the month
you let me crash, pushing back on
my attempts
to re-ignite taught
me how to let go

without blues
dominating in a way
that preserves
precious memories.
Your charm caused real growth.


You were three
years or so younger in the
French class we sat in.
both bored but you more
so because

at least I
had you to look at.
had the plaid
blue, yellow, white skirts,

so the big
challenge was the color of
panties. Male lunch talk
had to include a
report of

who was in
which color, otherwise
you could get
But I want you to

know I took
all the ribbings failure can
offer, and
never once gave up
your secret, though I

always knew.
I held out, hoping that to
do so would
not, we never talked.


Did you love or hate
the black Ford
Fairlane, circa nineteen and
sixty five?
My tolerance was

matched by your
need for fun
and mischief. As a
roommate you’d
rank a fun one. So what if

it took a while to
iron it
all out? You hung tough then got
hit with the
worst possible scene.

A few times
I tried to
crack into your heart
just after,
then realized it was not

wise, backed off
until you recovered. Now
then Nancie,
how is “positive
life”: these days? You made

it, cleared all
tests. Here’s to smooth sailing and
real love, to
genuine friends, peace,
real autonomy.


Swiss beauty, if it
flows through New
Jersey, spreads legs, accepts one
or two who
do not last, just for

the fun of
it. How you
ended up a strong District
Attorney I will
never know.

Yet, I doubt you’ve found
a way to
forget the wild romps, escape
from frozen
rules, or bullshit that

flew. Maybe
it was your
inadvertent exposure
to conniving lies
that helped you

beat both those
arrested and their slimy
lawyers. Come,
hold my hand again
in the dark,, attack

the way you
used to. Memories smash in
to dreams; are
you still in Tampa?
Who got you for good?


Above New Ones, Below, Old Ones



It took this long to hide my penchant: Rhymes.
Another reading forces inner looks.
Where is Ed and his heroic Eulogy for us?
What happened when we traded love of lines
For time cards, bosses, corporate crooks?

Here’s what happened: life became a chore,
There is no time left to rage creating.
Competitive suburban gardening is a bust.
What there is left is not elating
Except the love of soul-mates through this door.

The Eagle’s Nest is now a restaurant:
You get a 15-dollar turkey-plate up there.
But is a fourth Reich rising from the rust,
Or are we evil, just nonchalant?
Oklahoma City fades like sunset air:

The only lasting image is your own.
One veto and the fascists will shut us down.
One thousand points of veto from the upper crust
Without a batted eyelash from this clown.
What further outrage can we condone?

As long as TV says it is OKay
Our lives submit to the worst human rages.
Just when we’ve farmed this place to dust
Some half-assed savior will come our way
Passing manna to those left. One for the ages.

Healthy Meat

China-doll lips painted purple or red
Purse then smile at personal queries.
Stanwood is way past blushing when he jokes:
Her eyes gave up the secret now instead,
Of cryptic characters, lustful, longing, leery.

Educators reincarnate, hand clippings out
To students who crave larger markets
For reworked stories: novels with pokes
At apes who have no place to park it,
Aces grounded with nothing to talk about.

A ribbon for a tie belies rage:
The fifties in Muskegon blew cold winds.
Then comes this young Poe-like bloke
Whose dreams are heavier than most sins.
And a flashy fish story from a simple age.

But what of war-survivors and of God
Now that writing is the last refuge?
What of the hills south of Roanoke,
Of women growing past their era’s lot,
Of maniacs with nothing left to lose?

C.I.A. Dog

Walking out Waimuri way
Goes the lost retriever.
She trots a bit, a nervous sway,
Eyes anxious, nostrils flared
In search of the deceiver.

No way to know how she got here,
No maps outside, inside fear.
She couldn’t know this place is a dot
Or two no one thinks about.
Her placement reeks of a Pacific plot.

Next week she’ll board a boat
To blow a hole in her wooden keel.
Transformed into one hundred pounds
Of bomb that barks and sounds
Like any other golden: look she floats!

Or parts of her do, blown astray.
She had no idea life would shorten
Or be abused, or cause harm
In such an evil way.
The worst she knew, back on the farm

Were cats playing hackey-sack
With mice about to be a meal,
Or Bob Dylan singing “how does it feel?”
Now she’s flotsam in the bloody sea,
One more boat down for greenpeace.

Ninety-Five Percent Perspective

Fortune telling leaves drift down the drain,
Before they can be figured, leave a stain
On some old sink you wanted to throw out.
You keep my place well hidden in your heart.
New combinations needed to make art

Out of the burning pine cones in my soul.
Too much tv too much walking malls.
So this year we double the garden size
In order to make heaping pizza pies:
In this day and age, a noble goal.

To keep pace with the kids all over town,
We threw some Rhododendron in.
We’re married, so our only sin
Is searching for fulfillment
Instead of having kids around.

It now shapes as a major disappointment:
Be positive we can have it all.
Snuggle, here comes back-rub ointment
“Oh that’s a stretch,” “for sure,” he replies.
As we search the weeds for croquet balls.

Take A.I.M.

Several times within the week
My heart begins to ache,
To the Onodowaga I speak,
No need here to fake.

Skaneatles, Canandaigua,
Wine surrounds the lakes.
Seneca and Keuka
Are missing native wakes.

No more red-skinned swimmers,
No more birch canoes.
Bare Hill is getting dimmer,
Haudenosaunee are few.

Ganundua is still quite red,
But only once a year.
At other times the nation’s dead,
It always brings a tear.

Iroquois nation will return,
Just look into my eye.
The rage inside our nation burns
We will never die.

The Creek

Harvesting future sauerkraut,
Paddling the lake.
Spearing for a rainbow trout
Baking cornbread cake.

Smoothing down an arrowhead,
Digging trilobites.
Walking where our brothers bled,
Singing funeral rites.

Hiking back along the creek,
Past the cherry trees.
Raspberries, they seem so meek,
But bloody up the knees.

Creekbed slowly running dry,
But then a waterfall.
A pause to sit and wonder why,
To hear the bluejay call.

Water drops into the pool
Like a giant tear.
Elders preach a peaceful rule,
We pray for a plentiful year.

Nine Slapper

Blue bird in the air,
Golden boy delights.
Skipping stones without a care,
Singing in the night.

Seagull pierces silence,
The dawn is on the rise.
Fishermen are busy
Watching for red skies.

River wanders, digging earth
Fertilizing soil.
Weekend mongers slobber
Spilling pints of oil.

Red-skinned native stands,
A reminder of the past.
Spearing fish and digging clams,
Hoping they will last.

Blue-eyed boy walks on,
Determined to have fun.
Lonely lovers cry,
Searching for the sun.

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