7 June 2013 Poetry Four New Ones and Three Old Ones, Copyright Doug Stuber


Torn between tying
in to the system or to
make a life
of your own in some
far off land, you even have

what it takes
to lead a charge for
the workers, or to
save planet
earth, or to make a

farm and save friends when
the money system collapse
occurs. What
will it be then? The
“safety” of party cocoon

in China,
seeking know-how and
romance abroad, or
working to
save what is left of

land for s GMO-free
grocery chain,
new generation
of healthy babies

rather than
sterilized men, Viagra
needed at
age twenty? Make a
full play. Accomplish.


We sat down
for dinner, and it
had been ages. You moved to
Mokpo and
came up on weekends

but this time in a
new circle. Our friend
dropped by twice since last
we met. Your resolve

to persist,
impeccable taste
and zest for life bless tables
and dance floors.
What pleasure to see

you back in the swing.
You genuinely
took to the
abstract art I fling,
are a great friend though

I once wronged
you. Let summer bring romance,
and an even more
positive charge. When

will you write
the book you have inside you?
We need to
know navigation
secrets. Write girl, write.


Music man
and Xerox
bean counter, chief add
and subtract man:
songs like Pink Floyd meets Tom Waits

for a night of beer and hot
tubs in L.A. with
the finest
women, the
hottest hotties a

man could find,
but you had
them, not in dreams, but
in rebuilt attic
with mini-bar, toaster, coffee

maker. So, as night drifted
into Sunday you
were ready
to recharge
and keep going. Oh

she must have
loved your zest. Continual
prodding for
more. How’s your knee
holding up? Still on

Those glory days when
Tad was still
strong enough to drum.
You still playing out?


in the footsteps of
Canandaigua stars who stayed
a single
summer, like Clapton

is McCartney who
hid on a
Cheshire farm
in summer, nineteen
seventy one; hydroplane

star Campbell
or Todd Brewer the
lake’s least fortunate devil
who dared to
climb sixty-foot trees

as a kid, then kept
pushing bikes,
boats and life until
struck by lightning. You, on the

other hand,
played hard, but then, convinced
we were past
our era, too old
to catch on. You must

still record
in your room. I miss the chance
we had, just
as I have other bands.
Don’t quit you butthead.


Fish Window Number One

Pug-nose penguins between rushes,
Flapper follows, a peach mistake.
Peachtree glistens, horrendous Hyatt.

Mother cut a daughter’s throat,
Proceeded to a marriage though.
Police suspect her to have acted

Without the knowledge given most.
Pug-nose wonders between bites,
If smug alumnae of rich schools

Attract the fiery undulations
Blue-blood families are noted for.
Flapper squirts a piss that freezes.

Flapper doesn’t care who knows,
Squats on quad in cold December.
Pug-nose worries about future.

Father’s stocks all disappeared,
The condo isn’t selling well,
Blood-stained pearls coagulate.

Fish Windows Number Two

This view of frosted Tinker,
Fabled mountain, accentuates
Streams of winter clouds floating
In the season’s lightest blue.

Drooping, thinning, browning pine
Initiates surprised walkers
With the season’s final droppings:
Clumps of snow, impotent cones.

Eighteen leaves and forty-five pods
Shimmy, unwilling to take
Wind’s frozen ride on ice.
Hanging on to life too long.

This view, barren foreground trees
Towering over frozen cliffs
Terrorizing passing clouds
With piercing arms, is winter.

Fish Window Number Three

Nothing moves fast in two-degree weather.
Snow stops, grass browns, trees creak.
A dangling pod denies an entire generation.
Five-step cloud lingers a quarter hour.

Fish window isn’t wide enough to see,
Isn’t Tall enough to breathe, isn’t old
Enough to feel it in its joints. But, a
Camouflaged manhole cover steams.

Two yonder trees make visible
Ten thick branches, contrasting light blue
Frozen sky. A silver tag twitches.
The active agent is two degrees.

One (it will be dead for three months) bush
Absorbs the manhole’s offerings quietly.


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