A Second Language Christmas, Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber

A Second Language Christmas

We teach because we believe communication creates
enough community to turn this planet from disaster
back to freedom. Away insipid fascist controllers of
everything from water to wages! OK we may not be aware
that our mission is to connect souls, to establish local
beach-heads of trust and mutual satisfaction that present an option far different than the one prescribed by WTO
edicts, winner-take-all capitalism. Ever notice how those
standardized tests squeeze minds into a world view that
works to optimum advantage as a cog down at X-Y-Z
factory? Sure it’s profit over people, in which horrors
fan out like paratroopers; of course it’s pollution and
war-tax, rotten neighborhoods, grandfather hauling a
day’s load of cardboard for 5 Bucks, 5,000 Won, enough
for rice and a cold winter without electricity, dang it
where are the families? Ah, but this is a cheery Holiday
greeting, let’s go back to the language bridge so we can
help people spread the word about what’s really happening.
Come eat with us, let’s talk, let’s build dreams into reality
on our own terms, away from globalized mercantile Christmas.

The WTO is the World Trade Organization that towers above country’s sovereignty in naked, bold, pure, unsullied, un-monitored or regulated support of profits at the lowest possible labor costs available on the planet. It was invented by GATT II, the Global Agreement on Tariffs and Trade. It has lowered the value of labor considerably, while also making less people able to afford the products they make. This of course, can only be sustained via massive debt and the propping of certain markets by those building the products. (China lending to the USA comes to mind, then selling its products at Wal-Mart).


Hayian, Unexplainible in Mortal Terms Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber

Hayian, Unexplainable in Mortal Terms

Typhoon, earthquake, typhoon, how to find a benevolent God
when one place gets battered over and over? Why dear
creator, life-maker, dream-shaper, do you pluck for heaven
those who have struggled so hard to honor your gift by eking
out a life for their children, only to be blown away? Richville
never seems to get hit, or, we can drive away. Heaven must be
very good then, so this is it: the storms come to test us rich,
to see if we have kind hearts. Davao, Bohol, Leyte, Tacloban,
Cadiz, Cebu, they cry, we cry, but heaven must be good, so all
the work they put in gave them a free pass, one us rich folks
will never get…never get unless we turn around and help those
who need it rather than just ourselves. Most of us can’t imagine
the agony of losing a child, nor of the child who just lost both
parents, nor of those working abroad who can’t find anyone in
their family. Are our arms strong enough to hug them hard enough?
Time does not heal all wounds. If strong, maybe some can push
the pain back, further back, but it returns via songs they shared,
loves they lost, momentarily remembered, long enough in mind
to pull their hearts up through eyes, into tissue, or ears of their
best friends. Dig deep ex-pats, your fellow humans suffer now.

Three New Poems 7 November 2013, Copyright Doug Stuber

The Sycophant

Proof that you are alone comes on the ark when, though
expected to be full, you clear your throat and speak to
two women. That’s all. No one ever clamored to get
aboard, flood or no flood, no one came with a fire truck
even thought the world was on fire. No one offered to stop
driving their car, so you drove on, fully enthralled by the
directions handed down by the creator. “Make your best work,
give it away, be happy to have the courage and ability to create,
to push new meanings at the world, so sail on when so many
others will burn, drown, have skinned peeled off. “But wait,
this is not the Creator your grandmother spoke of, not the one
who instilled in all living creatures and plants the ability to
make or not make a solid life, who are all their own gods. No
this new Creator men speak of takes sides, determines winners
and losers, no longer welcomes everyone home, but apparently
only those who ascribe to that exactly correct, man-made philosophy.
So welcome Islamists, Buddhists, non-believers, sinners (aren’t we all!).
Karma outweighs destiny, defines destiny, no matter who says it is
or isn’t so. Peace and brotherhood are all that matter. Do not be
swayed by the war mongers trumpet call. He profits from your death.


Moody gray barely
makes contrast
against white-bright sun.
On the quad
you might miss a bench,

or palmetto on fog filled
days that, though rarely lasting
past noon, mark time in
brains both atrophied by hearts.

You stayed. Roanoke
fit you, gave
more than it took, meant
people cared,
your complete life, a

full swing at
everything: video, art,
music, religion, howling
on moon walks, peering
over the edge, under the

star, at lit
ants snaking through seven-hill
valley. Where
have all the protests
gone, what inspires enough?

your talent past meds sir Ed.
You lend a
hand, guide when you can,
nurse those unrepaired

psyches around you and have
yet to get back what
you deserve.
Doesn’t a local ballpoint come
right out and

scream for you to write
again? You write it, I’ll push
it. Heron
Two is in
Russia’s library

now; if we keep trying they
may yet let us bash
down the door
for a flurry of public,

readings, an award
from this or that high
council on
the state of
poesy? Or to die

trying, that’s
what I say. I have a
son, so there’s
a chance these words will
live on a while, but

you sir, need
to crank it up again, and
soon. If not
for personal gain,
to help those in pain.


Two gargoyles, both chalk white schoolboys, one waving, the

other staring off into the distance, both carrying books, because

only books and higher grades can improve the lot of boys

growing to men, one gregarious, the other stern, both well

groomed, but only the outgoing statue will ever live outside this

rural, simple, “boring” country. Who is the lucky one? Between

the two a seven-year-old pees on a Sunday. The school now

is used as an art studio and gallery. Today it hosts a group

of forty oldsters who come to hear a philosophy lecture based

on slow moving Chinese Tai Chi. A yellow butterfly circles

large pots turned upside down, acting as car-park bumpers.

Autumn temperature is perfect. One kid’s aunt calls from the

upper window as the meeting breaks up. Today’s drama is

the strange death of a yellow and black caterpillar that was

vomiting blood for a half hour before succumbing. Yellow, red

orange and green play off each other in the valley as women groom

each other as if baboons, high heeled, middle-aged, naturally pretty

yet less concerned about the teachings of ancient China than you

might have guessed. A dog barks a kilometer away. Three boys chat

about science, the gargoyles remain friendly and remote and solid.