Three poems, for Dec 2, 2013; Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber

Big-Flaked Winter Wonder Day

When the end of Dublin, meaning end of words,
lights the sky along Liffey’s edge, when poor unite
with inscrutable Faulkner (he too was Irish folks), Joyce,
all the words that make us cry, not just because we don’t
know what they mean, but because W.B. Yeats tears us to
puddle status because we do know what they mean, when
it no longer matters what happened in stories, reality, past
or present because future has exploded, then us idle
daubers, ink-stainers, even large resonant writers who
matter all the way to Stockholm and back, and since
having squandered our natural gifts, The Creator, more
sad than enraged, still welcomes us home, a house away
from life, dark, but not cold, felt, not lived, then, then,
then, then will we realize the folly, no stupidity of our
ways? Is there anything else important enough to ponder
than the vanishing wilderness? So what if…(anything)
really! This cat crosses and makes you laugh, and
others laugh at you when your name is called at a
meeting in a foreign tongue, and the joke is that you
don’t recognize your own name, but it is only some
ladies duded-up in their Ph.D.-candidate best, come-hither
glasses, black wool winter coats, and then WHAM, it all
doesn’t matter, we officially go past the tipping point,
and either in a presto anti-scherzo “poof” we’re gone, or
we start the long decline to humanity’s end. Ostensibly it
was just a meeting of light-hearted Joyce scholars. You miss
the joke again, never able to decipher Joyce as “humorist.”



There you are, admitting that life is meant to be lonely, so
you are relieved by neatly stacked papers, laid out like a
five-day game of solitaire. Careful tending to business
outweighs the need to avoid explosive potentialities at
home. You get someone to blow hard and quickly into
your right eye to clear a smoke-made web that allows
you to break the sun’s rules about who gets burned. Then
you’re stunned when not alone anymore, when paroled
via pardon, with no officer to visit every week, no debt,
only, well only the heart tug presented by convoluted
crashing of unfettered “now” and no Shaman’s eye for
the future. Ground Control to untethered you, but just
the right age to plant a potted urban garden: peppers,
carrots, cabbage on the roof, since you’re in a two-story:
on top, so you have the advantage. Your roof warms;
you move at your own pace, guaranteeing happiness as
you are in control and know the speed it takes to maximize
the comeback, keep coming back, come to your back,
come on back, and at once as brave as you had to be the
past 20 years. The person you’ve been waiting for is you.


Second Person First

Immediate gratification in the form that also assures many
will come to your rescue later on (smoking) is your mini-
sanctuary from perhaps multiple unseemly tasks, situations,
people. The club is standard here: work so hard that your life
becomes your work: diligence takes on many new meanings
in your case as it broadens to life preserver, fertilizer, the
suitor you finally fall in love with. You’re done sacrificing,
but resist the temptation to be demanding because you would
only be putting those demands into the kettle that is already
stocked, spiced and brimming with expectations few humans
could ever meet. What pain next? Your associates would bet
wrongly it would be the agony of alone, the stripping off of
even the chance to be together. Alone is the worst when
naked is not nude, it is when you lose face to the point where
you stand as if naked on the town square, not the sauna, for
all to judge. They won’t just judge spirituality, morality,
but body fat, the way your face looks, your personality,
whether you are in perfect control of mind over emotions:
the standard being “emotional is weak.” And this is where
redemption is yours. If they cast stones, you are ready to
deflect them, let them hit, bleed, crawl away, without fear.

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