J. Bro… and two others, Copyright Doug Stuber 2014

J.-Bro, Come In For A Rest

How lusty couples must have been
when living forty to a house.
How long the wait might or must have been
for knowing youngsters to find a spouse.
No wonder French bishops found it rude
when invited to life “a-nude.”

Though life was short it was complete,
chores and wars, ten-hour weeks.
The rest was fun and play and feats:
tragically repeated by new age “freaks.”
Separated by many moons, denied
a chance to live by what’s inside.

Now controlled by each other’s greed,
not following our own true dreams:
anger, sadness, hatred replace Creator’s beams:
never enough means foreign children bleed.
No orator appears to stem the flow,
and if she did, she would get no show.

Who cannot be fascinated by the owl’s call?
Or the trout that jumps from stream in glen?
Who can sit instead of playing ball?
Or ignore their children’s questions when
the answer could direct them, dream come true,
to a life of farming, paddling on the blue?

The unified human soul is stuck and bleeding,
so snared our hearts we don’t know what to do.
Some thrive, though nature is receding,
birds and fish are dying in our stew.
Connections loosen, gadgets in our hands
answer back with their own demands.

Sunbathing turtle on low-hanging wood
enjoys sun’s warmth through the winter wind.
Even she knows that we have sinned;
would we turn back time even if we could?
Holding hands in unity works in smaller towns,
communal fun smooths economic downs.


Off she goes, facing

momentary flow

of real tears.

The last of the clever cube

workers programmed a local

music man

into the airplane,

Carolina bound.

Taylor serenades

her. Welcome to pottery.

She is adept at

multiple friendships,


without having to do the

familial, marital chores.

My plea is

to one day enjoy

the same lifestyle as

my wife and son.  Spoiled

yet productive, creative

and hard at

the books every day.  They sit

and watch as

I coalesce, stagnant

due to knee, hoping

writing keeps

my weight down.  Hawks and turtles

tie  us, sheet

ice, winter glimmer,

downshift, huddle close.


National Poetical Radio (NPR 1) “Recovery Man”

Boeing forces a new contract with no pensions, thus
widening the gap between rich and poor, and giving the
“New Economy “ another capitalist “win.” Forget a strong
middle class in which profits are shared by the workers, this
is all about robbing would-be pension money in order to
buy back stock, increase dividends, and massively expand
the pay of the executives. And with no middle class, who
will sit on your planes Mr. Manager? Hence, the last
twenty years of your life are made golden on the backs
of, and by the same ratio as, the 48,000 pensions, divided
by one thousand managers or 48 times as good as the former
“retirement” of the workers you just slammed. In Rochester,
Cincinnati, New York, Detroit, San Francisco, and nearly
everywhere else, the “New Economy” means rich stealing
the last vestiges of our manufacturing base for themselves.
Not mentioned is the fact that rising costs are shredding the
middle class and fixed income populations faster than a
speeding free trade agreement, more powerful than the Fed.
chairman, able to turn you homeless in a single bound. “Look,
it’s “recovery man,” chirping only of jobs created, not lost.

January 2014

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