My New Club

My New Club

The Metro hops with loveless punks.
Gangs form barriers to the lot,
Trapping fearful cars. Cold night
Suggests that once inside
There won’t be better shelter.

The same songs group together
While elitist taco-tenders pass judgement
On all who show their heads.
The new dance looks like monkees
In reverse: swinging arms and jabbing elbows.

All clubs have gays,
But here they do not seem outrageous.
College frat-boy outfits are more likely
To interrupt the flow.
(Girls let loose on fridays too.)

The ten by twenty foot window
Reveals that the gang is gone.
Even though the night warms up
With Volvos cruising merrily,
The beat in here insists on firm obedience.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1984. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Eagle Pond Farm

This Poem originally appeared in the 1984 Spring Edition of Mangrove Review, out of the University of Florida.

 

 

Eagle Pond Farm

 

October in New Hampshire means colored leaves for kicking.
Donald kicks a few heading into town for cheese.
He notices that the antique dealer, once again, announced
The coming of winter by changing his sign. It now reads:
“Driveways Plowed, Reasonable Rates.” The type of
De-evolution Donald appreciates.

Standard time ensures contrast, as autumn’s last bonfire
Sends a leaf-shaped spark into the air.
A simple way of life is free to walk around without inspection:
So Donald does. He checks out of Najur’s General Store
With Gouda and N.Y. Sharp Cheddar tucked away.
He climbs up the knoll then down the driveway to the farm.
He kicks a pinecone to the safety of the woods.
He exhales steam that quickly disappears.
He can almost see ice forming on the pond.

Woodstock

Woodstock

You started such a change of time,
A decade of evolution.
Marakesh blows through my mind,
An awareness revolution.

Richie cries the song of the free,
Carlos plays to open masses.
Looking back I see
A crossbreading of the classes.

Thousands swarmed and felt the rain,
Jimi let it flow.
Sly gave soulful tears of pain,
Will we ever know?

As water cuts through stone,
Time cuts the best of men,
But Ravi, not alone
Would do it all again.

Beautiful people, ‘oft insane,
Birthdays come and go,
Staying dry against the rain,
Peace-songs make the show.

Surprising unknown acts
Made their way around.
Who are you? – Rats?
Listen to the sound.

The Who was most excited,
Getting all the glory.
Abbey, uninvited,
Tried to tell a story.

Pinball wizards filled the crowd,
Beside the acid heads.
Psychedelics made it loud,
John sang for new-born deads.

Muddy fun-wars ’round the lake
And the music of Alvin Lee.
Jamming out for Jesus sake!
Goin’ home, (the blues are free).

Ten years after Woodstock,
Will it ever be the same?
Maybe I should stop
This agonizing game.

Sha-Na-Na sold out to movies,
But Johnny Winter was there.
Playing his slide – groovy
Nothing there was square.

Max Yasgur we all owe you,
For your business-sense and balls.
No one else will repeat
“The concert without walls.”

Grace found somebody to love,
Rock was a way of thinking.
Joe got extremely stoned,
Everyone was drinking.

Janis screamed for rebels,
War-torn lovers tripped.
Joan sang out for politicos
Draft dodgers got ripped.

Vietnam was going strong
But music filled the field.
No way to right the wrong
Committed by the steel.

Where have all the players gone?
Long time passing.
Joni sings of Mingus
But is she, just now, laughing?

Give me one old-time “F”
And what are we fighting for!?
There’s nothing really left,
Let’s boogie on out the door.

Creedence and the Grateful Dead
Gave us Blood Sweat and Tears.
The Band played on (unsaid)
Has it been ten years?

Butterfield sang the blues,
I guess he’s still around.
They’ve all paid the dues,
But where can they be found?

Try, just a little bit harder,
To remember all those dreams.
Make up your mind,
Are they what they seem?

One day there will re-occur
The same type of happening.
Get it while you can,
If you go to such a thing.

Now I wonder what will come
The next time out the door.
Will the rain be as sun,
Will it be a bore?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1979. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Ode to the Seedless Thompson Grape

Ode to the Seedless Thompson Grape

Oh Thompson you’ve done it you devilish man,
Made concords repulsive, made eating so grand.
The sensamilla of fruit I hold in my hand,
My thought is to eat it, what a great plan.

September reminds me to lay a few in,
Ten pounds or so in a Rubbermaid bin.
They might last a month (five weeks if I’m lucky)
By November my tears could turn springwater mucky.

Why cry, asks a friend, over some stupid fruit,
(I’d punch out her eyelids if she weren’t so cute).
Are you kidding I shout, have you no compassion?
How dare you insult my fruit in this fashion!

Next thing you know you’ll attack my banana,
Or musical tastes from Cream to Santana.
Back off little lady, this grape is near perfect,
It’s better than Brando or Raspberry sherbet.

Next year I think I’ll acquire a freezer
And dump this dumb broad just after I squeeze her.
Then I’ll enjoy grapes through the snow
As old vineyards wither and icicles grow.

The Glen

The Glen

Moving down a rocky slope,
Stepping over moss.
Living with the hope
That life is not a loss.

Picking wild geraniums,
Shuffling with the trees.
Running from the things
That fill me with disease.

Sitting in a pile of leaves,
Beside a shaded knoll,
The beauty here deceives
The mindlesss, heartless soul.

Rocks obstruct the way
Down to Icy Glen.
In the middle of May
The bugs attack all men.

Wooden bridges line the path
Back to the one-road town.
Back to rats and rejects,
Always feeling down.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1977. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Pablo and Max

This Poem was published by The Road Not Taken, a formal poetry online magazine and annual paper publication.

http://journalformalpoetry.com/

And the issue:

Click to access Road%20Not%20Taken%20Fall%20Issue,%202013.pdf

Pablo and Max

This is the story of Pablo and Max,
They left New York City to avoid income tax
And gather some primitive artifacts.

They left in the rain in spring ’52
And were seen in the fields with an African gnu
Admiring the shapes that came into view.

While Pablo was digging up red cube-like art,
Max drew some monsters on government charts.
(They looked like amoebas with elongated parts.)

The days were spent studying carvings of stone,
Or walking in jungles out on their own.
An artist knows how to survive alone.

Always popular with their new friends,
These two went about setting new trends.
They taught the natives how to pretend.

Unlike the scientists who went to steal,
The artists just borrowed that primitive feel.
A congenial arrangement, if not ideal.

Nine Slapper

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.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1975. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Creek

The Creek

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

Smothing 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 blue jay call.

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

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1975. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Take A.I.M.

Take A.I.M

Several times within the week
My heart begins to ache,
To the Seneca 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,
Iroquois 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 the nation burns
We will never die.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1975. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Laguna Beach Bum

Laguna Beach Bum

Late again for dinner and drinks,
Another embarrassing smile.
Going down to where it stinks,
Under the manure pile.
Never letting others know
About the feelings that make you go.

Brutally allowing forces to control
Eventually turned your heart to coal.
Always walking alone on the beach,
Casually being sucked by a leach.
Hosting depression within your soul.

Bartering life on a rotten deal,
Understanding you may never heal.
Muttering quietly, “How does it feel?”

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1975. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Fish Window Number Three

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.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1988. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

20140812-121759.jpg

Watercolor

Watercolor

Watercolors fill spaces between
Pine branches as the moon delivers
Inconsistent reflections
To a wandering man.

Winds blow, rearrange
Shadows at his feet.
This starts him thinking.
He angles across a field.

He enters darkness,
Lured by solid colors,
Wallowing away from fields
To a thick-boughed stand:

Crashes into sticky bark
Falling under weaving cones
Crumpled in a mass of blue,
Surrounded, cold, but sheltered.

For My Friends

For My Friends

A friend is like a constant river flow,
A lover, more like a pond.
A friend is someone whom I know,
Of a lover I am fond.

To be a lover and a friend
Is well worth all the time.
To love someone until the end
Puts the friendship on the line.

To say I love you is very real,
Our friendship I do cherish.
And I hope and truly feel
That it shouldn’t perish.

I love you greater than love,
Love is transitory.
So let me say that being friends
Might end all allegory.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1974. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Together

Together

Life can be perfect
Especially with you
Together we can be beautiful
‘Yabba dabba do!’
So please stay with me, will you?

Forever we can be good
Unified by many inches.
Creating a palpitating motor under your hood,
Kinking our hair together forever.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1974. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.