Those strange days

Does body shape cause mood swings?

Does body shape cause mood swings?

Those strange days
thought long gone crash back in to
interrupt small gains
made in hard
judgmental Asia.

Never one
to fit in, protagonist
sits alone rotting
with monsoon’s
ammonia stink crotch.

Extending
common despair, reaching back
to his best friends: one
must be paid,
the other his son.

Thunder reigns;
satisfaction eludes him,
colleagues disappear,
assignments
evaporate. Gloom.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2010. 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.

Ruth walks in

Ruth Walks In

Ruth Walks In

Ruth walks in
synchronicity
with universal ebb flow
but not herself, a
self-made trick.

Self-inflicted, but
not of her
doing, not embraced,
fought against, dealt with, screamed at,
therapized.

Still, she sings,
this is the one sure
peace time, when all is right, when
everything works as
one, as Ruth.

Child-rearing is its
own reward,
but everything else
too, so, as soon as she could,
Ruth blossomed.

This box brought
us back together, for what?
Mutual
recognition, or
a draw to move on?

In life you
do or don’t follow your heart.
Is once-a-
month coffee enough?
Yes it is, you fool.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2010. 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.

Spring 2011 Gwangju, South Korea

DSC_0408

Let’s go This-a-way

 

Spring 2011 Gwangju, South Korea

 

Splotchy white-barked Sycamore pushes to surpass pines,
atop Chosun University Mountain. To reach this bench
three hundred ninety seven staircase steps and fifty drops
of sweat are spent. Pretty rich girls stroll on Saturday, but
this empty campus lets spring roll on unadmired by soccer
kickers and potential mates. Chirping birds are more likely
to feel naturally sated after planting egg fertilization, eating
grass seed, flying in the Gobi’s yellow dust. Invasion comes
to mountain peninsula not just from the west, but this spring
from post-tsunami Sendai and its blowing-up nuclear reactors.
Cancer only slows the drums that demand we build illogical
radioactive electricity. Post-modern deconstruction should
be applied to decommission these ogres rather than ascribe
meaning to writing based on assumed idiosyncrasies acquired
during the author’s adolescence. Human activity has brought
us both to productive heights and this wide-mouthed abyss
between rich and poor: it will slow to urgent needs and war
now that demand outstrips supply universally. The young will
have, and the old will keep trying to have sex in order to keep
economic realities at bay, but the very richest will not fashion
legislation to help the poor this time, thus assuring mega-disaster.

 

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2011. 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.

April 7th Poem, 2012

April 7th Poem, 2012

 

Our “one-world-government” activist from the 50s has lived to see
the economic equivalent arise from the World Trade Organization,
IMF, GATT I and GATT II treaties, in which trade considerations
outweigh sovereignty. This ideal moment for the profit centers of
the world has, unfortunately, been soured from within, leaving him
to wonder about the fate of the next 20 years, but he still reads hard,
is sharp about human relations, forgiving to absent-minded children,
interested in his grandchildren, wrapping experienced arms around
James three, the one who has international eyes, the ability to walk
into any classroom and excel, who takes the Asian rock game “Go”
or “Padook” as seriously as any chess match or soccer practice. This
and so much more make up the experiences he has to thrive on when
the present slows down. This man, advocate for the freedoms won in
many battles, example to us all about how to squeeze everything out
of each day, threw fundraisers one season, lake frolics the next, and
is thought of each day by more people than he can remember, has not
lost touch with those who matter, and finds those good stories to keep
his brain brilliant, to extend new meaning into each day, to live more
than one life, the way he always did, say 40 years ago. You inspire us
from afar; we’ll be alright thanks to your allowing us to be who we are.

 

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 20012. 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.

Money Can Buy Friends

Money can buy friends
even illusion of love.
Paul and John had it
all wrong and
found out the hard way,

how bleak it can get
when it became evident
that their loves were in
it for the
notoriety.

If those chaps fell for
this regular trap, none are
free, few find true love,
many doomed
to yearn, scream, cry, grunt:

Alone in a full
room, drunk on sadness, stoned on
venom made of their
own complete
inability to love.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2010. 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.

Boddhisatva

Boddhisatva

Her heart, while sticking tongue out,
leads a sheltered life,
doesn’t drink, nor dance,
Norfolk, it’s in her dreams.

Shocked by lack of fidelity,
still pure, as she has never…
though the thought comes:
Now free, pretty and young.

Brother nudges open eyes,
Confucian box blown open.
Evident culture gap,
yet she jumps his way.

Cosmic bonding creates a further
life, tantric self-love springs to
relaxed life, freedom to be, to
elongate burdensome boundaries.

Will she head back to marry,
deny uncoiling life, to prove
obedience? Dry flowers yield,
break mid-air as she walks.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2009. 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.

His hours suck

His hours suck.
She’s worked him, others
to the bone with re-writes that
conform: Confucius
rules.

Rock and roll
shall not grace airwaves
during the last gasp. Summer
must yield to winter:
han.

Foreign songs:
only acoustic
so-called alternative junk
no one listens to
now.

How to keep
good people here, when
solutions are so lame, so
old fashion. Still love
blooms.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2009. 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.

Kee Eun

Kee Eun and
In Woo scribe for him
working hard
as summer brightens early:
zephyr smiles.

Orange ball
rolls across dusty
path. Fat man
chases it, dreams of mocha
presente’.

Escapades
unfold under soft
surfaces.
Their inquisitive eyes search
so deeply.

Provincial
tent sprouts on the square.
His answer
is a natural response:
love grows now.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2009. 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.

JJY

JJY

Her hair shines,
face smiles, legs walk to
new rooms. Freedom arrives in
time for festivals.
Spring feels good.

She works hard,
writes her future in
a foreign tongue, delicious
words become the fruit
of passion.

She changes,
confidently strides
to life’s welcoming siren:
an innocent song
sung to her.

The singer,
under sycamore,
is older, brash, excited
by this firm woman.
Love flutters.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2009. 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.

Yobo II

Yobo II

She’s in a biopsy now. A Mike Pease print of the
Mohawk Valley hangs out here, waiting to be
recognized as Upstate New York via only red barn,
trees and moraine-built hills, left behind when ice
caused the river. Finger Lakes just southwest from
his well-made snippet, the fifty-eighth of one hundred
twenty. Pease is good, but not good enough to keep
my mind off Yobo’s procedure, no less results, and the
road ahead. She’s scared, visibly scared, even a tear
in her eye, but this needs to be a no-stress day, so I
excuse myself between ultrasound and biopsy, allowing
that leaving creates more nervousness for Park, not the
type that cottons to surgery of any kind. This room has
folks from Danville, my matriarchal great-grandmother’s
home. This and the print nurse me through this time. A
quick run over to return a brace-shop miss-mailing keeps
the innards from churning. Now laughter flows through
the room full of cancer patients and their supporters.
Yobo’s late now, in overtime on the biopsy table, with
Doctor Chong overseeing an Indian intern. He’s got
trachea, arteries and lymph nodes to miss, and whew, he
did miss, so here she is, ice-packed throat, alive, but upset.

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2008. 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.

“I’m Walking”

“I’m Walking”

She heads down gravel lane, walking ancient Cedar Pass.
Nature’s flow soothes demands that threaten simple plans,
Tugged by generations old and new, daily walk like skipping class.

Geographic interventions cause surrender into foreign hands,
but culture is not the biggest challenge that she has:
It’s my moody mornings and countless creative clans.

So once our 18-month-old slows down too fast,
or once he falls asleep by music stands,
she sneaks out to the studio to paint or teach a class.

In the morning we bow and press our hands.
Buddhist gong sounds through a machine, not mass,
but a reverent moment broken by clanging pans.

He likes to play in cupboards, pull tea or frozen bass
onto the floor, onto his feet, surprise! He learns to carry cans
without incident. We can’t wait until he wipes his ass!

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. 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.

Found

Found

The news came through my best friend Jeff
who saw Soon Young out to play
a round of golf, but in a different foursome.

He said that she had told him that
games had changed since she “lost Dennis.”
Jeff wasn’t sure what she had meant that day.

So, when teeing on the seventeenth, I saw her
come off twelve, I turned back to ask and hear
her say that Dennis had just stopped living.

Soon Young always invites you to play along,
or plays an extra nine if you’re alone, and is brave
to walk these grounds where memories abound.

In every loss there is something found.
We do not know where life will lead us next,
but know that Soon Young will find the better way.

Life swirls new people into every day,
but few exude such charm and grace.
Soon Young, thanks for being such a friend. (Please stay around.)

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. 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.

Wedding Poem

Wedding Poem

The feathers of the Ga Chi spread out black and white.
Beauty in contrasting colors that unite.
You are from the noble class, both divine and pure.
This means that you are obliged to help the poor.

No bond is as strong as husband is to wife.
Take your lady with you when you venture into night.
The earth is out of balance, Yang has smothered Yin.
Make your town a better place for children to live in.

We come to this world naked, ready to start play.
And naked you will be again on your wedding day.
Never lay down angry, make peace before you bed.
Surround your mate with what he needs to have a happy head.

Do not cause stress by working to make so many Won.
Why shorten life, when love was meant to last so long?
When you walk the streets, hold hands like you are teens.
Step carefully around corners, avoid moving machines.

Climb until you find the place where the water falls.
Watch wind move the leaves, hear birds’ mating calls.
Sit and laugh together when you are young, when you are old.
Ignite the fires that keep your mate both beautiful and bold.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. 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.

Zoomanity

Zoomanity

Specks of cherry blossoms remain, six months after, crunched
to microscopic, yet able to detect the soft November feet of
knee-booted beauties. Washington’s engorged monument is
Korean, six inches, but proud, laying-in to boot-skirt on the mall.
Blushing blossoms accept the thumping as better than souls,
more aesthetic than the spiked dens that welcome the kinky
Dupont Circle crowd, you know, congressmen on the town with
their page boys. We’re now “all -in,” bushwhacked into this
winner-take-all culture with few winners, proud sinners, all-meat
dinners. Unshaved Hispanics growl when the dealer hits two
black jacks in a row. Cactus stand, not waving in the wind that
tumbles weeds over mountains, that then ignite to torch homes
of the “richies” who once had it made. Malibu, New Orleans,
Florida in general: is there a pattern here? Gaia, perhaps our
only god, has good aim, giving the haves ample opportunity to
atone: few do. Perpetual human error peaks again now, as
Christians preach morality, their U.S. leader tortures, slaughters,
greedily spilling blood for oil, trading tomorrow for carbon-filled
today, while children and nincompoops watch, jaws agape, because
they didn’t see it coming. By nineteen-eighty-three it was evident,
but still, twenty years into the fall, the one-two combo of religious
propaganda and twisted “news” helped smooth over electoral fraud
in time to put the slow crank on World War Three. Skip forward
to November, back-peddle to the leaf pile, where larger color
combinations lure Alexis and her playmate into unbridled bare-
backed adventures. Cool air slows his sweat, but not before a drop
jumps his nose. She thrusts to lick it out of the air, which is just
the angle adjustment he needs to finish the act. Show this to the
wonks, well-walled on cubicle row sixty-seven, and BASHA! your
job is over. It’s that easy to escape the grind, but near impossible
to be your own cowboy and feed the kids. This is when corporate
can be your friend: just throw out all convictions, trade values
for value-added do-dads that increase profits and productivity
simultaneously and do not stress the details. No one minds if you
are loading atomic weapons, making attack ads, fucking your
“niece,” as long as the leaves rustle gently, lips quiver repeatedly,
and voyeur neighbors get a hot glance, on an Indian Summers’ eve.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. 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.

On the Knoll

On the Knoll

Goodbye helping hand, goodbye nine iron,
goodbye to the man sitting on a five gallon
bucket, begging for food. There used to be
time to give: time also left town, leaving me
with an attempt at familial monk-hood. You
know, fatherhood as countryside writer.
Goodbye to my tired modes which have been
so much more than a friend. Now time to
push for my own life, my son’s life, my wife’s
life. To have the balls to break the trap that
provided such comfort. Jumping, full blast,
into a life of less. Can this be salvation?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2006. 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.