poetry art music
Dance of Ants
Opus 27, 1977, Stockbridge, MA
Dance of ants compiling sawdust, compels us to
Trample, mow, flee to the inviting woods. Our short
Caravan meanders, leans against boulder, attached lichen here
Crash down on leaves and rocks waiting for dark,
Bare stars, glowing mosses, a second light show that
Regales millipedes, azaleas, forsythia. Outdoor sounds
Jar us awake, it’s 2am, we rise in dew-sparkled clothes,
Veering through trees, over rotten wood and rock holes, a deer
Kicks a whip, or jumps, startled by late-night intruders mistaken
For hunters. You can’t know it now, but this night marks the
Epicenter of your youth, from which all events will emanate
Without outward boundary, but in three hundred sixty
Degrees. Bound into it all, bring that screwgee* low and inside.
First Letters represent those in attendance 11/13/2015:
Dave Manning
Tom Hines
Clark Holtzman
Conrad newman
Bennett Myers
Robert Katrin
Johnette
Vanessa Vendola,
Kitty Bergel
Frank Doonan
Elio Soldi
Will Hubband
Doug Stuber
*A Screwgee is a reverse curve ball thrown in baseball that spins in toward right handed batters from a right handed pitcher.
or
Art Music Poetry #89
Danny Boy, Kicevo Macedonia
To I.R. From J.D.S.
Intense rain drops, causes richer black
Bark on trees staring back in orange.
El Nino gives us late fall, late winter
Late drinks and late dinner. Isabelle
Gave me a jab in the ribs and a wink
Of the eye, when, upon presenting a book
Full of fibs, I told a great-grand non-lie.
So life is good for a month or so, just on
The love
I have had, of a woman
So rich with the world, that even a
Moment or two adds up to a visit
With god; or, if you please, one fine human.
Sit back and take in the show, “Blue
Velvet” has never looked better
Than on the back and shapely torso
Of this woman, who must be from heaven.
art music poetry #41
Opus 688, Tarpon Springs, 1980 “A Flash of green”
The art in Art Music Poetry #19, to #50 represents the debut show at Golden Belt
in Durham NC. That will be June 19, 2015. Email for more information.
dougstuber@gmail.com.
Puff Ball Society Gone Bad
Ear-piercing scream explodes puff-balls
still dangling from last year’s trees.
Cracked open, maybe by the ten-month old
yelps that ambulate, lasers through the air,
to chop puff-balls, send smoke and ash
to the ground, fertilize wet clay, seeds
within, sprouting next year’s saplings, all
from the bumped-head scream, indiscriminate
cry, ubiquitous babyhood realized.
Bedouins, tribesman from Islamic lands, also
howl, yelp and cry war. Mission Accomplished:
Shias fight Sunnis, Sunnis bomb Shias, both
turn their guns at our boys and girls: one hundred
attacks per day. These screams pierce amorless
Hum-Vees, dropping unspent seeds, bloodying women
all month, to the cries of foodless babies, museums pillaged,
Nazi-style. Puff-balls explode, white-light pollutes,
citizens targeted. Disgrace pervades, blackens our culture.
