Don’t Drive that way anymore

There was this man.  A regular guy only in his own mind.  To others, part big man, part child, part creative force, part jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none, and 100% emoticon.

One day he fell in love.  He had a great time of it until she had to go away.  Now he remains happy, but still can’t drive that way, not down that road, not near that place, not into that town, and just barely catches his breath on the days he has to snap out of it as he rumbles down the hiway, anywhere near the old stomping grounds.

This man, of course, not known to many, wants a full ride in life, wants to be whole again, wants to be loved, like anyone else.  For now he paints, he blogs, he reaches out to hands just barely touching: to those who can only care from a distance, those vital electronic charges, particles, words.

Keep track of your heart, he tells himself, gather in to your son, the one who loves unquestioningly, at least for now.  Play ball, paint together, cheer the games, and remind yourself, anything is possible, expect a miracle, keep tuned to the Creator.

It’s another beautiful day in the neighborhood.  get out an enjoy it.

Art Music Poetry #95

This one is in Cypress owned by Ferridun, the singer.

This one is in Cypress owned by Ferridun, the singer.

Blatant fouls
distract virtuous
life. Even autumn
colors can’t pull us
together.

The penalty for
not thinking
is another round
of corruption, worldwide wage
slavery.

A girl in
an engineer’s cap
wraps an afghan on
her grandmother, gets
I-Pad news.

Hip swerving golfer
prances through
a coffee shop with
fully clothed three hybrid: a
sponsor’s gift.

Lifestyles, so
incongruent, mingle while
Wall Street adds
A hundred to the
Dow: record profits

magnify
obvious bias bestowed,
via GATT,
to owners of the
means of production.

Atlanta

Atlanta

Buckhead offers twelve-dollar sandwiches,
Parents lunching their children on Saturday:
Straight from Beemer to deli to Emory to evening
Wedding to Benz to kids at lunch on Peachtree.

North Peachtree, where you can’t quite see the smog
Thanks to trees and art and tacky bars. Southern
Culture on the skids, but not outside this deli, where
Leaves tumble with Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda cans.

All I can think of is you: hamburgers and organic
Bananas, juices, never soda, and a complete
Satisfaction. Money doesn’t earn these deli-dippers
The satisfaction you have. Inner peace even.

You cook after volunteering, after the kids are
Down for the night. You go there and back then home
To ride your bike to work. Teach me how to calm
Myself won’t you? One point at five points:

There is no chemistry to teach the zen you have.
Perfect weather makes yellow leaves stand out.
Small winds coerce more travel. Sharp shadows
Waver. One beacon lures me home to paint autumn.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1999. 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.

Life Sans La Mode

Life Sans La Mode

A leaf dropped straight down, slowly
As we whizzed by, 58 MPH. It didn’t
Twirl or flutter, the last leaf down
In Carolina this autumn.

It’s been eight years since winter. In
Gainesville or Tarpon Springs we didn’t
Notice leaves. We didn’t have to
Explain to anyone. Uninhibited.

Then Christmas trapped us. A week
To joke about upon returning. It didn’t
Mean to force such cynical remarks:
Pondering, floundering, repackaging gifts.

It’s been a year since the creative mode.
Apart from it, life’s progressed: sour to vile.
It didn’t mean to leave me in the cold:
Creative forces have no bad intentions.

We broke up at my request. Intentions
Were to lead a normal life. I didn’t
Look back, cry or wallow very long,
But life without it hasn’t been the best.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1987. 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.

Red To Go

Red to Go

 

Cardinals don’t visit often, but a proud male
Perched, inquiring about the weather, so I implied,
Through body movement, that this was a suitable
Winter retreat. It’s not Miami, and highs
Are in the 60s in January. So he stayed.

He caught us on a clear day: third in a row.
The reflections of a manmade pond (called jacuzzi)
Must have drawn him. The chow-chows were inside,
The rumbling of distant showers hit the walls
While wind chimes hung dormant in the still.

Cardinals signify a change in my life.
The last one I saw came by to tell me it
Was time to walk away from snowy winters.
This time I knew the new stuff was coming,
And the red-bird came to relax my nerves.

Sharp shadows move slightly with the leaves.
Our cardinal darts a foot above the rail,
Cutting the water with a flame. A ringing phone
Beckons: two weeks before I walk away, two
Weeks to wrap, tie, hug, make peace then leave.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1987. 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.