6 January, 2002, #3

6 January, 2002, #3

Jet plane engines in ears mostly pained by
Numerous infections from the past. One
Simple moment remembered: the last good-bye
I grabbed your hand, punched the ICU doors
And stomped to the elevator. I cried like a
Baby, pushed the doors open to drizzle, and drove
Back to Surfside #108. A well decorated pad,
We slept on your bed when you could not.

The deal now is to get Mom going again, keep Dad’s
Head above water, let Billy make a statement,
Call Nancy every night, hug Mike and demand that
We play some tournament every year, greet
Dibby with a fond hello, shake each day like
A ripe cantaloupe, until we’re sure we get the
Most from it, and throw the largest, biggest
Stu-bash come July 25th. Calendars duly marked.

Once again, somehow, I was granted the very
Best of your time. We talked about the Gators
Romp (56-23) over Maryland, and you even
Said “I’ll talk to you when I can.” In fact,
That’s the last thing you ever said to me. Perhaps
The next few weeks of writing will be nothing
More than an extended conversation with our personal
Angel. Is heaven as good as time spent with you?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. 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.

No Boundaries, 2001

No Boundaries, 2001

Gayle paints poems in the butterfly breeze. Two boats
Shimmer in the morning sun. Evalyn drops in. . . to clouds forming
On the western bank. Last night a raccoon scurried. One deer,
Off the hill, looked, charged and jumped onto the dunes.
Dan has walked this circle thirty times, reminding materialist
Watchers that creation comes, shovel in hand, not from
Piling up, but tamping down. Seeds fall out of him,
Drop to the sand, coagulate, dry up and cause a laugh.

Imagine the control it takes to let it drop without the squirt
Of normal urgings. (It takes more control to deny the gifts: to
Match philosophies — divine.) So we march in happy paradise,
Using wits to develop efficiencies that will give our kids
A choice: more freedom means more obligation, but how do
You get that through to Johnny sixpack? Where is Jarrie
Going to sit: among the quintessential consumers, or
Back in a cabin, using little energy, but commanding

Electric friends via concepts and inventions so compelling
That, just like Curried Einstein, the tide runs toward new
Shores? Days go by like blinks, Gayle ponders how
Much longer this slice will go, but she knows her
Evolution is many lives away. Entangled souls expressing
Love’s constant yearning gather on this sunny island as
Wind and water wash it all away. Robert, stick in hand,
Walks back and forth, waiting for the change that starts it all again.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2001. 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.

 

 

And for added pleasure form this one blog post:

 

Christmas 2001

Christmas 2001

Mike and Jann flew down this year
But in advance of Santa.
Sammy, Heather and Carie settle for Mickey Mouse.
Visits mean more now, so a side trip
To Gramps and Grammy and Uncle Dat
Allows a glimpse, brings energy to the house.

A white Buffalo, born in 1995, was our clue
That maybe somehow something would hit
To make human contact with nature important again.
We’re gathered, yet apart. Far too individual to
Remember when tribes were the only way to survive.
Oil did it.. Energy gives a chance to see friends.

Twenty dollar checks to hundreds of charities
Chip away at the mounds of guilt piled by
Knowing we have so much more than most.
Are there enough hugs to breach the wide gap
Between urban dwellers and the golfing set?
Something hit all right, but can we accomplish, or do we coast?

Two thirds of the family passes this way:
It’s Christmas, drink eggnog, talk turkey, hold hands,
Be happy that life keeps its promise again.
Fly south, send out greetings, don’t waste a drop.
Spend time solving your city’s plight.
Offer your services, be selfless this year, make some new friends.

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2001. 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.

Back in Chapel Hill

Back in Chapel Hill

The trees have survived. Sugar Magnolias still
Surround Morehead Planetarium. Morehead
Planetarium, where the motto is: “you too can
Have fun while learning about the stars.”

Then you stroll in the drizzle with an old friend
And you quaff half a pitcher of iced teas with a
Grilled cheese served by a waiter who has
Haunted the “Rat” for some 50 years. 50 years.

This lady, who is connected to your cosmic trip
By the loose string of a dinner-party invite
Now calmly welcomes you to her town.
The sly nomad in your eye accepts. You’ve got

Three count them three months to make peace
In Rochester. You’re invited to a party . . .

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.

Suck Butts

Suck Butts

Suck Butts Cafe hired a “Dead Flowers” singer.
He looks like a frat boy and sings flat.
Others stay back in line, some are fingered
While the black hole of folk strums donning a hat.

Mushrooms waft from a garlicked pan:
Bespeckled gentlemen ponder sloppy chords.
One fine lass, upholstered black and tan
Sucks a stirring stick before heading out the door.

Rockers should not be allowed to steal the stage
Where folkers normally play.
Love’s in vain when all you do is rage
Won’t you stop to listen once today?

No; yellow tinged orange leaves make a better friend
When Nino blows an 80 degree day
Here in October. Two months before the nomad sends
A new address from down Dean Dome way.

Dare I pack it in, just to volunteer?
Will this illusion create a better chance
To spend a week or two living without fear?
Or, at least, provide a place to dance?

“Who knows.”

 

 

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1997. 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.

Corkscrew Swamp

Corkscrew Swamp

Blue Heron walks on Lettuce Lake.
Lily pads support light birds long enough
For them to bill crawdads. Appetizing
Photograph: Squirming crustacean crunched.

Boards, cleverly cut, fan out around corners
That bring new cypress vistas into view.
One tree grows around another, wet but
Not waterlogged. Raccoon poop, which has

Red dots throughout, brightens the walk
As rain clouds defy winter and roll
Through desolate Florida. Where are all
These cars going? Immokolee? Must be

A growing town to support such traffic.
Back at the swamp a frog succumbs to a
Banded owl. Anhingas stretch wet wings.
White flowers waver, waiting to be painted.

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.

Doug Stuber’s Poetry book, by Beth Jetton

Doug Stuber Doug Stuber
Your poem book was nice
I read almost every one
(Read a few twice!)
The pictures, the artwork
Are now on my fridge
The tape’s in the player
I listened a smidge
I played out tonight
And I just got the mail
So your tape will be listened to
Tomorrow, without fail
With a short little e-mail
I made a new friend
Who is almost as talented
As I’ve always been (just kidding!)

– Beth

Copyright, Beth Jetton, 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.

Dougie Sonnet II

Dougie Sonnet II

One cut piece of paper is all
You need to start a revolution.
You see, the foreign press is
Unaware of the secret needs of
Consuming Americans. For all of our stuff,
We’re as love-starved as a burning bush.

By this I mean, while all other shrubbery
Blooms, we’re safe in the alcove
Of some institution, but not able
To love one another. Why? Because
TV, the dash for cash, and the resulting
Inability to converse leaves no opening lines!

Hey there honey with the ball cap on your head,
Have you witnessed an example of what I just said?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1996. 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.

My Loved One

My Loved One

Dark curls linger over alabaster
Cheeks, puffed with the smile of
Warm affection. Italian pains
Push through centuries of evolution,
Expressed in a frantic kiss. Our battle,
A running commentary on society,
Is to create moments of sanctuary.
Spooning glory, clutching love,
Happy to share insanity in a
World directed by the heart.

Bloomin’ Onion

Bloomin’ Onion

Before heavy snow
Broccoli flourished until
December. New York rarely supports
Life so long. But this, the year of upsets, sees
Unnatural nuts uncased . A new
Crop of freshman won’t hide old
Prejudices long.

Your alabaster
Siren? Skin from ancient
Northumberland. We impose our dreams
Which slowly seep into personalities.
You now let the dishes go over
Night. I have walked the malls to
Window shop this year.

Before your siren
Flourished, circumstance almost
Squelched your soul. A new environment
Provides resources. Soon, fed by wide eyed kids,
Nirvana will unfold. Once content,
My muse won’t seem bothersome.
Now the warmth pervades.

Admonishment

Admonishment

If there is a moment, when your sails of fortune luff
Remember that the warlords do not improve your life.
When your next payment outruns accounts received
Don’t cry down trod human, you will have enough.

Maybe not enough to stay where you are now, but more
Than those who tempted fate by building bigger bombs.
The children never stop to worry about their next meal,
But don’t cry down trod human, there is enough, and more.

Please crumple this philosophical pile of gibberish
The first chance you get. You work too hard to listen
To the rantings of the left. But when your choice to
Be free causes hunger in your gut, you will have enough.

Look, there are crying humans, and those who just don’t care,
And those who make themselves so rich from your efforts.
But then there are the bright-eyed kids, long hours tormented
By indecision followed by the warmth of an affair.

But don’t cry down trod human, the love you find is real
You wouldn’t want to trade for cash your ability to feel.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1994. 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 Chicken Strut of Dependency

The Chicken Strut of Dependency

Signals the munching of time.
Physical dependence seems burdensome
But blind families never know how to
Stop drinking: the love trap’s soothing.

Rayon pant suits do little for anyone,
But that’s the level independent agents
Live on. Change quickens so happeningly.
The only families left rely on the glue of hate.

But blind families love the touch
Of feel. Electric angels hover waiting
To touch those who have the faith to grasp:
Just in time to stop our souls’ extinction.

Spiral dyes walk up and down,
Aware that no one interferes with crazies.
Pupils tell the tale of blind families
Feeling the electric dawn of small tomorrow.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1994.  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.

C.I.A. Dog

C.I.A. Dog

Walking out Waimuri way
Goes the lost retriever.
She trots a bit, a nervous sway,
Eyes anxious, nostrils flared
In search of the deceiver.

No way to know how she got here,
No maps outside, inside fear.
She couldn’t know this place is a dot
Or two no one thinks about.
Her placement reeks of a Pacific plot.

Next week she’ll board a boat
To blow a hole in her wooden keel.
Transformed into one hundred pounds
Of bomb that barks and sounds
Like any other golden: look she floats!

Or parts of her do, blown astray.
She had no idea life would shorten
Or be abused, or cause harm
In such an evil way.
The worst she knew, back on the farm

Were cats playing hackey-sack
With mice about to be a meal,
Or Bob Dylan singing “how does it feel?”
Now she’s flotsam in the bloody sea,
One more boat down for Greenpeace.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1994. 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.

Healthy Meat

Healthy Meat

China-doll lips painted purple or red
Purse then smile at personal queries.
Stanwood is way past blushing when he jokes:
Her eyes gave up the secret now instead,
Of cryptic characters, lustful, longing, leery.

Educators reincarnate, hand clippings out
To students who crave larger markets
For reworked stories: novels with pokes
At apes who have no place to park it,
Aces grounded with nothing to talk about.

A ribbon for a tie belies rage:
The fifties in Muskegon blew cold winds.
Then comes this young Poe-like bloke
Whose dreams are heavier than most sins.
And a flashy fish story from a simple age.

But what of war-survivors and of God
Now that writing is the last refuge?
What of the hills south of Roanoke,
Of women growing past their era’s lot,
Of maniacs with nothing left to lose?

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1992. 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.

New World Reich

New World Reich

It took this long to hide my penchant: Rhymes.
Another reading forces inner looks.
Where is Ed and his heroic Elegy for us?
What happened when we traded love of lines
For time cards, bosses, corporate crooks?

Here’s what happened: life became a chore,
There is no time left to rage creating.
Competitive suburban gardening is a bust.
What there is left is not elating
Except the love of soul-mates through this door.

The Eagle’s Nest is now a restaurant
You get a 15-dollar turkey-plate up there.
But is a fourth Reich rising from the rust,
Or are we evil, just nonchalant?
Oklahoma City fades like sunset air:

The only lasting image is your own.
One veto and the fascists will shut us down.
One thousand points of veto from the upper crust
Without a batted eyelash from this clown.
What further outrage can we condone?

As long as TV says it is OK
Our lives submit to the worst human rages.
Just when we’ve farmed this place to dust
Some half-assed savior will come our way
Passing manna to those left. One for the ages.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1992. 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.