At the Mill

At the Mill

Soft Shenandoah shelters misfits and malcontents,
nurtures sheep with large genitals, photographer’s family,
hay-hoisting horse owners, trick-turning truck stoppers,
inventive harvesters, Steeles Tavern sewers, bountiful beauty.

Naturally, writers abound surrounded by such: one wins
five grand at the pharmacy, takes leave of the women
long enough to type her new voice, a beacon who
fortifies fellow polygamists with purple-winked ink.

Fur-clad apparition returns, disrupts midday bushwhack
with its presence, historical, ominous, predictor of days
you can’t bear to ponder. Satiated, you grab her hand
for emotional balance, slipping down moss-laden rocks, afraid.

Grinder-switch melodies follow tight patterns until, fed
by grain, new grist emerges. Wind spirit magnifies terror;
your steps quicken, but you think of three others: photographer,
writer, compost collector: a post coital spook, still yearning.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. 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.

Memories of Red Weather

Memories of Red Weather

You stop, then break back. You are
Balanced today in habitual
Rhythms. You wrap
Sea oats.
Later
You will paint them into a
Dream of blue horses.
Imagine the smile a
Life without stress
Will provide
Today.
You’ve smartly allowed your
Dream to come true,
Which is so good
You’re not sure
How you’re
Going to
Handle
It.
Then you quickly remember
Your manners, your music.
La Mode has returned,
Now enlightened life
Grows avenues
All at
Once.
You pull out your pen, paintbrush
Guitar. Red tractors focus in
A photograph at 55 MPH.
Jenny steers her black
Honda through
Speed trap
Zones.
You dance again, blow out a
Knee and revert to
Swimming miles
At the local
YMCA.
Welcome back to 1972. You’ve
Got the car, attitude, and
Fourteen-year-old
Personality to
Prove
It.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1998. 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.

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The Face of Death

Face of Death

A certain double-breasted bag-toter
Totters toward a balding muse.
She, red-haired proliferator,
Makes his dreams uncommon
With a mound, abstract, but dense.

She hails from Pennsylvania,
Chocolate covered glasses
Melting into cheeks
Above a smile; two hands
Stuffed in black wool pockets.

Now she laughs at fashion,
Leaks another glimpse: vanishes
Before the double-breasted
Has a chance to grab a piece.
A wake of snow entices.

Our gentle bag-toter
Unprepared to face
Her face of death
But hot to chase the rest,
Lunges, parries, turns into

The safety of a library,
Where he dreams the Muzak
Version of Beethoven’s Fifth:
Imagines Ludwig working up
Five thousand RPMs six feet under.

A syphilitic soul,
Nonetheless adventurous,
Ludwig forges through Bavaria’s bedrock,
Digging a tunnel to her door.
This attracts the double-breasted.

Allowed, by mere coincidence,
To follow Ludwig’s lead,
Double-breasted brings his bag along.
The face of death inspires
But demands sacrifices

Beyond double-breasted’s realm.
He may have to hang on
For dear life. He may have to
Get naked, be inspected
And ridiculed before gaining access.

The bag lends moral support.
“Ludwig is probably playing a prank,”
He thinks, as subconscious yearnings
Drag him through town,
Around rules, above convention,

Into the laughing, bouncing-butted
Body with the face of death.
She snarls. His actions verify
What she suspects: a gap between
Reality and his brain. She blends

Into his dream, asks him what he wants.
“Now I know your body,
It’s better than your face,
We felt good together,
Got some drugs around the place?”

This takes her by surprise,
So she pours a mushroom tea
And offers tea and oreos
Which he readily accepts.
“What makes you care about me?”

Spouts the face of death.
“My friend Ludwig led me here
After you had vanished.
He knows what I should do,
He wants me to do you.”

She often has to sit and dream
Of proper male behavior,
So she teases him along.
“You want me so much,
But you hang there unappealing.

Why don’t you masturbate
So we can go another round?”
Toter stiffened to the test,
And said, with a wry smile,
“Death on the doorstep.”

 

 

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.

Beauty Realized

Beauty Realized

Aspiring long-trunked Lindens
send leaf seeds spiraling
into Highland Park. The Peace Wave
dances, sings, paints, plays and eats.
A fully trimmed church social
for progressives, pot heads and artists.
Activists all.

Five women in pajamas dance
fertility, entrance patchouli-laden
jaw-dropped gawkers as their
seductive gyrations glaze
the eyes of men and women alike.
Loins slither, mingle, fling
jubilant torsos across the full stage.

Red scarves tie waists together
in a sweet maypole offering
officiated by throngs of soft naturalists.
Star city of the South nurtures
self-made lives, little cash flow
but long on love. One family fills
buckets with magnolia pods: art objects.

 

 

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.