2012 poems so far by Doug Stuber

Doug Stuber’s 2012 Poems through June 19, 2012: 

 

Over-Trumped

This so-called life, this enigma wrapped in pain,

surrounded by a sea of nuclear waste, this end-game

controlled by those who can profit the most by the

end of, what?  The end of humanity?  Oil? Seas? Biosphere?

Planet? “We the People” only included white landowners,

while three thousand cultures got cleaned off the map.

Masonic fascism has only worsened, now infecting the

Christian church to the extent that abject poverty spreads,

a wildfire, as stock prices rise, products move, after raw

material shipped thrice to discover the cheapest possible

labor.  This shit is not poetic, but you have to scream,

so how to scream on stage, on TV, at the movies in any

way that will register with the already-brainwashed

populace?  Millions more will end up criminals, jailed

on this side of the pond, the “already dead” plus refugees

climb toward five million “over there.”  As long as about

half as many as needed have jobs, and foreclosures hover

lower than ten thousand per day, we’ll be alright, right?

It’s just too bad, and if you can’t fight to survive and be

in a lucky location, bomb-free, death will trump poverty.

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Blaring heat

returns late, provides

relief to

muscles, brains, love-starved

newly-matched mates, here

in the land

of the morning calm.

Green Gingko leaves, soon

bright yellow

flutter unpredictably

due to fan

shaped leaf outweighing

stems by so

much.  Our mates walk in

and out of shade

forty times

on the sunny side

of the street.  Gingkos

taste too strong

but medicinal value

is high, so

locals eat them boiled soft or

in soup or

tea.  Their shade is a

bonus, fruit is sought

after by

amateurs and pros so the

city grows

them down streets in

communal Gwangju.

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New Navy Base Horrors

 

Historic flutter

returns as memorial

five eighteen

turns into KPOP,

miniskirt dance festival.

May eighteenth being

the day Chun went nuts

on Gwangju:

democracy not

squelched but assured by

U.S.-backed para-

troopers executing dire

overkill,

inspiring rich

kid pamphlet-drop suicides

at Seoul National,

until, on the most

unlikely

peninsula, they

yielded power to

the masses.

A scant thirty years later

tendencies

toward those ugly times,

dictatorial

edicts, a

supposed presidential

suicide,

concrete rivers, eight

beef protestors dead.

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Witness: monk

aflame, broken bones

mutilated girl,

troops sent in

over and over.

This behavior

is emulated in the

new dash for

ever-decreasing

resources.  Modified crops

allow huge

population while

stripping collection

of next year’s

seeds.  World disasters

assured via food

wars, global warming, auto

mobiles, self-

righteous billionaires.

When we lost touch with nature

all else crashed:

humanity traded for

big money.

Is there resurgent

loving hippiedom

more than fad,

or are we destined to fight

on behalf

of the same rich men

who enslave labor?

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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.

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Blibity Blah, Blibity Blee

Long old perm

adds to the tired look

on her face as she

walks past, then

doubles back to the

most expensive salon in

town:  Lee Chul:

Tokyo, Beijing,

and Gwangju?  A whopper error

unless Lee’s

mother lives here.  It

is parents day, so Moms

hoist money at kids

so they can

buy cheesy flower

baskets best suited for a

county fair

in the deep north of

New York State:  Easter tacky.

No one is above

suspicious conversation

so ladies

pair off above the

fray to gossip non-

stop, full-tilt,

smiling, laughing, knowing their

rivals are

across town saying

the same about them.

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Burned laptop

allows a mere hour

so the timing has to be

just right to

Skype to fulfillment.

She blushes, washes,

asks for more,

encourages this

love outlet

that becomes a sex lesson.

She thinks he

has tried all of this

stuff over and over, but

this quiz is

a test of our

fantasies as well.

Dawn comes and

she’s been up for hours

preparing

dinner because her work goes

past seven,

and dinner is at six, but

at least her

hubby is willing

to heat recipes

made from love

in the local way and so

close to his

mother’s, he can no

longer distinguish.

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Coffee Lotte

This white-haired geezer professor eases

into a conversation with a new beauty

who half-steps out of her shoes to get

further across the table at him.  The back-line

of her sweater is so deep it reveals bra

and hourglass T over beautiful body,

under 42-year-ol face.  He’s pushing 60,

so the match is a typical multi-cultural

generation hopping peculiar to Korea in

the pre-war era (2012).  Self conscious

shopper bounces hair, boobs, handbag in

a shirt so tight, C-cups have no chance

but to scream attention.  You can dress sexy

and still look peeved when people notice

here too.  The real competition is among

women, so if men take a gander, hot-dressed

women, as their training insists, react

with disdain and keep moving.  Girls

giggle as the aging couple departs.  Quick-

lipped conversations float over coffee, phones.

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Congratulations on Your Marriage

 

Those lips, that face, her smile, his warmth, this day,

one day, could be the only day, but it matters not, as

one day can last forever, even if in Mun Doek, Haenam,

Naju or Gwangju.  Some Tibetan temple cascades upward

on a tree-lined river few see.  So?  You snap a photo of a

love-God and Goddess in the rowboat position, paying homage

to the love of life by using their bodies to make more of it.

Two eyes yearn to wipe away the tears fomented

by one, two, three, four lost siblings.  Can you stand it?

This angel, so calm and at home in such a foreign

land, so welcoming, desirous, smiling: a professor at

the “university of smile,” reaches toward him.  He pulls her

in, falling forever in love, yet both trapped in the ill-thought

moments, that, nonetheless, brought them together, permanently

tagged by fate.  If ever some cynical scientist needed evidence

of a benevolent Creator, this would be proof enough because

their love persisted electronically, circumventing myriad obstacles,

to become newlyweds, because the wait was so long, complicated,

so full of multicultural differences that love conquered.  Can you

please stand and cheer for human compassion and love now?

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It’s Your Duty

 

The ten days

of spring, over now,

bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie

dances under sad

streets.  This slow

city offers chance

encounters.  Relationships

in tearless land mean

getting used

to work-hard love,

the kind that

pays off in respect.

Still, countless occupations

Influence beating

Hearts so shut,

Into lead boxes

that us spoiled visitors can’t

find what we know to

be human.

some make the leap, some

Force love on

historical foundations,

meaning they

must connect with those

who know the entire

reasons why

“hard work, no play love” adds up

to good life.

Vanquish excitement,

find love in floor scrub.

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Eat Alone

 

 

Hyuntay exhibits

Gonads by

Denying guilt-iced

Request to join a

Family dinner.

Sports rule the

Day:  baseball, soccer

Badminton, but no

Meal with the entire Gwangju

Park Kang clan.

Previous errors

By his Dad

already strained the

situation, so

mend-chance is wasted.

Still, ill, cough-

filled grandmother comes

back to do laundry.

This proves she is better than

us, but no

more than that,

as aunt stuck to her promise

and will not

help Hyuntay any

longer: endless spite.

This also

prevents  lies from coming true,

thus gaining

Confucian high ground

while misery spreads.

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“Excuse me

are you from New York?

I thought I saw you

there in May

or June.” “No Shanghai

but I visited

Manhattan in June, maybe

you did see me there.”

This is how

the opening lines

are played in

his head, but chess is

simple compared to

size, culture

generation gap.

He’s up, the ruse is

a refill at Foster’s in

Chapel Hill two days

after a

home loss too…

But dude boy

is not about to lose this

one, no; cup

in hand he weaves through

tables, stops, pelvis

eye level

as she peers over laptop.

“Yes,” she says,

“Excuse me, are you

from New York?”

“No, but…”

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Gang Bang

 

Molly, from upper-middle class London

“joined” a gang due to family arguments and

too much academic pressure at home.  She was

forced, emotionally, to seek love, and used sex

with violent gangsters to replace a hug and

soothing parental interface.  Instead of “School

Without Walls” (see Rochester, NY) she’s passed

her rite, and this has gone on for decades, but as

soon as she started her own sexual adventures

she was demonized as “sket,” Jamaican slang

for slut.  This only differs from fraternizing

and sorority-izing in comfort level, as both groups

excel at manipulation, winner-take-all, libertarian

capitalism, unfettered by law, rules or regulations

while free to beg trillions when their Usury schemes

fail then cripple the blue collar backbone over here

in the land of polarization, as in Ralph Nader, Noam

Chomsky and Michael Moore against O Reilly,

Gingrich and Palin.  On paper this is a smear,

but in reality we’re as fucked as Molly ever was.

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Gwangju, Korea,

Hands reach for warmth, life, in these

last hours that he has.  No matter that

birds flew, flowers grew, barns collapsed, deer

ran, hopped, fought, lost to lead delivered

so easily.  This man, so sad, still reaches to find

any comfort he can find.  On the periphery

of his own life, sequestered in a place his own

family doesn’t even know.  :How, no why Dad, did

you run so far away from what once mattered?

But here, on the other side of the planet,

long removed from the love that sustained us, so

long that brutal cold sweeps through, loud coughs

pollute bus rides, and my loved one plays back

in my town while I work in hers.  Worry not

young man, Dad will always be here for you even

if we’re abandoned in this cultural wasteland,

so adherent to the old ways, but you know me, I

have to, simply have to point out the problems of this

flawed species, my favorite? This forsaken peninsula:

always overtaken, owned, enslaved, occupied.

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Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events

 

Enough concentration camps to hold two million at a time.

Enough new gas lines installed at these converted, deserted

former factories to assure that more than some millions will pass

through, away.  Is FEMA worried about an outside attack or

domestic arrests that follow economic collapse?  Why waste this

kind of money just to scare us?  No, these are for real, with train

boarding platforms, one-way turnstiles, and mass graves and

plastic coffins already in place.  Youtube profits beg us to get

out now, while we can.  They say the bible will take care of us,

“so just go, don’t worry about money or food.”  No matter how

loony they seem, unless you are firmly into the top one percent,

and philosophize to that effect, you may well be on the “list”

to join summer camp, or winter camp:  concentration is required

to survive such joints, but history suggests most won’t.  Instead

of enacting change after Reagan and Bush I, Clinton just made

matters worse, ditto Obama after Bush II.  This is not poetic shit,

but it doesn’t make headlines either. If Jews knew what was coming

don’t you think they’d have left before the SS and Gestapo moved

in? The CIA, FBI and Secret Service have lists.  If you KNEW you

were on all three, would you, in 2012, be hanging around the US?

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My love she lives so close to me,

Only a universe away.

We both live lives we love yet hate

But don’t have the nerve to say

Goodbye to the past, hello to the now

No way to shed the tears.

So much to live for, think of the kids

Who get over larger fears.

Why can’t we admit we’ve lost,

Then start life anew?

Why is the chance so hard to take,

Why can’t I marry you?

Because we’ve grown accustomed

To the routine of rotten ways:

Each of them so different,

Trapped now so many days.

So many nights “together”

While really so alone.

All who know detest this

It chills them to the bone.

I ask, I beg, I plea now

Take this gentle hand,

Remind me what it feels like

To be an honest man,

To quit living lies as if noble

To finally take a stand.

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It’s Your Duty

 

The ten days

of spring, over now,

bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie

dances under sad

streets.  This slow

city offers chance

encounters.  Relationships

in tearless land mean

getting used

to work-hard love,

the kind that

pays off in respect.

Still, countless occupations

influence beating

hearts to shut,

into lead boxes

that us spoiled visitors can’t

find what we know to

be human.

some make the leap, some

Force love on

historical foundations,

meaning they

must connect with those

who know the entire

reasons why

“hard work, no play love” adds up

to good life.

Vanquish excitement,

find love in floor scrub.

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Labor Day 2012

Today’s troops include cross back suspendered shorts

strutting hard over very high heels with a tight fitting black

cotton shirt barging through the usual suspects:  schoolgirl

uniforms, parental friends carrying children, well-suited cell

phone salespeople handing out glossy paper quickly discarded

to the messy square bricks of Shinae, the sexy, color-coordinated

monster friend strolling zone over here in Gwangju. Bobby coifs,

sculpted boys with well-done girls, now a solo lady, a complete

rarity in this duet-driven land. Hard to believe the gay scene

is microscopic with so many mono-sexual walk-mates. Anyone

even two inches off normal is way off here, but the ultimate

eye-opener now appears:  shorts, a deep blue shirt and fluorescent

green fake suspenders that are sewn on at the top and clip on to the

bottom of shirt or shorts depending on cup size.  Eighty-eight cent

coffee deal awaits on Labor Day (May 1 here) celebrated the same

day Russia does.  Russia picked the day due to a series of successful

1889 strikes in the USA.  By switching it to September in the US

the real history is lost, but not on Helena, the star professor

who wants to write her way out of Russia now, in order to join

this street club, as a social member, for four months come June.

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Love, Korean Style

Ostracized, this time in a crowd of twenty,

love so gone.  How long can anyone live without

love?  No, better put, what when one believes

that the only way to prove and sustain love is

via manual labor: hauling trees, cooking, laundry,

chauffeur work: splitting wood, teaching games, pushing

more school, more studying, until the child pops,

while the other’s idea of love is wrapped in empathy,

softness, caring, love-making, nudity, hugs, kisses

and the all-important “Yobo, how was your day at work?”

What happens is he cashes in his entire life to try to

win in what he calls love, including splitting wood until

his elbows ache, left knee succumbs, even moving to

a land he can not fit in to, pleading for his type of love,

while she stays aloof, plays and pots, sad that her son

is in her country, while she is in hisalone, except for

maybe a lady here or there.  Yet, he works, three jobs,

works in the land-of-a-million-lies.  Oh, he has friends

and she has friends she’s willing to pretend, allowing hugs

while quickly calling to our son, “look, we’re in love.”

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Man in the Shiny Silver Suit

Now blossoms fill the space

otherwise concrete gray.

Students scribble guesses

about why she went away.

Poets lounge on benches

even as it rains.

Frigid March springs nothing

the walls are water-stained.

But these are John Pike masters,

naturally branching out.

Students walk, umbrellas pop

few know what life’s about.

But this is not the place,

nor inside classroom doors.

To introduce the counterpunch

to flowers: fascist horrors.

Instead we “Jack and Jill”

these kids, children at age twenty.

We dare not make them think or

work, their banks will give them plenty.

Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties,

it’s a campus fashion show.

Some afford these easily,

others snort credit card blow.

Judgment comes ten times an hour,

more when class gets out.

It’s all about how well you dress,

and what you lie about.

Ten lies a day is not a sweat

but the truth is a big mistake.

To be a globalized professional,

your heart you must forsake.

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News Poem #246

 

 

BC, my old pepper-sauce loving friend suggests

I buy a boat in case this here peninsula blows.

No it won’t, but that’s not the news.  The news is

“Extended Detention” for protestors, and “I’m going to

focus on Asia,” which is awesome when one considers

the potential havoc coming in Iran.  Here, plum blossoms

do the talking above fake windmills, Koi ponds and

German-style stucco/dark-wood Dutch colonial restaurants,

sunny days, half weddings, half funerals.  Personal set

of three appears ready to drop, but must be stopped.  You

know the routine: lose love, job and house all at once:

some by pink slip (job moved) or foreclosure (homeless

via fine print) or love torn, leaving children confused and

bitter, “exes” smoldering and emotions displayed for

boss to see.  Because of the young children you work

four jobs, both parents unable to parent, then, just as

the tulips rise, new hope with them, some major event

steps in to render efforts futile, tear asunder, return

existence to animal instincts.  Few find this thrilling but

2012 lowers the common denominator three more pegs.

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Now the blossoms fill the space

otherwise concrete gray.

Students scribble guesses

about why she went away.

Poets lounge on benches

even as it rains.

Frigid March springs nothing,

the wall are water stained.

But these are John Pike masters

naturally branching out.

Couples walk, umbrellas pop

few know what life’s about.

But this is not the place

nor inside classroom doors,

to introduce the counterpunch

to flowers: fascist horrors.

Instead we “Jack and Jill

these kids, children at age twenty.

We dare not make them think or

work, their banks will give them plenty.

Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties,

it’s a campus fashion show.

Some afford this easily,

or snort on credit card blow.

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Redbuds bloom

some bulbs shoot up in

time to usher in Yobo’s

fiftieth

Korean birthday.

Pottery

and family play

replace the love

of husband and child as she has

Gui Soon now

to make her

house alive, and so

she can paint in Bulgaria.

Her only

reminder of age

is one poor

poem, as her life

is near-perfect with

more time for creative bursts,

less homework.

Can she make

room for all that mess again?

Does she know

how emotional

her son has become?

Will open

arms and open hearts announce

another

chance?  We pray for her,

she waits to join us.

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Soul Rumble

This lover, these words

spread onto thin tissue

which passes for a bar napkin

here where jazz flows

only on Friday, unpredictable,

it’s a trip away from pain

inept life, life, so joyous

with family, friends, rockin’

school job, yet unable to

dance with my wife, fill

cavernous soul, having dropped

too many sustaining creative

outlets, but then: music

old friend, joined by three

others soothes enough of the

ache to render energy too:

dance again, punch ol’

Hemingway in the balls.

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Stuber Haiku* Labeled “Dad”

 

 

Simple meals

with scrumptious drinks made

up his restaurant

fare.  “Pocahontas” was cheese

and bacon

on a split

hotdog, washed down

with root beer.

Vegetables were fries

or fresh onion rings, causing

many smiles,

future diet plans.

Today’s smile, decades

later, is at reunions

short but sweet.

Much water

over many dams

means we pray

daily, move to strong

tomorrows, spurred by writing,

reading; large

ideas continue to

refine thoughts

so you or we might

say the exact right

phrase, sentence,

paragraph that will stick in

brains so full,

hearts so swelled, lives with

little room for more.

*The “Stuber Haiku” has an A,B,A,B, C,C stanza pattern in which the syllables per line are variable in stanzas A and B (but obviously the same in A and B) and the C stanzas are always 3, 7, 3, 5, 5 in syllables-per-line.  “A” here is 3,5,5,7,3 and “B” is 3,5,3,5,7. Many of these have been written in the past.    The choice of odd numbered syllables is a nod to Japanese Haiku, best written in Japanese, consisting of only three lines in a 5, 7, 5 pattern.  Haikus almost always mention nature AND the seasons or a season, or the change of seasons in some way. Some linguists say 7 syllables of Japanese = roughly 12 in English.

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Buddha’s Non Rae Bang

cranks up one

more time in late May

to celebrate his

true birthday.

Lumbini swells as

Koreans t\rock out on a

lotus-filled

stage high above the

Najuho Valley.  One cute

seventeen-year-old,

Park Jin Hye

steals the show with a

song and dance routine

to die for.

Then, in a shocker,

esteemed visitors and the

seunim join

in minstrel making

merriment. Wouldn’t it be

nice if we

could see the creator smile,

but here on

a hot-dry Monday

we laugh together

each one of

us a god, able to solve

all earth’s

problems with what we

have.  Peace now Peace now.

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Kiri pays

on the sly with her

usual smile, on

the way out

of Yeosu.  Christian

opts for an early

leave, as expo exhaustion

sets in.  We drank his

wine, and Heineken

until four,

woke up at six to

shower with Rebe

first to leave,

presentations at

Yonsei beckoning.

Minor food discrepancy

clears up when Kwang i

cooks ribs at

midnight, adding to

long night of

merriment.  Red wines form France,

Chile, Spain

and California

assure  quick thinking

to catch the

nuances, as thrice-flashed breasts

fill drunk dreams

and hot summer air

streams in to wake us.

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Decade dream remains

unfulfilled, but she

can still talk about

it.  Lunch and

coffee reawaken it.

Then she disappears

this time for

good, scaring the life out of

you .  If you

never see her, what

will it mean?  Dead dream,

dead woman, dead heart?

Sleep deprivation

reaches the

three-week point but semester’s

end approaches and

all you can

think about is how she’s

thrown away

potential just to

abide Dad’s

demands, Mom’s urgent requests

stuck in a

study room trying

to pass one more time.

Oh quit girl!

Chime in, tell him you’re alright;

force out to

the light that awaits

right in front of you.

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O’ 1

 

Moon beam bounces back

through deck  slots next to

palatial

garden hidden in

the heart of Jeonju.

Curved pines rise

over crooked-branched

maple as

workers scurry to wrap up

another food day.

Diners linger long

after the kitchen

closes, as

this sanctuary

is genuine, calm,

respectful

of others, mindful

that this short

life deserves moments that shine.

Beauty surpasses

The anger

grind as oversized, puffy

bread arrives

by imaculate

delivery: a

waiter straight

form the L.A. scene, but

not, just well

trained.  O’s, the hipster

joint hangs your work.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

In The Groove

Polaroid, the jazz

band brushes

its first number as

a trio

before maestro sax

steps in to liven

the night in often sleepy

Gwangju, the

City of Light.  Close

your eyes and the basssit sounds

natural, with no

chart, and when

summertime bee bops

he cooks.  The

Maitre D’ is both

helpful and a touch

suspicious.  But by God he’s

given jazz

a place, so our souls’ relax,

find conifers to pull in,

and dreams to

chase over cocktails and smiles

when most joints

only offer smug

teenagers dancing

and asking

how old you are, and ending

the night with

“thanks for the dance sir.”

Is that in the groove?

><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Good Luck!

Best dressed and

sluttiest

hit simultaneously

on exam

day.  One class fails

the averages

ninety-six.

Few are ready for

the dance.  Another

leap awaits

those lucky enough

to score jobs.

Hard to forget money when

still living

at home means having

to rent motel rooms

to be with

your loved one, or at

least partner.   Since the

miracle

on the Han

took only fifty years to

propel per

annum income from

one hundred to an

astounding

thirty thousand, one suspects

an equal

drop could happen much

quicker.  Depression

is creeping in now.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

O’s 2

Min Hee puts a prime

tiny movement at

station one

that sports water and syrup and

a spotlight.  Her eye

surpasses

the Ray Brown solo

in bass register

that floats in

and out of perfect

weather that adds to

immaculate space

designed and

executed subtly

soothing without a

hint of self

applause, a refuge

in the valley that

once housed the

Chosun Dynasty.

Again some

grace of the creator sent

this chance while

the normal drift had

led to dance stardom

among the

slowly initiated,

horrified,

shy, hard-to-describe-

to-outsiders crowd.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

 

Does one blushing smile,

innocent in its attempt

to say hello and

good-bye at

once qualify as

poetry?

Or must there be some

Philosophical

Underpinning that

Jumps to the fore?  Peace

Means adult red face

as an opportunity

to blossom, and a

restaurant

where time is itself

worth noting

on this bloody earth,

starved, parched, war-torn tears

flowing, cruelty-

filled type of planet.

So if you’re

munching on plastic chairs at

some seven

eleven, able

to watch life flow by

for an hour,

imagine just how good you

have it, when

in front of backdrop

that’s not so easy.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Yang Overload

Bamboo surrounds the

hill Jin Hee

studies on.  Inside

two abstracts

find a home, the Yin

Yang one for her, dominant

Yang rooster

for Tae Kyung, the fake

red haired soft-face from Seoul.

They plan to

conquer the world by

constructing

personalities

that can win

in the male money club

world; the corporate, legal

bank account

world that assures their

children will attend foreign

rich high schools.

What about

love?  The artist asks, but she

is shy to

admit his softness

won’t penetrate her

dreams.  She fears

accepting his kindness will

throw off her

hard fight to be Seoul’s

top dragon lady.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Tae Kyung appears to

be ready

for the rooster now

headed her way. You can feel

the yearning

steaming up from her

loins as you sit with

Jin Hee, now

A mutual friend.

There’s just as good a

chance Tae Kyung will stay

in touch, as

she is less driven,

more conventional, already

settled in.

She’s much harder to

read though, so you’d be

wise to book

a few more meetings

to catch up to her

dreams as well

because there’s this one life, and

it’s half done,

but she’s just begun

to realize the

universe will

take care of her no matter

what she does.

To assist or take

advantage of it?

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Jeonju to Gwangju Bus

One yawn on the back

row initiates

beautiful

trip that reminds you

your young wife

will be back

on Friday.  A hair

toss lands on right elbow as

she adjusts short skirt

underneath leather knock off.

Skirts are meant for show

while moving, not to

be looked at

while seated; exposed

blue panties

which, in this

case, match fingernails

and the prettiest face this

side of Meudungsan.

She will not think of using

her left arm

rest, as it is your right one,

even though

you know she “works” in

Gwangju, how dare

You ask what

Her job is on a bus?

Kwang Suk would

Laugh, or punch your arm

Depending on mood.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

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Comments
One Response to “2012 poems so far by Doug Stuber”
  1. dougstuber says:

    Reblogged this on Dougstuber's Blog and commented:

    From January to June 18 2012, with a posting on Mom’s birthday, June 19th

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