Doug Stuber’s Poems Written in 2012

Doug Stuber’s 2012 Poems                     Copyright, 2012 J. Douglas Stuber

 

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.  Gingkoes

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 adjusts

bra strap, eye-judges,

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 rich 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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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 Sinae, 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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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 No 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 Mi

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’s 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 immaculate

delivery: a

waiter straight

from the L.A. scene, but

not, just well

trained.  O’s, the hipster

joint hangs your work.

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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 bassist 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?

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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.

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

Watercourse

 

Your play time

will be limited

only by life’s plan

so grab a hold and begin

again under lips.

Your hands guide

great deeds.  We learn so

much from each

other, yet very

far apart.

The islands

of youth now replaced

by love yearning to

be whole.  So we work hard to

make it so.  It’s all

just plans now.

neither work nor play

can attain

true love, it comes from

heart magic.

Small waves curl

onto multiple shores at

the same time:

Black Sea, Pacific,

Canandaigua Lake.

One dreamer

imagines these perfect hearts

together

working on projects

made simple by love.

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

Loose fitting

summer garb, pink and

white, supported by

cane, walks down

familiar lane to

the center

of Jeesil, the town

between Hwasun and

Damyang, on the far side of

Mudeungsan.

Poems float

above gazebos,

sounding the yearnings

history

tells us once mattered.

Supported

by watermelons,

stone bridge, mysteries

of the past, scattered painters

cluster here,

drink soju,

toast hard working wives who stand

tall when art

fails to pay all bills.

Seven come to fill

commission

scored by Do Gi who has a

son to raise.

Baby and grandma

smile at each other.

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

Scraggly crag,

a rock  that landed

sideways when

tossed by an angry

god towers over farmers.

Except for crooked

pines, post-war

square architecture, country

apartments,

the green is British

in summer

as fog covered rice

might well be

adequate cover

for foxes dodging hunters.

Old habits die hard,

but here it

is the grandfather riding

his bike to

the park to play “go.”

But it’s not

“go” but Padook, frustrating

As it seems

Simple to the untrained

Eyes, yet as complex

as any

chess match once you understand

how easy

it is to blunder,

hard it is to win.

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

Fieldstone stacked to make

a house stands out where

greenhouses

and silos are the

norm.  Multicolored

school invites

youngsters to strive to

reach past rural start,

beyond chicken feeding to

some known school

the whole village can

be proud of, the first

student to

matriculate from

this county, later

a statue

built in honor of

the first from Jido

to become a Yonsei grad.

Not all will

do so well,

but this boy’s grandfather did,

his mother’s

Dad, the one who read

a lot, got lost one

time tying

plastic orange ribbons to

red bud trees

so your Dad would not

cut them down in haste.

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

Cooking smell,

it’s beef bourguignon

devours the ground floor of

three story cottage.

The attic

is used by

number four dancing

girl, who sips coffee

while working Kia

games for a mere one

point five per

month.  “But she may have

a moonlighting job” my friend

suggests pays that much

per weekend.

But this is

wild speculation

thrown around when down

one zip in the sixth.

Then a well-shaved fan

bounces a

few enthusiastic cheers

causing breast

wiggles New Balance

could use in its next

ad, or is

ample replacement during

cheerleader

breaks.  Then Lee Young Kyo

makes game-saving catch.

25 July 2012

Kia 3, Nexen 1

Henry Sosa pitches for Kia

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

She pinches his nose

and pulls left, snapping

fingers, watering his eyes

then laughing,

biting, pulling close.

She wanders to class

after a

visit from

island friends who spend

more time getting there

than being with her.

She wins bread, cooks, cleans,

does laundry until

midnight while

he plays PC games.

He leaves early, skips

meals, makes no

money and

wants love only once

every sixty days.

So she throws

attention to her children

and teaching,

volleyball and new

Korean words to

try on some

innocent store clerk.

No Rae Bang

fills lonely times when

kids visit in-laws.

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

Hard working

Helena has no

time to relax, and

her stomach churns in both

English and Russian.

Aeroflots’

in orange or large

knotted ties

speak with rolled

Rs, take you back to

the bench in

the hidden graveyard,

a place few sit, but

favored by old friend, new one,

this mother-daughter

team, nearly

inseparable,

tired, achy,

overworked,

laryngitis adds

to language

obstacle as hints about

inner child

of targeted man:

“irresistible”

yet squarely

confused at the base of the

pyramid

though he dreamt of an

entry from above.

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

You could see

how a teenager

might get a case of

cold feet, or

if there was an age

gap, or if the two

cultures were

far apart, or if

his unreal

philosophy countered hers,

but in this

case, no visible

yield or stop sign comes

into view,

just straight romantic

jitters from being

so lonely

so long.  Rather than

countering

with bravado, he lays low

applying finesse,

not his long suit, then

flying off,

allowing time to

ponder which thrust or

parry will

accomplish intimacy.

These two, so

bonded by words but

so shy in person.

26 July 2012

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Copenhavn Logo “Have a Good Time”

If middle class were

this good world wide there

would be no

war, just beer-drunk anchor climb

kanal wall sitting

no aluminum

collecting

in low-slung hat, or

child beggars

or water

and food deprived, just

on big high-heeled sit

down chat with

waffles, perfect tall women,

misplaced Asians lost

in nervous laughter

pulling out

warm beer from pockets

as a cool

breeze allows

brief reprieve

from overheated planet

if, if, if

Copenhagen was

The norm, but it’s not.

Too many

camera-perfect scenes float

past to feel

guilt for long, so you

drop photos, write more.

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Kopenhavn

 

Well-captained schooner

comes about in a

tight space, two

meters to

spare, without touching

bow or stern

on kanal 9, so

full of Friday merriment

few notice this maneuver

nor count the

forty six moves it

took to get the boat

headed out

to sea.  Better shots

taken as football

fan smoker

strides confidently

to greet, as it turns out,

one.  Couples of all ages

rule the night.

Some drag thirds

along, and parents take kids

to shield all

temptation, and here

there can be plenty.

The noble

pose is a tall woman at

the end of

a bike ride,, dressed up,

gliding to a stop.

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

Copenhagen 2

 

Intense look

mingles with laughter

conversation that

you sat down

next to on purpose finding

yourself a love, yet

in a group of four,

with limited time to learn

how things work

while fifty

something goes

backless in a black

bra, fluorescent dress,

deep tan, blonde,

of course, seeking any love.

Just your luck, these two

short-skirted happy

party girls remain in full

chat, moving

long hair with

outstretched arms

that raise breasts into an

upward tilt

that conveys desire

without remotely

suggesting

who the target of the move

may be.  One

break-up news causes

pterodactyl laugh.

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

Copenhagen 3

 

While butting out

a smoke, pulling out

box for another

auburn-haired

girl keeps listening and now

does her symbolic

hair flip as diners

finish, rock sitters arrive,

pizza and

beer in hand.

Two Rasta

players tote guitars

as laughing ladies

pack shapely

legs, turn but sit back down here

where a child’s Tweety

balloon rises as

swarms of edge walkers come up

and see the

chatters go

to the far

stairs, descending away, trapped

in old lives

that never change much.

Ny Havn strollers

still some in

lace, come look at each other

or themselves

to make sure a breast

isn’t out, or is.

27 July 2012

Copenhagen

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Sweden

 

Sweden blurs by on

the Violia,

forty six

thousand lakes

and a three hour wait with

nothing to

do but look at the

outside of

Tivoli Gardens

across from

Copenhagen’s bikes

won’t fade, nor Sweden’s

endless fields.

One smart traveler

makes conversation as we

lurch, he now

ending holiday,

you at the

start as Kwang Suk and

Hyuntay sleep.

It’s eight,

two more hours before Stockholm.

Two diners

return to sit and

chat, find less noise in

sleepy car

thirteen.  By some luck the one

source of air

is an open aisle

window at our seats.

July 28 2012

Copenhagen to Stockholm train

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Memories of Drottninghoff

 

Three Asian

ladies decide to

share an elk

fillet in Stockholm,

much to the waiter’s

chagrin.  A young man out guns

his mother and sticks

to his cheeseburger order

over Swedish meat

balls or elk.

So his dad

gets the elk, and rare

at that.  What

a delight, with top

notch Béarnaise sauce and

a delicious brown glaze with

tomatoes and red

onion, super, and since we

were killing time, topped

by cheesecake

and cakey

tiramisu that could leave

a lasting

memory of our

Stockholm time.  I wish

My best new

Friends were here to see water,

boats, lone man

standing in river,

“fly fishing palace.”

30 July 2012

Stockholm

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Skansen Travelogue

 

On one of many

islands, around which

are docked boats and ships of all

sizes, just

like yesteryear, a

set of old

farms and Nordic zoo

are planted with the

actual barns,

houses, churches pulled apart

and reassembled

with original chairs,

beds, plates, dating to thirteen

twenty.  One

sight worthy of note:

a T-shirt

saying “sleep with me,

get a free breakfast.”

Those rumors

About blondes in Sweden are

True, the vast

majority are blonde all the

way.  Beauty

here is a lifestyle

except the brunette

waitress who

lost six points for being so

uppity,

bringing the wrong food

and hating her job.

31 July 2012

Stockholm Malmo overnight train

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Three In Three

 

Once every thirty

years you had

to pull the logs off

your roof to replace birch bark

used to keep

the rain and

snow out in Sweden’s

medieval farmhouse.

Out-in, in-out, it

matters not

which direction as

this is all

you can think about

as you talk to women who

perform the

typical

duties you would wear

clothes to do, while they

wear appropriate

ancient garb.

After half

a day chatting old school with

milk maids and

baronesses, the

three at the outdoor

grill spark warm

feelings, serving “big or small”

hot dogs.  One

of each plus you would

be three on three.

31 July 2012

Stockholm to Malmo Night Train

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Wiebke

 

She’s not changed except

for the relief from

Jule’s coming of age, and

Hellmut, so

loyal, supportive

and full of good taste

in music,

philosophy and

the magic of social life.

Lack of drama sits well on

a gray Hamburg day,

beautiful for a

walk because the rain was short

and light.  Years

do not oxidize

closeness attained in

batmobile

moments on beaches,

trading paintings with Liz Briggs,

eating B.C. Young’s gumbo.

Bowie asked

“where have all the good times gone?”

But they’re here,

Harder to find, less

Frequent, still poignant.

No amount

of sadness or delinquent

youth can stop

us from enjoying

our time together.

2 August 2012

Hamburg, Motel One

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Kassel

 

Hyuntay sports his green

outfit at Documenta,

skipping and

squatting depending

on full or

empty.  He

screams hunger between

white walls and the walk

to “New” gallerie.

Mom takes him to ice cream as

Grateful Dad runs through

the yellow building down in

The park.  No

special effort has

been made by

the curator

to cover the last

five years, as has been

the custom in the

past; instead, she displayed the

letters sent

to beg for inclusion, but

she only

included their letters,

none of their art! Oh

what a mess

this minimalist version

was:  I can

imagine enraged

artists everywhere.

5 August 2012,

Finished Poolside Varna

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Grand Hotel Varna

 

Hundreds of happy

families flock to

the Black Sea,

end up lobsters, but

sit all day in the sun

without tops, then a

swim, more fun,

all day music and would-be

Olympic

water polo stars practice

in a four foot pool.

Here, the men are so

big I fit

in as medium

sized.  What a relief

after being stared

at so long

in Asia.  One twenty is

not too much

even for women to sport

bikinis.

Reserving a pool-side seat

must be done

early, as no one

ever leaves a spot

before six.

Novice swimmers, low-flying

seagulls, sand

castles slip to the sea,

happy families.

5 Aug. 2012

Varna

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Bulgarika Symposium

 

We sit inside, out

of the sun, telling

tall tales, short tales, and

fairy tales,

the inescapable psyche

of the group

as found in folklore, culture

and problem of how

individuals

fit in to these strange boxes.

Pakistan enters

as does the question:

“How well do you speak

Korean?”

I know none or little, so

this question

continues to haunt every

corner of the globe.

Some are hard find

like Camilla, Luiza,

and those who

insist on painting.  I wait

for liquid

acrylic paint but
have had some fun with

sand and oil

for textured beachside backgrounds

between sweet photos

of passing

bikini bottoms.

5 August 2012

Black Sea beach, Varna

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Bulgarika 2

 

A map of Varna

gets passed around so

one can find a shop

to improve

computer performance in

one way or

another.  Marina hates

the sun, she being

so pale, and now thin.

She’s an animal, or so

her Skype announces,

but more in the mode

of painting than in

a social

setting.  When cultures meet it

inspires new

work, new perspectives, new friends,

new techniques, and for

the brave and sneaky,

new love, new philosophy.

Internal

values, being important,

get put back

as we reach out to

each other around

beer talks

long enough to attack the

canvasses

some new way, with oiled

egos, Slavic style.

5 August 2012

Varna

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Bulgarika 3

 

Under sycamores,

strange double-trunked trees

that drop cream white bugs

the comedy

continues, and jealousy

is replaced

by multi-cultural jokes.

Our Adam Sandler,

Nikolay Rouusev

makes one about his own art

place, Russia, while the

true Russians hunker

in stripes, a table

for four.  When

Nikolay goes into his

giggle, this

boyish cuteness presents a

free man, himself, an

appendage while still

allowed freedom by the strong

Marina,

who, when she laughs appears to

have clown roots:

the frightening kind,

the ones who can so

a lot of

damage if angered because

they have been

through much, suffered for

their art, protective.

5 August 2012

Varna, Bulgaria

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Nikolay and Marina

(Bulgarika 4)

 

Here in their

new house, the one with

old fruit trees, rabbits,

grape vines and

an apartment for

his parents, a dog,

a cat, two

studios and wood,

beautiful

antiques from Holland, the whole

artist group

invades for “Kvas,” the

Russian bread juice they

line up for

in Moscow.  This one

is a touch sweeter

so Hyuntay

and Kwang Suk drink it.

Cheese soufflé

wine, Bulgarian pizza,

fresh fruit and

crepes round out the authentic

local lunch,

as cameras flash,

Marina laughs, and

proudly shows

us Darina, seventeen,

a model,

bodacious, and just

as pretty as Mom.

7 August 2012

Varna, Bulgaria

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Bulgarika 5

 

 

Mini disco

at eight pm means

dancing in the sand

after the

son goes down in dry

Varna.  Hot

But, with cool overtaking,

Gymnastics ensues

On the beach stage.  Are

Nikolay and Marina

still in the

woods painting?  Are all

four Russians in the

same room? As

three Ivanas dance

and twenty

others hit the beach stage from

Saint Petersburg, are

they amateur or

professional?  Each morning

they stretch to

the commands of the three coaches

who themselves

have more than one set

of priorities.

Then sun sets,

tide rises, a six-year-old

builds with sand

as sisters frolic

a weary lady waits.

8 August 2012

Beach

St. St. Constantine and Helena

Varna, Bulgaria

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Bulgarika 6

 

 

Kwang Mi stands guard, up

and down the cove beach

as grandparents swim,

one girl bathes,

the day’s last sand castle is

built.  Bright white

occurs on the tops of now

purple clouds as a

tiny threat of wet

weather floats into seaweed

being tossed and twirled

in the air, and one

dancing architect

stops between

moat and tower to get a

Samba step

in.  Then he’s laughing at the

Olympic short skit

comedy, then he

learns to swim, tie a bow knot

on his swim

suit; Varna has been a place

to learn, meet

new people, enjoy

relaxed life.

Shade soccer

triangle with a floating

rainbow ball.

Performance art talk

makes big laughs for all.

10 August 2012

Varna, Bulgaria

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Bulgarika 7

 

Marina, Janez,

Nikolay, Kwang Suk,

Katerina, and

Hyuntay sit

with me under gathering

clouds on the

only cool day for a week.

Lobby bar table

fills to seven at

a table for four, reduced

to four again, one

man, three women, two

of which, viable

playmates, but

not serious, not to lose

to later

take dinner with around fish

at Albatross, one

of many hidden

gems, including green smoke past

blonde hair, so

frizzy, and one clown laugh you

can’t help but

continue to need

to be here, so you

make a list

of all the artists you know.

Luiza

is the one you will

remember:  alone.

11 August 2012

Varna closing dinner

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On the Danube

 

Cliff tram to

palace, taken by

Girlie, James

and James while adults

climb around

fails to deliver

expected crew

at the bottom, so

you wait, by the Danube as

sun sets, in

the hope that

they make the seven

thirty cast

off, but not knowing

whether to

stay another hour

and just make

the dinner cruise in

time, or to leave to stop

the worry.

At the boat

In case they got by you all

Together.

But either way we

should have seen/met by

now.  Could it

be that Budapest resolves,

as Johnny

said it would, issues

old and new for good?

12 August 2012

Budapest

Boat Dinner Dance

Dinner on

the Danube with James

Johnny and Girlie comes with

dancing (Waltz to Watusi)

on a slow

boat the provides us

perfect shots

of Budapest as

night.  A tall Russian,

four Chinese, and two

really good

dancers (though not in

partnership) one male: ballroom

star, one female: with extra

high-heeled kicks

thrown in to perfect

rhythm in

the most mini dress,

a trophy bride for

successful pink shirt

marketer.

Girlie looks a little hurt,

three months with

child.  The pleasure is

new friends, sharing life’s

bounty, as

earth spreads wealth unevenly.

Whether new

or reuniting,

nothing beats a dance.

13 August 2012

Budapest

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Hamburg-Copenhagen ICE 35

 

Nine scooters

wait on a country

road as the

ICE thirty

five motors

past, carrying one

heartbroken, depressed

man, among

a scant three

cars of train-boat-train

travelers.

A beautiful trip

destroyed by

an outburst brought on

by no wi-

fi capability in the

same place she couldn’t

get any

before.  It

was a rigged blast, and

could have been

brought on by a phone set-up

to reverse

back, including my

g-mail, thus pushing

this final

moment of hatred in front

of Hyuntay.

I almost hit my

Wife last night. Such shame.

14 August 2012

Hamburg to Copenhagen Train

which includes a 45 minute ferry ride:

the entire train gets on the boat!

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

Hamburgers Come From Hamburg

 

 

Wiebke gets

left to Hellmut this

time by, as

the wheat farmers crank

combines, and

dust flies in Germany, north

of everywhere but

the Baltic.

Train travel,

which shall never end

in Europe,

as it has for all

but cargo

in the US, gives

us a view:

lush loam, cut crops, windmills and

sail boats: another

warm cloudless

day to end

a near-perfect trip.

Boats bring tears:

too many memories of

lake days past,

summer swallows, those

studio lodgings

in warehouse

buildings, Lexi Logan and Phil

Floran chased

out.  Family is

the new happiness.

14 August 2012

ICE 35 Hamburg to Copenhagen,

while floating across to Denmark

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

Fruit Comes from Frankfurt

 

Two men work

a crane truck in warm

Nykobing,

Denmark at four twelve

under blue

skies.  Memories of Varna’s

beach, Beethoven’s house

and cities

we never

saw like Frankfurt run

through dreams of

Oma on a ski

team with a

Korean flag on

her hat as

she slaloms a course only

his subconscious could

dream up.  “Fruit,

not hot dogs,

are from Frankfurt,” James

tells the Times,

or some fast-moving poet

he must know

forever to be

the interpreter

of what they

all mean.  Small forests between

Half Moon Bay, reach now

for love, make it last.

14 August 2012

Hamburg to Copenhagen ICE 35

Across in Denmark

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

View From Train Window

 

Cubicle feed crop,

farm houses

and power windmills

create a peaceful

neighborhood

in plentiful years.

Distant dust

floats a signal to farmers

only in

August on the first

of many northern

islands, a

touch isolated

except for passing

trains, bikes, cars.

White plastic as thick

as mistrust

wraps round bales for winter use.

Corn grows well,

price doubles due to

failure in

the US.  Most salt away

or pay off

debts with a bumper

year paid for well by

a market,

ever growing in size and

need. Denmark’s

luck comes at a time

of mass starvation.

14 August 2012

Hamburg to Copenhagen ICE 35

Across in Denmark

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

Thirty-Four Hour Day

 

We pressed our luck once

James conked out,

and took the last train

to Oslo (not to

Clarksburg) to mingle with the

dancers, whores

and all-night kebob

cookers.  Four

corners in

a row of working girls made

us duck for cover

in a pub

the featured disco,

Earth, Wind and Fire, and

a Tom Jones rendition that

missed many

words, but delivered

melody

notes on cue,

adding to the rainbow globe

lighting as

patrons paired off, leaving one

table of old

men to grumble, laugh

commiserate in

a bar that

sported better glasses than

beer.  Weisbier

is best in warm booths

watching cold come-ons.

15 August 2012

Oslo, Norway

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Separate

 

I hate to

see a dumpster full

of broken frames tossed

furniture,

what was once love thrown into

a heap, don’t you?  It’s

always love

that tries so

hard to glue that which

is irreparably

shattered: a

heart, or both.  Sunday,

work day, is no day

to have to

walk by this to prepare the

new semester, but

there it is

pounding your

emotions because

it’s too late in your

own house, now

sweltering with hatred and

vicious “junk

purges” that are, in

fact, your entire life.

One story,

one magazine at a time

thrown out.  “If

you ship these home, they

will become garbage.”

19 August 2012

Gwangju, Cthurangchae Aparts.

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

 

Viscosity

 

It’s a good time:  questions lead to vibrant conversations

in a meeting of oh-so-many professors.  They bus them

in so at least a few will be around to question each other

after their presentations.  Is there time then to huddle away

from the noise and aspirations of self-appointed dukes-turned

pirates?  Capital Diaspora increases in volume, velocity and

derivatives so labyrinthine and full of contradictory legalese

that determining melt-down culprits becomes so hard it’s not

worth doing. Voila! What should be heaven on earth for capitalists

is interrupted by those who have been oppressed the most, who suffer

the palpable divide of the miniscule mega-rich and massive starving

poor:  middle-easterners. Already cordoned by culture, further-assailed

by invading “infidels,” stuck living over oil, virtually landless as war

spreads and rival tribal gangs carve space, steal resources, add

torture to their bag of tricks to cover financial malfeasance in the

age of fascist vitality.  The double-eagle (not a hole-in-two

on a par five) rises from newly moved nest. Revenge of its own

well-planned firestorm gives the investment class a few safe

bets outside China, as Halliburton sails again.  Dick, Don and George

evaluated, forecast, gave this mess to opponents before the collapse.

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Commemorative

 

It starts:  if we attack, everyone loses, if we don’t attack

We lose, if we lose everyone wins.  What to do? Where

to go?  What to grow?  Typhoon Sanba threatens the

rice crop, greedy “Christians” defy their own book, reach

out  to the unwary lonely-hearts.  Speculators close factories

to eke out the last profits available: seek and find cheaper

labor, so Camden, Buffalo, Youngstown, Chicago, Durham,

Rochester, Cleveland, those towns are “coming like a ghost town.”

It starts: an ambassador here, Secretary of State there: here a

bomb, there a bomb, everywhere a bomb-bomb.  It starts: linguistic

arguments, religious fervor, acute rhetoric, Minnesotan response:

logic, common sense and communal helpfulness trumped by

irrational emotionality, marching orders, and class wars popping

up all over the globe, as money piles higher, yet in ever-diminishing

numbers of piles.  They say the first item anyone bought for minted

coins made in (present day) Germany was beer.  What will the

last item be?  A goat?  Arable land?  An I-Pad?  Song and dance

may not be enough, even Gangnam style, to distract the

masses from the next (last?) chapter in human history.  Saddle

up, you’re already on the most important ride of your life.

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Keynote

He hangs ten, podium six to ten inches too far

away.  One fears any excitement at all on the part

of the speaker could cause a chain reaction: sprawled

professor, smashed podium, head bruise, twisted ankle.

He’s a joker, one after the other, but one is not laughing

because, like 80% of the day, it’s incomprehensible Hangul,

unknowable Korean, another example of one’s inept academic

forays.  Drooping ill-hung banner plus sharp angle gives one

only a glare off the white board, as if seeing the words

would help.  On a good day once can pronounce the

simplified alphabet, but what do those utterances mean?

One joined a club in order to gain gas money for speaking

ir fame (and departmental approval) for publications other

than “Modern Russian History” or vanity-press poetry.  Just

what is the standard, where did the judges get their

license?  He’s a natural, well into his twentieth joke, still

sheltered in the semi-important field of academic prankster

by strenuous high school in the sub-zone attached to the

teachings of Confucius, modified by Seventh Day Adventists.

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

24 October 2012

Poet Gary Snyder pointed out that most humans treat animals

As children: men are lecturing and giving instructions, and

Women tend to nurture animals as much as they can, to make

Sure they are alright.  To be closer though, one must, as Merwin

Wrote, become silent, observe, allow yourself to be observed,

Then commit to the relationship.  Which Lori has done, in the wild,

In her home, among the left-behind animals in Naples, becoming

Much closer to nature than most, and, having suffered numerous

Trials, also gained so much from the comfort of knowing that life

Interconnected is a joyous life.  Communication endures lonely

Continents, second-day football, a passing nod to tennis and golf

Champions, but Lori and others like her, knowing how the often

Careless false superiority makes us thinking beings thoughtless

When it comes to those we share the earth with, took up the

Charge years ago to make life better for those around her: toad,

Pelican, cat, dog, bear, fox, squirrel, and even the raiding bluebird.

Anyone lucky enough to also feel this kindness has the double

Pleasure of being able to speak, thus increasing the benefits from

A woman whose greatest gift has been to care.  Our goal is to

Carry on having learned something, as if we were that good.

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

Worth the Struggle?

She’s back.  The one who knows how to joke you into a smile

because, somehow, she’s been through the same convulsions:

love and hate, joy and depression, Stravinsky and Rachmaninoff.

Life is good, but also measured.  We humans have to measure. It’s a

shame…think of the deer or fish or hawk they live, they react to God’s

will, they obey internal and external orders but they do not measure.

Our struggles are so temporal, emotional, individual.  Can any two

reach that ground where it is safe to drop all shields and jump into

each other?  We already did, but what shall we do to keep such place?

Can James Hyuntay be our life’s blood, or do we need more to sustain

healthy attitudes, bright dispositions, a feeling that life is worth living

not as a solo act with social circles, but paired up, dancing our tango?

He is worth all the pain we have caused.  But today’s pain is so much

simpler, so easy to swallow without bursting into tears on the quad,

or laughing to cover what one assumed was to be our one true love?

I don’t know where we are.  I thought I knew for months now, and

there you are, working so hard, equally committed to this love, yet

much more committed to the steady flow that assures a safe house.

I am not a safe house, I am a hack poet, two-bit journalist, washed up

musician, paint-flinging artist, and emotions are dandy in the creative

world, but life is not just the creative world.  Both enticing and so

childish…the exact man to let loose with, but then why do I act in

such a way that makes you wonder?  Life should not be a struggle;

and for us it has been: together it is not, this is my offer, my hand.

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

Fog portends hot day

at harvest in Korea.

Some lose, some

win; the best share crops.

The worst take without working.

There is no

limit on mother’s

endurance for her

children, likewise men’s

penchant for war.  Churches tote

the conservative

line, thus expanding greedy

rationale,

inadvertently

infusing evil their flocks

can live by.

Just as many still

retain peace, love and

understanding, so

brotherhood itself fights as

hard as the

abused mothers, choir boys and

acutely

aware children who

work, beg, plead, kill

to survive

without sanctuary in

overrun

villages torn by

drought and starvation.

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

Dark mountain causes

purple fog

minutes away from

being burned away

as assorted insects use

legs to chirp morning

calls in shady breeze

that soon yields to heat

that welcomes

blanket picnics and

daring lovers to

disrobe just

meters off beaten

path on Sunday in

homage to the creator.

Earlier two girls

crossed paths three times with

the man: bus, store, street.

Laughing at

coincidence, they

just miss a

fourth, which would have caught him full

thrust with

his adventuresome hot

baby-doll.  But, just

as they might

have heard the two, a pheasant

squawked, flew low

overhead, scared the

two, who ran away.

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

Two merchant types get

my money.  The one

whose owner

lives above, as he

knows where to send me

to find what I need,

and the small farmer who comes

in early to sit

at market,

or sends in

his aunt who sits all

day with only beans

and garlic,

collecting less than

five dollars a day.

They come to town by

bus with plastic bowls and bags

full of fresh-picked food

that city

folk drive by

to stores and

pay double for chemically

incorrect

as an old woman

wails, cries, screams at a

man who has

no excuses.  A back hoe

smoker dumps

gravel, two ladies

wait for a church bus.

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

Few examples can

be found that

resonate on such

a pure harmonic as when

lovers meet,

both fleeing years of

sadness, gaining hours

of relief, only

to return.

The agony-ecstasy:

spouse as furniture,

smiling child

so, in a town with

no eyes, and playful women

who tease fruit

packers at the bus

terminal, a one

month respite is quenched.

They hug as

if it’s been years, laugh at small

tokens, watch

movies, talk like old friends, and

renew life

knowing not many get

any relief.  Small

town, abuzz

with Sunday activity

provides warmth

for two enamored

souls to find refuge.

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

Large peach from

discovered tree makes

a new friend on the bus

down to Joellanam-do.

The first offering,

banana, five years

ago, floods

back, then he offers

tissue, and

a bag to dispose the pit.

Fruit gifts by

strangers hardly prove

cultural softness

or communal spirit, but

in these days of war,

floods, heat and famine,

a kind act

by a stranger shows

humanity

has survived intact beyond

cruelty

to each other.  Oh why must

it go on?

When will communal

cooperation

surpass our

ability to extend

greed for yet

another morose

generation, when?

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

October 22nd Birthday

 

How to write a birthday for not on but four?

All of them have been my friend, three of them quite more.

All straddle star signs libra and scorpio,

All stay in my memory, no matter where it flows.

One for decades of fun and nary a bad day,

Another for our start in life, (I hate to be away).

For one we did what few can do to help men live in peace,

In one case we both canned nine irons, to our own disbelief.

But oh the joy we’ve all had in so many ways,

Playing games and making friends in our halcyon days.

Something about this day and me means we’ve kept in touch,

Yet lately we can’t meet face-to-face too much.

Happy birthday Moskula, Angie, Olya, Tim,

Next year let’s get together and start it all again.

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

At Munheung Chodunghakkyo.

The day is pure fun,

Even if an egg falls

Off your plate.

Blue stars on yellow pants,

With Jai Young laughing at

Your side.  The miracle is

The way your magic flows

Even when life is so full

Of tasks to do: cello to

Practice, piano to master,

Chinese to pronounce.  Your

Beautiful young days keep

Us happy with teams to cheer

For and dances to record on

Video.  Friendship beats all those

Hard times my son, so hold

On to friends the same

Way you hold oma: tightly.

If you ever have a hard

Time read this poem

Again, feel my love.

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

It Happened One Autumn

She laughs, turns potential monumental error

in our favor. He practices Pys’s dance to dazzle

Gwangju patrons who cried when precious

pears fell to soon in summer’s song: typhoon.

A lady in bock colors totes granddaughter’s violin

as Saturday classes defy environmental commands,

non of which rises to priority level as two dressed

in white crawl the well, ring the farm supper bell.

Lately taped to push face spots off, in order to

regain domestic intimacy, yobo wears an additional

mask so less are scared.  What spins next from

potter’s wheel?  Rekindled love? Sacred native feel?

Her talent rises, as does his, the artisan and music

whiz.  Effective again as a group of three, potential

reached, nothing questioned, only this time freedom

means wanting to be home more, or at the art store.

Bright Sycamore blue-backed sends large leaf

that lands between four arms, now six, stretched

in admiration, triple hug.  It took years to get this

feeling back, how nice it is to be back on track.

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

Gwangju Christmas 2012

Sa Sun and
Beop Jeong trusted deeds
over words even if their
words were so well known.
Christmas rolls

into town and for
true believers and
novices alike, simple

congregation
saves lonely souls who

otherwise
might have slipped away.
So raise a glass to Jesus,
the uniter of
think-alikes.

Even if the deeds
of many devote
Christians lay people in their
graves via Lee Myung
Bak’s water cannons,
Bush’s Abu Graib.

A toast then
to righteous Christians, in hope
that they can
help their priests see the
error of their ways.

Nothing in
the bible sanctions rape
of choir boys,
or Falwell’s use of
coffers to back the

C.I.A.
Hold hands and shed a tear for
three thousand
cultures lost when greed
filled “Christians” went

across and
stole the homes of better men
and women
who loved the land. Rise
Christians, take a stand!

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

Pale orange

infuses hue to

settled snow, mountain

peninsula quiets down

as hoards sleep.

Geographically

strategic, thus played

and owned by all but itself

we settle

for a peaceful split.

Bald brown rice

fields poke remaining

shafts through December dust.  Dim

distant light

marks farmhouse nestled

in foothills rarely

climbed, even in summer. Where

do pheasants

go to keep warm?   One

jagged peak

welcomes winter walker but

lonely trees

do not get hugged since

movement equals warmth.

Long gray clouds

provide pink sunrise.  Busses

move lost souls

to spiritual

connections.  Joy Spreads

 

 

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

 

New world closed system prevails

upon the rest with

the aid of

global tsunami,

greenhouse gas flood/drought and just

enough war

to keep rioters

under ten billion, because

that population

means we all

starve.  Concrete chambers await

all successful truth

exposers,

organizers, or

wise documentarians.

Michael Moore

proved that truth ires the

owners when it occupies

Wall Street, demands real

public funds

for long lost

education.  The movement

is met by

Orwell’s jaw-breaking

troops, Vonnegut’s sad

dance floating

this time above wage slaves all

over the

feudal world, ordered

until suicide.

 

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2 Responses to “Doug Stuber’s Poems Written in 2012”
  1. Not my cup of tea but a good start. Keep at it, you’ll get better…

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  1. […] Doug Stuber’s Poems Written in 2012. […]



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