April 15, 2013, Five New Poems, Five Old, Copyright Doug Stuber


Until you
see it for
yourself you won’t get
how strong his
dedication to

English instruction
is. Because his soft demeanor
slides in to brains in
subtle ways.

You have to
be around
him long enough to
how much better your

classes will
by absorbing
what KOTESOL has offered.
This says nothing of
his research.

(Most lost count
at seventy papers), then
there are his own bright
students propelling
new theories about

themselves out
in the real world thanks to the
English skills
he instilled. Forty
Two years, and counting!



You battled through the

self-made traps with panache.  This

led to explorations in

color, form,

media and love.

Canandaigua plus

birthday match

keeps you on my brain,

always wondering

if sailboats

or kilns, parties or

nature walks carry you to

the next paradise, this one,

the latest,

the one that earns your

time, heart, devotion.

In case your

wondering why I

didn’t model for

you, so am

I, a decade past

the chance.  Youth exudes as water,

dripping off

from within, as if

your entire body

offered fresh

nutrients of joy, happy

times, a dance

with no end.  The best

unrequited ream.



Though your bass

could out-rebound you

in a pick-up game out back,

off one of those baskets seen

above grass

courts, with rusted hoop,

no net…but wait, this

is not the

dream you’ve lived.  Hard work

at the state

aquarium that

allowed time to practice and

perfect abstractions, classic

rock, blues, and


love.  Not an easy

path all the

time, but such a tight

bond.  Tina, I pray

found things to

do by or in beloved

Ochrid:   trout

Sizzling after long

Marinade, cuisine

An added

Art.  We’re waiting for your next


Leap.  Stay strong young friend,

And show us the way.


Now you’ve done it: put

your brain functions into you

official Curricula

Vitae.  I hope this

works, because for me, the more

people know,

the more they back off.

It’s bullshit,


that people fear those

who, like us, have one

or more imperfections.  Sure

it worked, post-facto, for Van

Gogh, but short-lived friends

were his sanctuary when

not writing

letters.  Luckily

your happy

life has brought

such great art.  Your large

fan base may

hide during economic

malaise, but

your music smarts, broad

conversations, draw


salons, too infrequent, but


assistance connects

far-flung lunatics.





from Argentina,


student of Filer,

former Doc,

a research doctor

who took to smeared abstraction

like a “wuck”

to daughter, or a

master artist-singer

able, as

a lawyer might, to

create illusions

of alternate space

away from

today’s troubles long

enough to trade wallpaper

for cold hard

cash, but void any

emotion that might scare them

away.  First

comes business, then wine, food and


not stricken by pain

or affliction, but

rising to

meet slowing markets

with even

better work, a real

mastery of gold.


Old Ones:



Oinky Boinking

Clouds collide as lovers cry

Under lightning’s bang.

Black hawk soars in night-lit sky,

He thrusts, she screams, he hangs.

Kinky hair, united now,

Again the petting starts.

Coyote howls, full-moon rises, how

Do you make love an art?

Brown dirt crumbles front-to-back

From her buttocks weight.

It’s over now, they take the track

That the deer have made.

Few humans still enjoy fresh air

Like this couple does.

Beijing, London, L.A. beware:

Your “dust” destroys what was.

Nineteen ninety four, said Zinn,

Marked more humans in the cities.

Imagine doing the in-out-in,

Where life is real and gritty.




Tiger Woods

(The Valentine Poem that Could have been)


You bring a light that shines so bright

I have to wear sunglasses

You hold me close and make life right

it’s like taking ten love classes

And isn’t love a silly word

unless you’re the one in it?

Our time is short, so it is absurd

to waste a single minute

Most turn to flowers others gifts

because they don’t know how to rhyme

Just your luck, your man can shift

from golf to poetry any time.

Our secret life shall exist

no matter where we are

Because a love this strong persists

even from afar.

We may not be hand-in-hand

walking down the street

But isn’t life just as grand

when lovers are discreet?


We Don’t

sit in a parlor, harmonizing, conducted

in on cue to solo over the top,

nor bump the snow off dark branches

only to ruin the soft-edged contrast.

We don’t know anything of traipsing the

woods for love, skiing three miles

cross-country to peek at the town beauty

working out, unaware, glistening, another

Cynthia Brewster; or flower-sniff come

spring among thick rushes, floating above a

rocky bottom pond, water so clear you drink

as you swim, laughing, naked, holding back

nothing; calm, sitting one branch up the

plum tree, white-blossomed.  Careful now, do

not adore her too quickly or she’ll think you are

weak.  We don’t know naturally how diverse

life interacts, lavender and finch, smiling

girl and chrysalis, no, we’ve allowed ourselves

to be penned in, self-domesticated via

electricity and cars.  Come love, let’s walk.




Each day praise her every effort: cook, clean,

child-rearing until you gain her respect.  Reach

positive conclusions via wise thinking.  Do not let

sniping control every waking hour, nor the checklist

of all your faults.  Be proactive:  take her up the

mountain, out on the beach, to the movies, into

her dream of art, into the majesty of pine forests

and hawk-nested poplars, sixty-foot white oaks, naked

picnics, the soft caress of caring, finally friends again

after so much fighting, disagreement, abandonment

of my dreams in order to support her dreams, only

to find out she’s not happy either!  Unhappy with

your inability to flourish professionally, your angry

personality, your lack of friends, your fat body,

your philosophy, your political beliefs, your attempts

to push the marriage back into intimacy, your

unwillingness to buy a car, your inability to fit

in to Korean culture, it being void of emotion, or

legs which can not bear sitting on the floor to eat.

Ignore these and keep trying to open her nice side.



transformation:  butterfly

culture to

dog eat dog battles

no one wins.

Six minutes

per week to relax, too stressed

to love, or

play or laugh. Too dry:

sexless life.

Tiger girl

still has passion for Hyuntay,

but Dad is

never home, fully


Here we are

together to sleep, maybe

one meal or

spring stroll: twenty step


Anchored in

oblivion, attached to

lost friends, so

gone they have no fond


You do though…

the flowers picked, presented

to warm eyes,

neighborhood news man


Chestnut wars

fifty paces from “blue lake.”

She jumps in,

swims under water,

pulls shorts down.


pile, conspire, socialize, while

baked clams soak.

You walk into gray.

Where’s Hyuntay?

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