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Best Poems Written by Gay Stuntzner

Below are the all-time best Gay Stuntzner poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Great Race June 6, 2015

The Great Race   June 6,2015

Dress is unimportant.
At least today.
I can arrive at the local bar and grill 
in old gardening jeans and t-shirt.

We'll order a mid-afternoon sandwich.
But the main reason is not to eat
(though their sandwiches are fine),  
it's to watch the Belmont Stakes.

We can't call ourselves horse racing fans –
we know almost nothing about horses or racing
and have never bet a dime.
But the excitement around a possible
Triple Crown winner is irresistible.

We're keeping our fingers crossed 
that American Pharaoh, 
winner of the Preakness and Kentucky Derby,
triumphs.

Why are we not watching the race at home?
No cable TV. We miss a lot of major sporting events 
that we once effortlessly watched –
tennis, golf, basketball, baseball, football.

Tournaments which determine the best of the best 
used to be available on the internet. 
No longer. It's pay to watch now,
and we're too cheap to pay.

So it's off for a beer, snack, and the great horse race ...

And an historic race it was.
Not since 1978 has there been a Triple Crown champion –
a long dry period between winners.
American Pharaoh won handily, running with grace and endurance.      

The horse seemed pleased.
The jockey was thrilled.
The trainer was delighted.
And the owners excited.

It's a strange sport though.
The horse did all the work,
while the jockey, trainer and owners
got all the credit.

Those in the know praise the brilliant trainer.
Evidently he is, along with the horse, the best of the best.
Celebrations surely meant champagne all around           
and an extra bag of oats for American Pharaoh.

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Two Things You Don'T Want

Two things you don't want		9.1.15

If I appeared slightly under the weather
     or if he just wanted a little fun, 	
my dad would ask if I had
     the cholerie morbus*.
If not that
     maybe the heebie jeebies.

Neither sounded like 
     a real ailment.	
I thought he'd conjured up	
     the maladies – "Oh, Daddy."

Do you suppose he knew?

Had he read that President Zachary Taylor 
     died suddenly of cholera morbus in 1850.

Maybe he picked the term 'heebie jeebies'
     from the 1926 Louis Armstrong song of the same title.

We'll never know.
     After he asked I felt better
He made my little bouts brief.	

I think my dad, the finest of men,
     simply enjoyed the sound of 'cholerie morbus'
and 'heebie jeebies'.
     He loved to gently tease and was full of good humor.


*My dad always said "cholerie morbus", not "cholera morbus", which is "acute gastroenteritis occurring in summer and autumn and marked by severe cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting. No longer in scientific use." Sounds too awful for him to have known what it was.

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Critics

First a simple lunch –
soup, salad, rolls and dessert
(and wine if we choose).
Then the book.*
 
We become critics when we read.
That's half the fun of it.
The other half is the pleasure of the word.
Prose can be poetry.

Our preferences are as diverse as our personalities.
What I like, you don't, and vice versa.
No book appeals to everyone,
just as no work of art is universally appreciated.	

This particular book drew various reactions –
first "enjoyment" and then disappointment.
We agreed that the images were vivid
and the metaphors enlightening,	
but the story dragged a bit.

The tragedy's resolution, 
arriving at the tale's end, was anticlimactic .
Why had the author waited so long
to get the accused off the hook.

The ample evidence could have been revealed sooner, much sooner,
saving us from suffering endless descriptive passages.	
Clearly, dangling was the writer's intent.
No one appreciated being dangled.

We wanted the case resolved posthaste,
with fewer stalling tactics.
"Get on with it,"
seemed the general opinion.

Critics should be aware 
(alas, we sometimes are not),	
criticism is infinitely easier than creation.
Creation is inspiration 
mixed with plain hard work.

Authors, like all artists,
have their way with us.		
We're simply along for the ride. 
As critics we agreed –
a fine journey: long and well worth it.  


"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson

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Cutting Hairs

There is nothing like a good haircut

which may appear shallow from 
            a certain point of view
            but personally I prefer nicely shaped hairs

Yes. It might seem
            narcissistic
            superficial
            frivolous
            and just plain silly

Really, though, is hair unimportant?      
            In the cosmic scheme of things 
            that's quite possible
            actually probable
            certainly true

But we're not talking about importance here
            This is about . . .
            let's face it . . . self-image . . .    
            everyone needs a good one, I'm told

You're quite right
            Outward appearance
            may be immaterial
            not worth our concern

But darn it,
            I want to look in the mirror
            and at least be satisfied with my tresses

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Jump Start

Jump start		

Jump start your day.
Get yourself going.
So they tell us.

Jump start with coffee.
Drink two glasses of water.
Take your vitamins.

Jump start with exercise.
Take a shower.
Check the emails.

Heck, sometimes 
getting out of bed
is my jump start.

The starting I can do.
It's the jumping
that alludes me.

Details | Gay Stuntzner Poem

Looking At Art

We used to go to museums – 
	frequently – 
There were favorite artists:
	Picasso
		Matisse
			Giacometti (especially Giacometti)
	Henry Moore (never passed up a Henry Moore)
		deKooning
			Calder
	Oldenburg
Oh, yes, and Francis Bacon		
		Lucien Freud 
			and Georgia O'Keefe

I could go on, 
	but you get the idea
Painters were favored –
	20th century greats
		and a few who straddle the 21st 

We don't always agree
	but we have roiling discussions	

I like Franz Kline and Robert Motherwell –
	not his favorites –
No dispute that Philip Guston
	should have chosen another profession
	(what's with that shoe sole and cigar,		
		and pink? dreadful) 	

Now we wander from gallery to gallery
	wondering what happened to all the talent
	and why we don't respond to
		multi-media (too frenetic) 
			square boxes (too simple)
	steel slabs on the floor (uninteresting)
		piles of junk (more like detritus)
And what's with those neon signs

Very puzzling – 
	this response to visual art – 
		and mystifying –
Like all viewers
	we know what we like
Like all viewers
	we also believe our preferences are superior

But, no matter,
	looking at art –
		perpetual pleasure

Details | Gay Stuntzner Poem

Drought

Drought		8.30.15

Their sighs were barely audible
as the trees began to absorb each drop.
With palpable relief
the red bud, river birch, alder, dogwood,
pine and fir trees stopped shedding 
and began to perk up.

The longed-for showers had arrived,
the first appreciable rain since March.
March! It's now almost September.

Weather maps were consulted
more frequently than usual.
Radar was checked.
In the middle of the night 
a soothing drip-drip-drip punctuated our sighs. 

Some places, far away, are dry.
We know that.
Low humidity 
high temperatures
moisture almost non-existent.
That's the desert.

Not here.
Not in my backyard.
Several dry months in summer
perhaps
but never persistent drought.

Until now.
It's here
in my backyard
Thirst in my backyard.

Grass has lost all
tinge of green.
Leaves and needles galore are nature's litter.

Forests are dry.
Wild fires abound.
Lakes and rivers have little water.

Watching foliage shrivel
is not an option.
Not yet. 
We can do little but
Shrug and water
Shrug and water
Shrug and water