Bill Roberts, Poet

Little Buggers

Monday, March 1st, 2010

– for Jimmy

My kid brother rarely started our fights,

I admit; he just happened to be withing range

when I chose to land the first punch.

I should give the little bugger credit:

he persisted in hanging around unwanted,

kept his oft-bloodied nose up near my face

even when I made it painfully plain

that he should get lost, grow up, go get his

own friends, other little buggers like him.

One day, I’m almost too ashamed to admit,

he’d grown to such an extent, I guess while

I wasn’t looking, that he figured out

it was smarter to get in the first punch,

gave me a bloody nose without reason,

went off, get lost, and found himself

some friends, thereafter making it

quite painfully plain to me that even

little brothers can be human, at times.

Note:  This is a tip of the hat to my brother Jim who not only grew up but went past me with the speed of light into the world, became quite successful and a wonderful family man.  I’m almost too ashamed to admit:  he’s very human and quite a wonderful person.

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A Day Is Long

Sunday, February 14th, 2010

–from Peter Lieberson’s “Neruda Songs”

A day is long sometimes.

When winter lasts too long.

When silence invades, occupies.

When birds fear to return.

A day is long when work wearies.

When morning comes too early.

When fatigue sets in midday.

When on the lone ride home.

A day is long as children grow.

When all homework is done.

When they leave for school.

When they find their mates.

A day is long as life lumbers on.

When sickness strikes, stays.

When drugs are prescribed.

When fate hangs in the balance.

A day is long when word comes.

When advised of better days.

When the future is foreseen.

When you know what’s in store.

A day is long when you are gone.

When you take your leave.

When you say good-bye.

When day is finally over.

Note:  This poem is written in remembrance of Jim Peterson, whose memorial service Irene and I attended just yesterday.  A very fine man, very brave man, fighting against prostate cancer for thirteen years.  Not ones to let the stubborn foe intercede, Jim and Margaret Peterson traveled far and wide during those years, determined to get the most out of life with what was left to them.  They had great success.  Together they represent the true meaning to me of Valentine’s Day.

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Supping with the Don

Wednesday, February 10th, 2010

Before Puzo wrote “The Godfather”

Or Coppola made the first film,

We’d often eat with Don Corlene,

Or someone who did a heckuva good

Imitation of him, at Mary’s

On Bleeker Street in The Village.

He’d be there Sundays at a table by himself

In a dark corner, two lookout guys

Alert at a table near the front door

When my wife and I walked in.

The bodyguards did a fast frisk of us

With their beady eyes, then nodded

To wide-eyed, grandmotherly Mary

That it was okay for us to come in, sit.

The Don rarely looked up from his plate

Of sizzling shrimp swimming in garlic butter

Or steaming pasta with vongole sauce

Or pan-fried steak that Patsy,

Mary’s husband, pan seared in the kitchen

Just off the dining area with seven tables.

The thought of dining with a Mafioso

Did something to heighten our appetite.

After we read the book and saw the films,

It dawned on us that we could be

Wearing cement shoes and swimming

With the fishes in some river

Instead of calling Domino’s for a pizza

Out here in the boonies where we now live.

(This poem, or one like it, was published in some hard-print magazine but I’ve lost track of when and where)

Note:  Mary’s delightful Italian restaurant was two and a half blocks around the corner from where we lived in 1961 in The Village in a brownstone, 65 Perry Street.  Mary’s was in a walk-up brownstone, very small but fabulous eatery, the building perhaps the one where Coppola filmed his second Godfather epic, when DeNiro played the Don as a young man struggling to exist, feed his family.  Some of the finest Italian meals in memory at Mary’s.  Alas, we went back, many years later after moving to Colorado, found Mary and Patsy gone, the restaurant becoming a much larger (two floors), upscale eatery, not nearly as good – nor as atmospheric – as we remembered it.  And no, the Don, was no longer seated in a dark corner (no dark corners!), protected by his two goons.   Ah, so it goes…

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1936

Sunday, February 7th, 2010

It was almost too

late in the first year

of the promising

new century that

she was born there in

arid Miami -

Oklahoma, not

humid Florida.

She grew fast, married

too quickly and then

had her first brood too

quickly too, at least

too quick to give them

enough attention

or try to save them

instead of the damned

farm, which blew away

to some far off state

that needed it worse.

Two she brought with her

when she headed east,

the other three were

left to grow up more

quickly than she had

and make their way in

the not very promising

world they were all of

a sudden facing.

It was in the post

office in D.C.

that she met Dad, who

had swum ashore to

safety when the big

Depression wave hit.

Nine months and two days

later I showed up

for what appeared to

be an even less

promising future,

although in that year,

1936,

Franklin Delano

Roosevelt again

was elected, “I’ve

Got You Under My

Skin” was a big hit,

and Jesse Owens

won four gold medals

at Hitler’s Berlin

Olympic Games.  So

it really wasn’t

an entirely bad

year, I mean, what with

me being born, and

FDR, “Under

My Skin,” and Jesse

Owens being there

to help me along.

(Published in 1997 in the now-defunct George & Mertie’s Place, under the pseudonym, Bartlett Boswell)

Note:  Total conjecture on my part about being born nine months and two days after they met, my father more than magnetically attracted to my attractive mother.  That they were married hastily on a Sunday afternoon by a rabbi is another anomaly in my life – not Jewish, just in such a big hurry perhaps not to have their first-born a bastard (a name I’m still, however, often called).  What was childhood like after 1936?  Tough, but I wouldn’t trade mine with anybody, so full of adventure it was.  Helped to have a rich imagination, which often took the place of money.

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Gangsters

Monday, February 1st, 2010

I hang onto you, my little man,

for you demand undivided attention.

It’s spring and things fly up

from new moist grass,

flitting erratically, causing you

to leap, bound, squirt in different

directions, ignoring the leash,

pulling like a sixty-pound sled dog

instead of the standard dozen-pounder.

A lady runner this morning

suddenly stopped to caress you,

laughing when I told her you were

half longhaired dachshund,

most likely half black alligator.

You’re four and a half and

should have outgrown your childish

ways by now, but no matter.

I’m going on seventy and

together we’re the childish, mis-

chievous, unpredictable gang of two.

(Published in the Vol. 22, No. One issue of Bellowing Ark, January/February 2006)

Note:  We never thought Marco (the Barko) would grow up.  He’s eight now, still pulls erratically at the leash, and obviously hasn’t grown up.  He’ll always be a child, for whatever reason.  We’ve tried everything, so please, no advice.  He’s our first boy dog….and he’s my boy.  It’s hard for us to separate.  I’m not sure which of us is the bigger child.

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Postcards From the Next Life

Friday, January 22nd, 2010

Dear Son – Bet you won’t like it here.

We can’t have tobacco products, so I’m

forced to chew on the rope I was led in

by.  Also, they confiscated my choppers.

When you come, sneak in a sealed pouch

of those rum-soaked cigars.  Love, Mom

Son – Brace yourself for what’s coming.

There’s a vast library here, but it contains

only children’s books, nothing but fiction.

Remember when I read you Mother Goose?

That’s all you’ll have pretty soon, so OD

on pornography while you’re able.  Dad

Brother Bill – I wonder if I can ask another

favor before you join us….would you mind

bringing me a pair of those Crocs, size 13?

We go barefoot – and often bareassed, too -

and my poor dogs ache all the time.  We

never seem to stop marching.  Bro Maxie

Billy Boy – Remember me, your girlfriend

from high school (the one with the big

yum-yums)!?  Ha!  Can’t wait to see you

again, little man.  It’s boring as h-e-l-l up

here, so hurry to my rescue.  Don’t worry

about protection – sex is a no-no.  XXX, Viv

(Published in Vol. 5, No. 2 of Main Channel Voices, Spring 2009 – the magazine now defunct)

Note:  Totally written for fun, but I do admit a love of postcards, real or imagined.

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Into Darkness

Thursday, January 14th, 2010

I have merely to gaze at my fading

features in the low light of the mirror

to witness the return of my father,

each day coming back more surely -

the clouded eyes, flaring nostrils,

parched lips damp at corners, lazy

man’s stubble, knotted throat apple

bobbing through trebled chins -

a sight I was certain I’d never see again,

but here he is, back once more to follow

my slow progress of transformation

to becoming what I’d feared:  him.

I could turn up the lights, perhaps

rediscover me, but too many years

have passed and my inclination is to follow

his lead, begin dimming them instead.

(Published online in Issue #10 of Chantarelle’s Notebook, November 2007)

Note:  Why this dark poem today?  Maybe because it’s dark and dismal outside, snow threatening.  But probably not.  Maybe because we saw the movie “Precious” yesterday, tossed and turned all night – an important film that makes me thank lucky stars we have such a great welfare system in this country, at least in Harlem and throughout New York State, I presume.  But probably that’s not the reason either.  The reason is:  with age, I’m coming to look more and more like my father.  Am I becoming him?  That’s an answer that will have to wait….but possibly so, very possibly.

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The Death of Bambi

Saturday, January 9th, 2010

A man quietly slipped his hand

inside her panties

as we watched Bambi

on the too-close screen

from the second row.

My neck hurt after the movie

and my little sister

couldn’t stop crying.

It’s when I learned

there are predators in the world

who if chance offers

take advantage of little sisters.

Now that I’m old

they seem to be all over

making every loner

and balding senior suspect.

I might never see Bambi again

unless I rent the CD,

watch it from my couch.

(Published in the March 2006 issus of , Red Owl Magazine, now defunct)

Note:  Education comes in many forms, some of them unpleasant, but that’s life.  Maybe I was too skinny, too ugly to attract the weirdos when I was a kid.  Besides, I could outrun them anyway.  D.C.’s streets were full of the halt, lame, untidy and unsightly back in the Forties.  I recall asking my Dad once why a man we’d just passed was wearing a leather patch across the spot where his nose should have been.  He said simply, “Syphilis,” as if I knew what he meant.  Saw more than a few such patches in those days, some covering blinded eyes, others missing noses.

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Assignment: Find Ernest

Thursday, January 7th, 2010

The sun also rises in Havana,

and when it did, we went in search

of Hemingway at his local haunts.

We started early, after exploring

one another’s body one more time,

with a drop-in at Harry’s Bar.

The only waiter awake at that hour

said, after pouring Coke on top of our

rum eye-openers, that Hem had disappeared.

The early lunch at Zargonana, a full bottle

of fino sherry blended with snapper turtle

soup, left us groggy and still clueless.

We took a nap in the afternoon, as Cubanos

do, and decided our next inquiry would be

at the Partagas Cigar Factory nearby.

The sweating, shirtless guys rolling those

splendid, perfect cigars told us, yeah,

Ernesto was in last month – or was it last year?

The fragrant rum distillery was peopled with

several shady characters from his novels, none

willing to talk about the Old Man or the sea.

We finally caught a glimpse of him one evening

at the Tropicana, where Nat King Cole was

playing, but the suspicious host shrugged,

opened up only after I slipped him a fin, seated us

next to Nat’s piano, and whispered that the pug

we saw was just a Hemingway impersonator.

Re-reading Hem killed the rest of our honeymoon.

(Published online in the December 2007 issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  Our diversionary search for Ernest Hemingway took place in February 1958 on our honeymoon to Havana, seeking him out at all of his known bars and hideaways.  Havana in 1958 – exotic, erotic, scary, with soon-to-be-deposed Ferdinand Batista guarding most street corners with high-piled sandbags, behind which were khaki-uniformed men carrying sub-machine guns ready to fire.  In the nearby hills, Fidel Castro and his small but loyal and growing band fired off occasional shots to remind Batista he’d soon be coming.  And he did, taking over the city less than a year after we returned to our lives in D.C. – me finishing my senior year at A.U. (plus working part-time at the National Bureau of Standards), Irene in her new security-related job at the Library of Congress.  So much to write about Havana.  ‘Twould be nice to return someday, see it again.  Friends who’ve been there recently say the decay is palpable.  In ‘58 it was evident the underclass of poor residents weren’t going to tolerate mighty Batista’s thieving shenanigans much longer.  They welcomed Fidel with open arms.  And so history is written.

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