your passing, quite a shock,

your life suddenly over.

We lost touch these past few years,

and that’s regrettable — my fault

more than yours, certainly.

Your life scrolls before me in segments

familiar only to you and me,

nothing monumental.

But there were times we had fun,

together, and I’ll remember

our funny moments.

Life is over for you, gone,

but you’re on my mind, will be,

as long as I have one.

(Published in a 2010 issue of Pegasus Magazine)

That’s how 2011 has gone, losing way too many people — family members and friends.  This poem is written to all, not with any one person in mind:  Doris, Mary, Pat, Bill, and five or six others.  It’s a year I won’t forget but wish I could, for the sake of those gone.  The memories of each one lives on.

Looking back,

the years seem like days,

a photograph of each one

makes a tidy treasure

of memories, each a reflection

to be studied, recalling

that special time together

when we….

when we….whatever you

care to recall about

being with her, Mary,

such a special person,

so here when she was here,

so gone now she’s gone.

The photos of her needn’t be

real, in color, instamatic –

simply memories of her,

painful at this moment,

more soothing as time passes.

I have mine, you have yours –

she gave them to us freely.

Be off, take to the wind,

dear friend.  Come past again,

let us know we’re not forgotten.

We won’t forget you.

Precious Mary.

Published in Mary’s Celebration of Life service booklet at the Atonement Lutheran Church in Boulder, Colorado on September 30, 2011.

Pat Duffy, lasted over an hour,

me interviewing him more than him me.

I was there, I thought, seeking

a part-time job as a coach to budding sales

men and women, all young, all

employed by that large telephone company.

Somehow Pat let it slip that he was

born in Bayonne, a town I knew, in New

Jersey, where my wife and her

family lived, so we explored the entire

State, pointing out only its plusses.

Like me, he was a chemist, his specialty

chemical sales, and he knew lots

of the guys I’d worked with at Oakite

Products in New York, Rene Bernie

one of our favorites, quite a coincidence.

We both loved opera, our favorite

male aria, Una furtiva lachrima, from

“The Elixir of Love,” which we

proceeded to sing together, quite badly.

He professed how lucky he was

to have married the girl he did, and I said

likewise, they having three boys,

us, no kids, only dogs.  Oh, they had a dog.

We began to run down a bit, so I snuck

a glance at my watch, time to return home.

I said, Well….  Pat said nothing, then

told me he’d see me again tomorrow.  I

asked, To continue the interview?  He

chuckled, said No, to get to work.  Though

I was only paid ten dollars an hour and

Pat made eleven, I never held it against him.

It was always fun to go to work with

the Smiling Irishman, his luminous smile

immediately guaranteeing a good day.

Note:  This poem is unpublished.  I post it today because I’m just home from Pat’s funeral, one of those rare happier-than-sad get-togethers on a brilliantly sunny, hot day in Boulder, Colorado.  Pat was also a rare character, one we always looked forward to seeing, being with him and dear wife Isabel.  His luminous smile was always there, and if he thought ill of anyone, he swallowed his words, kept a positive attitude.  Folks like Pat you just hate to lose.  A bright, guiding candle has gone out in our lives.  Oh, we’ll continue to get out and about with Isabel, Pat in spirit smiling in the empty seat.

]]> http://www.billrobertspoet.com/my-interview-with-the-smiling-irishman/feed/ 0 http://www.billrobertspoet.com/light-on-their-feet/ http://www.billrobertspoet.com/light-on-their-feet/#comments Fri, 15 Jul 2011 23:05:00 +0000 Bill Roberts http://www.billrobertspoet.com/?p=347 You would swear they were younger

than whatever — seventy, eighty,

one possibly ninety.  All women,

of course, their men having disappeared

years before they gathered here.

Why do they seem so happy,

so diligently engaged, so light on

their feet though seated, playing cards?

They’re like quilters without thread

and needles, just the hand they’ve been

dealt, though they discard a few, examine,

arrange new ones with nimble fingers.

And these girls play for real money –

nickels and dimes, no worthless pennies.

It’s a joy to see them, watch their faces,

study their moves.  But, holy crap,

their language often sears the air!

(Published in a 2011 issue of Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream)

Note:  A slightly different take on my dear Grandmother Roberts, always so ladylike, so well and soft spoken, almost saintly, who, when she entered a Catholic hospital to recover from a broken hip, cussed like a drunken sailor.  My father had to take her home well before schedule, so my grandmother would get her way and the hospital could recover from the blue cloud of words she left behind.

]]> http://www.billrobertspoet.com/light-on-their-feet/feed/ 0 http://www.billrobertspoet.com/the-taste-of-snowflakes/ http://www.billrobertspoet.com/the-taste-of-snowflakes/#comments Sat, 11 Jun 2011 16:22:57 +0000 Bill Roberts http://www.billrobertspoet.com/?p=335 Indians taught her how,

she once told me,

to catch a snowflake on the tongue

and savor its flavor.

What do they taste like? I asked.

Why, snowflakes, of course –

each unique, a different flavor.

Of course.  Of course?

Toward the end, she would sit

in the community gazebo

down the hill from her house,

place herself strategically,

bald head back, open mouth,

and let snowflakes fall on

awaiting tongue, tasting them

one or two at a time.

Her passing this summer

won’t allow me to share my

experimentation at same gazebo

when snows again return.

She said not to expect too much

the first time out –

snowflakes are an acquired taste.

(Published online in a 2009 issue of Foundling Review)

Note:  Mary was a lovely, delicate lady who played the piano and organ at her church for fifty years, writing poetry most of her life — mainly for the pleasure of her grandchildren.  I coaxed her to send her sweet poems off for publication, but she demurred, said it was just for her grandkids.  I’ve taken her advice and have tasted snowflakes (when I’m certain no one is looking).  To me, they all taste like chocolate.  Oh, not just any chocolate — seventy percent or better rich, dark chocolate.  Try ‘em sometime.

Sweet of face, smooth of skin

she bubbled over with laughter

so intent on discovering herself

and life’s close-in, far-away pleasures.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

She held my hand, took my heart

swayed with me to music we shared

whispered to me, guided me through

uncertainty, understood when I faltered.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

Eager to learn, just as eager to share that

knowledge, content with our journeys

careful with difficult choices, caregiving

to those who had fallen to adversity.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

She endured through years both difficult

and joyous, met and conquered her own

demons, settled into life’s quiet rhythms

dancing a bit slower, without a partner.

I once knew a girl that looked just like you.

(Published in the February 2011 online issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  Not much mystery here:  a love poem dedicated to my life’s partner, Irene.  Yes, I do love her.

Don’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg.

Or did I hear her say something else?

It’ll cost you a golden egg to get laid.

Or, Don’t goose the moose

that drinks jungle juice?

Hearing not only goes as you get older

words and their meaning blur, too.

I’m a good listener, or so I’ve been told.

Or did she say, Listen, mister, I’m your sister?

It all gets damned confusing, if you ask me.

Did you?  I have trouble hearing.

Or did I tell you that already?

Hey, lady – stick what up my what?

(Published in the October 2010 online issue of Chantarelle’s Notebook.)

Note:  To admit that I don’t hear all that well is easy for me, after long practice.  I do listen, try to interpret words, but often get them jangled or jumbled, answer with a totally off-the-wall reply, making some wonder if I’m all there.  Well, no, actually, I’m not.  Next question, please.

loved ones who’ve moved to the clouds.

Billowy Grandma most often,

her 12-egg lemon pound cake in hand.

Fast-moving Mama, always in such

a hurry to attend to the next family duty.

Dawdling Papa, reading from a fluffy

stack of books, including the inevitable potboiler.

Brother Max, drifting erratically after

pretending to take Ritalin, disordered bipolarity.

Shrewd sister Emma, the wispy family

matriarch, asking why we’re all so middle-class.

Mysterious older brother Howard, whom I met

only three times – he now floats by weekly.

So many aunts and uncles, usually forming

overhead as if at another family reunion.

Lost friends reappearing, even threatening

bully Pete, about to rain blows on me again.

Teachers, dear teachers, never forgotten for

their wisdom, now challenging me up there.

And the dogs, all my dogs – scampering along

as if once more I’ll give chase someday.

There’s something about clouds, so familiar,

so tempting to fly up, be there with them.

(Published online in 2009 in The Stray Branch)

Note:  I often write family-friend remembrances such as this, always slightly different, especially after the loss of someone close.  A month ago, I lost sister Carolyn Patricia, beloved Patsy, who was like a surrogate mother to me and my younger siblings, Jimmy, GeeGee and Betty.  There is much to write about her and it will come soon.  She is painfully missed, by me and all of those she touched.  Farewell, Beloved Carolyn Patricia.

Like those halcyon barks of yore.

You blessed this diminished planet

With your loveliness sixteen years,

Plus a few months – a long time

In doggie years, not near enough for us.

Tears were shed, but not the overflow

Of previous losses, since you gave us

Many years of uninterrupted joy,

Coming to share your zest for living.

Wait for us, pray for us, send your

Vibrations our way so we won’t stray.

Another life awaits us – the lucky,

Chosen few, called to Doggie Heaven.

Note:  We returned from a tour of northern Spain and dear Rosie had waited for us just long enough for last goodbyes.  The most beautiful dog ever, drivers would pull up next to Irene as she walked Rosie, express their admiration of her beauty.  Beautiful in all ways, we missed her terribly but knew it was time.  A week later, we drove down to Colorado Springs to visit another rescue Australian terrier – lovely Princess – and brought her home with us.  Six years old and full of love, she looks amazingly like Rosie, with just enough difference to make a difference.  Moral to the story:  there is none.  We just figured, we needed another dog to fulfill our lives.  And remember:  you have a dog (or dogs, in our case, with nine-year-old Marco, too), then there’s reason for living….and you’ll live longer.

my mother would ruin

a perfectly good slice of cantaloupe

by dousing it with pepper

until the flesh turned black.

That was then, this is now.

Now, with age, I’ve added pepper

to my repertoire, always fresh-

ground, to season a salad,

crust a grilled steak, flavor pasta

coated with tomato-based sauce,

sprinkle liberally on fried eggs

and the side of grits, even dust

lightly the peanut butter I smear

on my toast – it adds a little s0mething!

Ah, yes, you guessed it – I have

also graduated to grinding pepper

over cantaloupe slices, till

the natural color turns charcoal.

I am, after all, my mother’s child.

(Published, I believe, in 2008 in the wonderful online magazine, Slow Trains)

Note:  My mother rained pepper on almost everything she ate, to the point where it seemed all she would taste was the pepper.  I’ve followed somewhat closely in her gustatory misstep with pepper, though not to the point of killing off all other flavor.  Funny that….don’t know if my sisters and brothers have done the same or not.  Our breakfast growing up often was a big plate of freshly cooked rice, topped with crumbled up bacon and a generous slab of butter.  Lots of salt and pepper, of course, too.  Might have been the Oklahoma (from whence my mother cameth) equivalent to cereal, the poor person’s oatmeal.  For quite a long spell there I was sure we were part Chinese.