Bill Roberts, Poet

Old Isn't Necessarily Old

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Archive for the ‘Aging’ Category

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.

Posted in Aging, Children, Human Nature, Love, Nostalgia, That's Life | No Comments »

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.

Posted in Aging, Animals, Children, Humor, Love, That's Life | 1 Comment »

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.

Posted in Aging, Human Nature, Humor, Love, Nostalgia, That's Life | No Comments »

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.

Posted in Aging, Human Nature, Movies, That's Life | No Comments »

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.

Posted in Aging, Children, Human Nature, Nostalgia, That's Life | No Comments »

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.

Posted in Aging, Human Nature, Love, Nostalgia, Politics, That's Life, Travel, War | No Comments »

Let Me Know If You’re Dead

Tuesday, January 5th, 2010

The last of five messages on the phone

is a real beaut, a classic.

I play it a second, then a third time.

Roberts, I heard you died.

I hope not but you never know at our age.

Call me if you’re really dead, okay?

I play it a fourth time,

then decide to call my old friend

whom I haven’t spoken to for months.

No answer, then his message

thingamajig kicks in:

Make it brief – I’m getting too impatient.

Norris, hi, I say.  You heard right.

I died when I heard your voice.

Please send flowers but don’t call back.

(Published online in 2008 by Chantarelle’s Notebook)

Note:  I have some whacky friends who do things like this, as I often do myself.  “Hey, good seeing you again.  The mortician did a nice job!”  Gallows humor, I guess it’s called.  But if you can’t make fun of death, at least on occasion, then you’re liable to live in constant fear of it.

Posted in Aging, Health, Human Nature, Humor, That's Life | No Comments »

Desire Under the Arms

Monday, January 4th, 2010

– with sincere apologies to Eugene O’Neill

Quite impossible not to notice

when I go to water aerobics class

three times a week the untidy

condition of the underarms

of my fellow – I should say,

lady – aqua thrasherettes.

I’m usually the lone male

in the pool, ostracized to the deep

end I presume so I won’t notice

that the ladies haven’t shaved

their armpits this century,

but I’m not exactly blind yet.

Because most of them are larger

than me, I’m a bit reluctant

to inquire about this hirsuteness

they’ve adapted, perhaps on purpose -

a cult possibly or, like bralessness,

a current cause they’ve taken up.

Maybe it’s ecological, growing hair

instead of grass, or they figure

it’s sexy, as cave women undoubtedly

thought long ago.  Come to think of it,

it is kind of, well, sexy in a way,

if hairy septuagenarians turn you on.

(Published online in the June 2009 issue of The Orange Room Review)

Note:  Shortly after this poem was published and my social analysis was exposed, I was voted out of the pool by the offended Thrasherettes.  I now work out regularly in the weight room at the gym with all the hairy, sweaty men, some of whom apparently prefer to bathe only once a month.  I’m of a mind to suggest they try water aerobics, check out the Thrasherettes.

Posted in Aging, Health, Human Nature, Humor, Sports, That's Life | No Comments »

Swept Clean

Monday, December 21st, 2009

Bring back old men with their gnarly

whisk brooms, just twigs tied together,

old black men bent in the gutters

sweeping the detritus of their fellow men

whose tasks were nobler perhaps

though they cast off their refuse

that gave thse humble men jobs once,

performed nobly, quietly, decently

and far more efficiently than the monster

machines that replaced them at enormous

cost to taxpaying refuse distributors

like you and me, who wouldn’t stoop

to such a job as those men performed

in days gone by when we took them

for granted with their arthritic hands and

deformed brooms that swept so clean.

(Published online in the November 27, 2008 issue of Mannequin Envy)

Note:  A pure nostalgia poem, remembering the early mornings when pal Rodney Miller and I sold newspapers – The Times Herald and The Washington Post – on opposite street corners at 18th and Columbia Road in N.W. District of Columbia.  After selling out, pocketing about two bucks in jingly change each, we’d run off to junior high school, arrive sweaty but happy.  One of my fondest memories – so very many, so fortunate I was – were the distinguished, quite handsome black men who unerringly swept the gutters all about us clean as a whistle.  They never spoke, that I recall, just went about business like the busy business folk who bought our papers.  What a cast of characters each weekday morning, from sleepy prostitutes to a dignified Supreme Court member.  None were finer though than the street cleaners.  Progress isn’t always measured with the right tools – those old guys really got the gutters clean.  God bless ‘em.

Posted in Aging, Human Nature, Nostalgia, That's Life | No Comments »

A Sort of Christmas Story

Friday, December 18th, 2009

We were planning to head East, to

hometown D.C., to see friends, then

onward to Ocean City to stay with

Brother Jim and Laurie in their high-

rise, the fourteenth floor at the beach.

The latter sort of reminds me of all

those old folks forsaking their even

higher-rises in frigid New York City,

moving down to Miami Beach to

sequester themselves on the forty-ninth

floor, excellent view of sand and water.

But I got a call from kid sister in Mesa,

Arizona, saying she was ill – stage-four

ovarian cancer, she sounding like

maybe this was the closing act of her

slow-but-steady drama through life.

Once a kid sister, always the kid.

So, plans shifted and we were there

with her gigantic Mormon family night

before hysterectomy-plus, the plus

the great unknown, to be determined.

After a big Mexican take-out meal

hosted by eldest daughter, my sis just

observing, no intake of jalapeno flavors,

two sons, a son-in-law and husband

performed a “blessing,” perhaps a

secret Mormon ritual that wife and I

were allowed to witness, the four men

stationed north, east, south and west

of kid sis, all hands on her head as

they alternately prayed for deliverance.

Moving doesn’t do the blessing justice,

its simplicity and honesty so electric.

Next afternoon, the operation was

performed with a DaVinci robot,

through belly button and two sets of

holes either side, with a wash of belly

cavity to secure biopsy fluids and tissue.

Sis was home again within 24 hours,

feeling better than she did after any of

five rambunctious children – even hungry.

Her CA-125 blood indicator for cancer

started off the chart at 1,675, plummeted to

14 after the third chemotherapy, within

normal range and quite unprecedented.

Biopsy results a few days later showed no

further evidence of Big C or its spread.

A miracle in early December, just weeks

before Christmas, the news a blessing.

I don’t know if Mormons have special

powers, other than the magnificence of

family magnetism and beauty, but I,

semi-heathen that I am, have to admit

this Christmas is special, a gift, something

one might read in the Bible or whatever

it was you were made to study religiously

in your youth, probably foreseeing the day

you’d be free to follow your own path.

I will look for a star in the West – not East -

this Christmas, won’t be surprised when

I don’t find it because it showed up early.

Note:  The poem says it all, can’t add very much.  If miracles happen, sister Bee’s experience surely is one of them.  With great joy, Irene and I wish all of our family and friends peace, joy and good health to close out the year and throughout the new year, 2010.

Posted in Aging, Health, Human Nature, Love, That's Life | No Comments »

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