Bill Roberts, Poet

Chocolate Lips

Wednesday, December 16th, 2009

You don’t fool me with your pouty lips,

painted so carelessly with sticky chocolate

from a candy bar or ice cream on a stick.

You want me and everyone passing by

to notice you.  I do and chuckle at

the sensation you’ve made of your sweet face.

Soon enough, little girl, you’ll grow up and

put on real lipstick – shocking pink or mouth-

watering red, maybe bittersweet brown -

applied with precision, provoking passersby

to notice you and your moist, puckered lips,

ready for a whispered secret, even a kiss.

Then soon enough you’ll advance to an age

where those precious lips will tell quite

another tale, mouth crinkled and again

smeared with chocolate, quivering,

perhaps repeating a long-ago endearment.

May God bless your sweet chocolate lips.

(This poem was published somewhere, sometime, somehow, but who knows where and when?)

The inspiration for this poem is the image of so many kids, girls and boys, who eat chocolate, or any sweet for that matter, with gusto, carefree of the aftermath of their indulgence.  Life should be carefree for the young.  Well, to an extent.  Can’t believe the incredible freedom I enjoyed growing up in Georgetown, D.C., during the Second World War.  Wouldn’t doubt that my face was always smudged with some sort of candy remnant, though our choices were far fewer.  How far we’ve come, how little we’ve changed.  So be it.

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

Eleven

Sunday, November 29th, 2009

I definitely peaked at eleven:

Harry Truman threw out the first ball

to open the Senators’ season,

I attended my first production of “The Mikado,”

a boarder introduced me to spaghetti

with tomato sauce, cauliflower and one meatball,

the Redskins came back miraculously

from the brink and beat the Cardinals in a doozy,

W. H. Hudson spoke to me in “Green Mansions,”

J. Edgar Hoover let me heft his submachine gun

in his surprisingly cluttered F.B.I. office,

a nice girl named Jane Trilling gave me my first real

kiss that made all my toes wiggle,

I was MVP on our 90-pound football team

that went undefeated with me at quarterback,

Dad gave me my own library card and put the first

ten dollars in my postal savings account,

my older sister taught me to be a confident jitterbugger,

Mom had her ninth and last child,

I tanned that summer without peeling,

and my favorite pitcher, Bob Feller,

came to town and won all three times with his fastball.

It’s been downhill ever since.

(Published first in the July 1999 issue, Vol. 5, Issue 6, of George & Mertie’s Place – defunct)

Note:  I probably borrowed a few months from ages ten and twelve, but who’s counting?  Eleven was a great age, circa 1947, to be a kid growing up in amazing Washington, D.C.  So much going on in my vast little world – pleasures, treasures of people, threats, illnesses always looming, acne, growing pains, slights, delights, fights, but oh the sights.  These days I value the stories of friends who grew up in small towns or on farms – so completely different from my experience! – and I wonder how they would have managed growing up in the big city.  God bless ‘em all, we’re all unique….unless we choose to follow those paid to lead us astray, their way.

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Crows Perched On Crosses

Thursday, November 26th, 2009

Peering as we walk solemnly toward

the rectangular gap in the ground,

a jury of crows,

judging perhaps which of us

will take the next available opening.

Could be any of us,

all older than the chap this day

being permanently sealed underground.

Crows know a ripe crop

when they see one.

The old man wearing a cross and

speaking in tongues

also qualifies as a candidate,

but the crows favor eying me.

Perhaps it’s my shuffling gait.

Could be the squawking hearing aids.

They know all the signs,

as I try to ignore them,

singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

They nod, join me in the second chorus.

(Published online in the November 2009 issue of Chantarelle’s Notebook)

Note:  Today as I enter this poem it’s a beautiful Thanksgiving Day.  So, what do I give you but a deeply dark poem.  At least there are birds in it, just not the edible kind.  This is one of my nightmare inspired poems, of which there are many.  So many nightmares, so many poems.  Maybe inspired too by all the crows hunkering about the neighborhood.  I love Chantarelle’s Notebook, which is courageous enough to occasionally publish my material, not all of it dark.  Let’s be thankful for what we have, what we’ve been given.  And as Julia would say, Bon appetit! But please – don’t eat crow.

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

Terrorist

Monday, November 16th, 2009

My palms were sweating again

when I met Pete some forty years later.

I used to sweat all over back then

when we were in school and he,

a vicious, unrelenting bully,

was my one and only reason

for being late so often mornings:

I didn’t want to confront him

and go through the humiliating ritual

of being grabbed by my shirt front

and shaken down,

having to expose the contents

of my pockets and lunch bag.

The years hadn’t been overly kind

to Pete, though his flower business,

I’d heard, had made him wealthy:

he was entirely bald -

not a pleasant prospect in combination

with his menacing, pockmarked face -

and the scars from various invasions

of his brain coursed wildly

over his yellowish skull.

He slammed down the receiver,

after eying me through the several minutes

of his vituperative conversation,

stood, lurched toward me,

grabbed my hand and shook it nearly off.

We spoke of old times,

even joked about the money I had contributed

to the purchase of his business.

We spoke as friends -

he not apologizing for teenaged terrorism,

me not mentioning I knew he was dying.

(First published in The Raintown Review, Vol. 1, No. 2, June 1998 under my then pseudonym, Bartlett Boswell)

Note:  Funny day back in the summer of 1995.  I’d just escorted my best friend, Rodney Miller, to his last chemotherapy treatment at George Washington Hospital very near the White House in D.C.  Rodney knew he was on borrowed time, his mind sharp as ever, suggesting that we stop in and visit with our old nemesis from Central Junior High days, Pete Chaconas (the same guy from the previous poem, “Floored”) at his thriving flower shop.  It happened just as described in the poem and turned out to be a delightful day, scary though those few moments were before the handshake.  Amazing how people can bridge that awesome gap in time, hurdle over painful memories and find pleasant things to talk about.  My pal Rodney died soon after this.  A note on him:  last time I came to visit, I brought him a black and gold T shirt with the charging buffalo logo from the University of Colorado in Boulder.  He cried, told me it meant a lot to him and that people too often forget to bring presents to friends who are dying.  Never too late to learn how to be human.

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Antiquity

Friday, November 13th, 2009

I use the Antique Mall, a giant relic

on Laurens Street in Aiken,

to boost my appetite for dinner,

intending to browse for perhaps an hour

and then scoot around the corner

to a prime rib and some dark beer

at The Bowery, a friendly eatery.

I know I’ve made a mistake immediately

upon entering the gigantic antique store -

the musty smell and degree of my error

increase with each slow step

through the venerable time capsule

as I gaze upon the entire contents

from our old house on Clifton Street

so many years ago:  the veneer

storage cabinet and upright storage chest,

so yellowed and shiny, chipped

by my assaults with hangers, belt buckles,

bony elbows; the garishly painted

cheap wooden table and chairs

from our kitchen arrest my appetite,

then all of the various utensils

and kitchen aids of my youth spread out

before me, plus our very own

place settings of worn metal spoons,

forks and knives, badly tarnished,

certain to taint any food they may touch;

the tiny dressing table and mirror

where my sister would sit for hours,

her beauty diminished by its tawdriness;

my mother’s uncomfortable lounge chair

that even she refused to sit in,

no matter how work weary;

the various wall shelves and upright stands

for knickknacks, scores of those dusty

little buggers there too, defying removal

of the dust built up over the years;

the beat-up chest in which we stored

undesirable bedspreads and woolen items,

affording mice a warm sanctuary;

comic books and mindless hardbacks

and old Life magazines protraying

Plastic Man, some fool in the Yukon,

and a Veronica Lake no longer so

provocatively attractive after so many years.

My stomach is in revolt.

My feet need breathing room.

I gasp for today, tonight, this moment.

Release me from yesterday,

long ago, the ill-named Good Old Days.

(Published in Illya’s Honey, Volume 4, Number 1, Spring 1998)

Note:  This is a natural follow-on poem to the previous one, where I lamented secondhand clothes.  True story:  I was staying in Aiken, SC, the summer of 1997 on a two-week project at the Savannah River Plant.  Most evenings I sought out The Bowery to dine.  This particular late afternoon, I made the mistake of entering the cavernous antique store and was overcome with unpleasant deja-vu trepidation.  My appetite vanished almost entirely and thereafter I steered clear of the quaint little stores all through charming Aiken, fearing I’d be transported again to the struggles of the Forties.  Though my childhood was five-dimensional with fun and excitement, I’ve never once wanted to return to the poverty so many of us took for granted in those less-than-halcyon days.

Posted in Aging, Antiques, Human Nature, Nostalgia | No Comments »

A Second Look

Thursday, November 12th, 2009

Don’t ask why but I duck in

to the damp darkened store,

adjust my eyesight and

notice headless dummies

attired in clothes I once wore,

gave up when I outgrew them

or found them too depressing,

often having been handed down

by older brothers, never

as neat as me, even putting

a neat crease in patched pants,

sewing an insignia over a stain,

mismatching checks and colors

to the point of absurdity,

making those who might

otherwise stare look away,

clean and neat though I was,

never a fashion plate,

not once cited as best-dressed,

always curious to examine

new fall fashions I couldn’t

afford on classmates I envied -

not for their brains or

athletic abilities – just their

clothes, new clothes, never

handed down, too fine for

this store that reminds me

who I was, didn’t want to be.

(Published online in issue No. 13 of Thick With Conviction, October 2008)

Note:  Another painful reminder of growing up poor (hey, no tears – almost all of us were poor back in the dismal Thirties and Forties).  I’ve written quite a few poems about thrift stores and antique emporiums, always get the willies when I walk in, develop that terrible feeling like I’ve been here before, can’t wait to escape, get fresh air.  And, sorry to report, I never, ever buy anything secondhand.  That’s a vow I made to myself.

Posted in Aging, Antiques, Fashion, Human Nature, Nostalgia | 2 Comments »

A Fashion Plea: Please Bring Back the Necktie

Thursday, November 12th, 2009

Didn’t know how much I missed them,

neckties, those frivolous silky

adornments us men used to cinch

around our necks most mornings as if

practicing for a hanging party at work.

Then, quite slowly and mysteriously,

they began to disappear all over the country,

except of course in the big cities

where hangings are still the norm

in board rooms and social clubs.

Had I to wear one, to my funeral, for instance,

I wouldn’t even know how to tie one one -

a tie I mean, not a big drunk which someday

will probably be my means of escaping

this curious world of fashion abnormalities.

But I want the necktie to come back, I do indeed.

Not for the reason you may suspect.

Oh no, not to be worn around the neck.

Rather, to be used as a belt after raising boys’

pants about eight inches to cover up underwear.

(Published online in the February 2009 issue of Lunarosity Magazine)

Note:  Being retired and living so effortlessly in Colorado as I now do, my hundred or more neckties rest in a box, neatly folded, perhaps never again to be worn about the neck.  I am saving them for the first drive – Salvation Army, let me hear from you – that swears these instruments of torture will be put to use to raise the standards of pants on teenagers.  I have no interest in looking at underwear worn by teens, male or female.  Those thongs girls wear are equally unpleasant, and maybe my old-fashioned, wider, more flamboyant neckwear could be used somehow to supplement their skimpiness.  Damn, I must be getting old….

Posted in Aging, Fashion, Human Nature, Humor | 1 Comment »

Yard Sale

Tuesday, November 10th, 2009

I settle back in my fold-out chair

smack in the center of my driveway

and open “The Best American

Poetry 2004,” turn to page 36

and try for a third time to read

Charles Bernstein’s goofy long poem,

“Sign Under Test,” without any luck.

The poem, hopefully not like this one,

doesn’t make any sense, and maybe

that’s the way it was in that year,

2004, the entire collection chosen by

Lyn Hejinian (unknown to me) more

than a bit off-center, but that might

sound like sour grapes since not

one of my poems did she choose.

But I fail to get through the poem

yet again, this time because an elderly

lady pulls her car erratically into

my driveway, lets down her window

closest to me and yells, “Hey, guy,

where’s all the yard sale stuff you

advertised in this morning’s paper?”

I point to the hand-printed sign

square in the center of my neatly-

tended lawn which reads, YARD SALE,

large letters that even she can read.

I tell her, “The yard’s for sale – I’m tired

of caring for it.  Make me an offer.”

Zip, up goes her window, and she

leaves rubber on cement as she departs.

Crazy old ladies.  Why does an old man

like me try to figure them out?

Bernstein’s poem makes more sense.

(Published online in the September 2006 issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  This poem reminds me of my favorite syndicated cartoon, “Pickles,” starring Opal and Earl.  Am I Earl? Is Irene Opal?  Probably.  I think we all get a little zany, or zanier, with age.  But older women are difficult to figure out, so don’t even try.  Reminds me, I used to write gags for cartoonists, some of my favorites “The Flintstones” and “The Lockhorns,” as well as many others.  No money in it, and my own drawings were just a bit too perfect for mass consumption.  Glad I found poetry.  Singing, dancing, acting and sports were ruled out early – zero to little talent.  Hey, we do what we’re meant to do.

Posted in Aging, Human Nature, Humor, Poetry | No Comments »

Remembering Georgia O’Keeffe

Wednesday, September 30th, 2009

The flirtatious girls I always wanted to meet

in high school and later in college

I’m surrounded by now I’ve retired

and joined AARP, go on those

bus rides to museums, the zoo,

the butterfly pavilion, tours of Christmas

lights at night, walking tours easy enough

for those of us with arthritis or worse,

the Capitol Building, the Mint,

several fading restaurants not too proud

to accommodate a hungry bus load

of wheezing seniors, all seeking warm,

soft, bland, digestible, cheap vittles,

me often in the midst of loud women

fresh from their hairdresser, nails

sharp, painted a blood color, all of them

over-dressed for wherever we’re going,

heavily made-up, Tammy-Faye lidded,

clothes a bit too tight, generously

proportioned, interested in my every

word, happy I’m back from trips east,

west or south – none of us venture

north any more – and just as pleased

as schoolgirls that my latest health report

is positive, no additional horse pills prescribed

to east the burden of daily strife with

bad knees, weak eyes, runny nose,

gas pains, swollen abdomen, proteiny

breath, sore gums from ill-fitting dentures,

irregularity or over-regularity, the blues,

things these ladies say they find charming, and

I would have lusted for them had they been

so attentive and coquettish in our youth.

(Published in the Winter 2001 issue of Rattle:  Poetry for the @1st Century)

Note:  This poem is the result of a visit to Balboa Park in San Diego in the year 2000.  My wife and I toured a photo exhibit of Edward Steiglitz’s early portrayal of his beloved Georgia O’Keeffe, ages 25 to 35 perhaps, all sepia-toned with the subject totally nude.  A lovely woman, even into old age.  And her paintings I cherish.  The exhibit got me to thinking of all the lovely girls I lusted for in high school and then college but never was lucky enough to lure into the back seat of my ratty old car.  And so it goes…

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