Bill Roberts, Poet

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.

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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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Interlude With Mary

Tuesday, November 10th, 2009

That evening had been arranged pretty carefully

by our basement boarders, Jim and Pheenie,

and they assured me it wouldn’t hurt a bit.

We rehearsed where we’d go, what would

and wouldn’t be said, how Jim would

pick up the tab for any food, beverages,

the tickets, and how, if I had a mind to,

I’d hold Mary’s hand in the backseat

of their car and possibly kiss her goodnight,

if I was so inclined and didn’t mind too much.

It went pretty well according to plan,

except I was shaken by how simply lovely

Jim’s niece turned out to be, and we all knew

she’d be thrilled just to watch stockcars

go round and round a dusty dirt oval.

I could tell she’d have a cheeseburger too,

if I ordered one for myself.

She only ate half of hers, explaining

partially why she was so slender.

I held her cool hand in the car and kissed her

on the front porch of the house where she lived.

Mary said goodnight, smiled and

met me with urgency when I kissed her

a second time, then hurried in the house.

Jim thanked me, which wasn’t necessary.

Pheenie couldn’t find words, which was okay.

I told them I’d enjoyed meeting Mary.

We’d rehearsed everything except

how we’d feel when Mary died a few weeks later.

(Published in the April 2001 issue of Offerings Magazine)

Note:  Leukemia. Maybe the second time I’d heard that ominous word.  I was sixteen when this interlude occurred, getting more serious about school and education – I went to a great high school, Theodore Roosevelt in D.C. – and was turning to new friends, new experiences, new challenges.  Jim and Pheenie had been like surrogate parents, albeit country types and heavy drinkers but salt (or maybe pepper) of the earth.  They’d take me, brother Jim, and sisters GeeGee and Bee with them to the dusty dirt oval Friday nights, then for burgers at a nearby honky-tonk where, I swear, I heard some of the great ones, like Hank Williams, coming up or on the way out.  Though I was in the process of finding classical music and jazz when Jim asked me this favor, there was no way I could possibly say no after all he and Pheenie had given me – us! – over some difficult years.

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Boy, Apple, Twenty-Seven

Tuesday, October 27th, 2009

Marilyn, as she introduces herself,

is a neurologist almost my age.

She gazes deep into my eyes,

lo0king for trouble, I guess, though

I haven’t yet told her why I’m here.

It’s this ringing in my ears, I say.

I wonder if I have a tumor in there

somewhere that’s causing it -

at first one violin, now a whole

symphony orchestra full, all 0ff-key.

She still wonders if perhaps I’m sliding

into Alzheimer’s, the basis of her practice,

and asks me to remember the words,

Boy.  Apple.  Twenty-seven.  B-A-T.

So, I commit them to memory.  Done.

Half an hour later, when she returns,

I repeat, Boy.  Apple.  Twenty-seven.

She smiles, completes her exam, and

schedules me for an MRI in a week.

I walk out mumbling:  Boy, apple, twenty-seven.

The MRI goes without a hitch, though

with more than a little bit of discomfort.

And noisy.  All through it, I repeat those

three words:  Boy, apple, twenty-seven,

over and over and over again.

I literally run into Dr. Marilyn several weeks

later in Whole Foods in the produce section.

I smile and say, Boy, apple, twenty-seven.

She tries to smile, searches deep in my eyes,

and says, I don’t recall that we’ve met.

(Published online in the May 2008 issue of Word Riot)

Note:  True story-poem.  I’ve had this ringing (tinnitus) in my ears for nearly fifteen years, thought it was time to see if there may be an obstruction or growth inside somewhere that caused it.  Dr. Marilyn preferred to see if I were going down the rabbit hole into Alzheimer’s.  There was no tumor or growth or evidence of Alzheimer’s, except when I had that chance meeting with her in Whole Foods.  That was the day this old boy decided to buy apples, twenty-seven of them.

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