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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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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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.

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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.

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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.

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How It All Got Started

Friday, January 1st, 2010

I imagine my father said to my mother

something like, “Would you care to do it?

Go upstairs and start a family?”

No, it couldn’t have been that way.

There was no upstairs to their two-

room apartment in pre-war D.C.

Probably more on the order of

“Hey, good looking.  Let’s make a baby!”

Naw, my father didn’t talk like that.

He was kind of shy, probably

came at Mom from an angle:  “After

dinner, I thought we might, you know…”

Nope, it didn’t happen like that either.

Probably after cooking dinner and

washing dishes, my mother confronted

him and stated, quite to the point:  “Say,

handsome, I’m in the mood.  How’s

about putting down that stupid book.”

(Published in the Fall 2001 issue of Concrete Wolf, Vol. 1, No. 3)

Note:  Starting off the New Year/2010 with a piece of humor, but maybe a factual report on my humble beginning.  1935, when I was conceived, wasn’t any better than 1936 when I arrived on a cold day in February.  As I’ve been told, I really didn’t want to come out, preferred remaining in warm, cramped quarters.  Now here it is, 2010, all of seventy-three years later and, voila, it’s sort of like 1936 again, though survivors of The Depression have said “This ain’t nothin’.”  Well, it’s surely something, but slowly, surely, and with a generous topping of hope, we’ll come out of this stronger than ever.  No, maybe not stronger, but hopefully wiser. If you’re into praying, pray that our leaders learn from past mistakes, one being, it’s easier to start a war than finish it. Been some damned dumb mistakes made in this last decade, mainly by people who should have known better.  End of sermon:  Happy Year 2010, to one and all.

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City Boy Visits a Farm

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

I visited a farm once.

Tobacco was the crop.

As I recall, hazily,

They also had

Farm animals,

All much larger

Than I’d imagined.

A horse kicked

My brother in the head.

He was never

Right again.

Or did the horse

Kick me instead?

I can’t be sure.

It’s the reason

I never liked vegetables.

They grow on farms.

It’s also the reason

I don’t ride horses.

They grow on farms, too.

Note:  Goes to show what I know about farms and its inhabitants.  Fortunately, over the years, some of my work colleagues and close friends grew up on farms and were kind enough to suffer my questions.  Their answers provided a liberal education such that I’m glad I didn’t grow up on a farm as they did – too damned much work involved.  When asked if they’d ever consider going back, say, after retirement, not a single taker.  That was then, this is now.  The poem, though broadly drawn, is essentially a true retelling.

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The Fool and Three Wishes

Monday, December 28th, 2009

The Fool was having trouble sleeping,

which wasn’t normal for a fool.

But the Fool had done a good deed that day,

whisking a dog from the path of a car.

The dog, more foolish even than the Fool,

ran off to play, the way stray dogs do.

This night, the Fool tossed and turned

recalling the close call with the dog.

In the midst of his sleeplessness,

a Voice whispered in the Fool’s ear:

Oh, Fool, for your good deed

you may have three wishes.

The Fool sat bolt upright,

not believing his ears.

Again, the Voice whispered to him:

Fool, you may have three wishes.

Being a fool, the Fool covered his ears

and screamed, “For one, shut up!”

The Voice, offended, spoke not again.

The Fool lay back down, contented.

But the Fool tossed and turned all night,

lamenting that he was such a fool.

Note:  I wrote this poem some time ago, trying to gain momentum to write something – anything! – for children, which is not my knack.  This is what happened.  I’d be interested to know what you think….even if you think I’m a fool!

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