to transport Dr. Sigmund Freud from Vienna

to our home on the Potomac, his last — and quite

surreptitious — analytical endeavor on this earth.

My snooping parents found me each day manipulating

the machinery in my undertogs, my crystal-ball-

gazing mother predicting I’d be blind before I was

twenty, a mere eight years from seeing Sigmund.

Sigmund noticed my trembling hands, said it was Long-

fellow’s Palsy, tell-tale sign of the masturbator, and, as

Mumsie predicted, I’d probably be blind before too long.

I admitted, to his delight, that I also play with others.

Which sex, he wanted to know, and I further admitted

both, my sight was failing and choices were quite

independent of rational thought, just free thought, as he

nodded in agreement, my ego grew to superego.

He did me no harm, Sigmund, and little good as well,

for blindness did ensue, my rational thinking slowly

advancing to irrational, my choices of sexual

partners irresponsible at the Sightless Children’s Clinic.

To my credit, though Sigmund might have disagreed,

I was the first to marry a person of the same sex,

though by then I was in my twenties, no longer

given to foreplay, simply content with companionship.

(Published online in the 6/14/11 issue of Thick With Conviction; nominated for Best of the Net 2011 on 9/16/11)

NOTE:  This poem is pure, not so simple, whimsy.  A spoof about sexual mores, an attempt to make fun of most of the old taboos — masturbation, going blind because of it,  playing with others (both sexes), and finally marrying a person of the same sex.  I would hope that Sigmund Freud would get a snicker out of it.  And, many thanks to the three brave young female editors at Thick With Conviction for recognizing an old codger enjoying horseplay involving the creative process.  Longfellow’s Palsy is pure invention, taking great liberties in my case, where Shortfellow’s Palsy may be more fitting….though not giving buoyancy to the poem.  And apologies to Dr. Freud for pretending to understand the intricacies of his theories — rational/irrational thought, ego and superego.  I am a student of the human condition but, alas, not the human brain.

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/flowers-in-the-guest-room/ http://www.billrobertspoet.com/flowers-in-the-guest-room/#comments Mon, 04 Jul 2011 18:01:33 +0000 Bill Roberts http://www.billrobertspoet.com/?p=341 Most guests are thrilled

to find fresh flowers

in a nice vase in their room

when they arrive, settle in.

Depending on the guest,

or guests, my wife chooses

which seems best suited

for the invasion, er, occasion.

Rosebuds seem to last longest,

for when a close relative lands.

Roses in bloom usually wither

in just a few days, for casuals.

Whoever the guests may be,

they’d better heed my wife’s

message via flowers:  they start

wilting, you start packing.

(Published online in Wilderness House Literary Review on July 4, 2011)

Note:  Not exactly the truth, but not a bad idea, don’t you agree?  Guests are always welcome at our humble abode….as long as they travel light, pack a small suitcase.

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.

I saw Jesus standing in an open

red convertible, long hair flying

arms stretched out as if off the cross

ready to embrace the world again.

A little old lady — Mary Magdalene? –

was hunched over the wheel

driving below the speed limit

so I pulled a U turn at the first safe spot

and sped after them, flooring it.

I wasn’t able to catch up

wondered if they’d turned off

but there were few turns

so they must have sped up

reached the city shortly before I did.

How curious.  I told my psychotherapist

and he agreed, though seemed doubtful

of the plausibility of my tale.

I saw him, Jesus, in a red convertible.

Just sorry I missed the plate number.

(Published online in the December 2010 issue of Decompression Magazine)

Note:  Did I see Jesus, you might ask.  Well, I thought I did, but the vision ain’t what it used to be.  I admit, I could have been wrong……….it could have been a yellow convertible.

Not like bumping into one another,

feeling that sudden flash

of love at first sight,

but hey, it works much the same.

Jamie and Jenna, names meant

to be paired, like Camembert

to a fine Bordeaux, so they texted,

discovered they lived close

to each other, set a time and place.

Of course, before a movie was chosen,

they discovered by textual contact

they had a lot in common -

both the same age, addicted to electronic

communication for stimulation.

They met at the 24-Plex, equidistant

between their residences, movie

pre-chosen, of little interest once it started.

During the show, to calm their nerves,

both texted other potential love interests.

(Published online in the December 2010 issue of Decompression Magazine)

Note:  I love true-to-life vignettes like this, the story told to me by wife Irene, only the names changed to protect the guilty. Guilty may not be the right word, since so many love affairs among the young are starting electronically these days.  Maybe it’s become “Love at first sight on Facebook.”  Not very romantic, if you ask me.  But you didn’t, did you.  Hey, time marches on.

dark rooms in a low adobe home

tucked away in the hills of

northern New Mexico.  Charming.

Easy to stumble over the pottery

if you’re not careful, miss

a black-and-white sketch if

your eyes don’t attune to dimness.

We’re in no hurry, meander to

and fro, studying Alvaro’s many

creations, all of them attractive,

but we meet finally at one.

A lithograph of mesquite-dotted

hills, a lone leafless tree, the very

essence of New Mexico outside

Alvaro’s home in deep winter.

As so often happens, we’re not sure.

Look about again, meet again at

the lithograph, and still can’t

make up our minds.  So we decide.

We tell Alvaro we like his lithograph

and probably will be back Friday,

three days hence, and make our

final decision then.  Okay?

Alvaro shrugs, in no hurry himself.

We drive off into the rambling hills,

feel the magic of New Mexico.

After twenty-some miles, we stop.

I turn the car around, drive back.

A tiny bell tinkles as we re-enter

Alvaro’s studio, he turning, asking,

“Oh, is it Friday already?”

(Published in the October 2010 online and print issues of Flutter Poetry Journal)

Note:  This piece about New Mexico and its magical enchantment was told to me by dear ex-New York friends, Joan and Jack Salb, so I dedicate the poem to them.  The Salbs now live in San Diego where Jack has become a prized photographer.  Check out his amazing photos from all over the world at jacksalb.com.

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.

dangerous perhaps, that

I talk silently to myself,

get answers, also in silence.

Not always the answer anticipated,

once in a while from left field,

for at one time, it appears,

I played left field for the Yankees.

Seems I’ve slaved most of my life,

working hard to save money,

relax in leisure in old age – day-

dreaming as a slave to Thomas Jefferson.

Always fearful of an early death,

as happened when crippled as

King Tut in ancient Egypt,

today I shudder as a septuagenarian.

It all started there in lush Eden,

the voluptuous Eve whispering

she preferred being the stronger one,

thereafter siphoning my masculinity.

Some might ask, Do you

believe in reincarnation?

My answer, I’m not sure, but

all my former selves seem to.

Note:  This is an unpublished poem, another in a series of “reincarnation” poems.  I study the subject, but only obliquely, not sure if indeed I do believe in it.  Dr. Brian Weiss makes a convincing case for reincarnation in his two books, the first his flagship, “Many Lives, Many Masters.”  I think I’ve given away more than fifty copies to friends and relatives, most yet remaining friends and relatives.  None, I’m sure, buy into the notion that my fantasies got started way back in the lush Garden of Eden.  Why so hard-headed, I wonder.