Bill Roberts, Poet

Wild West

Friday, December 11th, 2009

It takes practice

to ride a cactus.

City slickers

feel the stickers.

Real cowgirls and cowboys

don’t make the OW! noise.

They ride ‘em hard,

never get scarred.

You too can ride….

if you have a tough hide!

(Published originally in the wonderful children’s magazine, Cricket, quite a few years ago when I used Bartlett Boswell as my pseudonym)
Note:  I often use this poem to warm up an audience when I recite.  To get them in the mood, I suggest they imagine themselves as six-year-olds again, wearing a cowboy/cowgirl outfit, sixshooter tucked in a sagging holster, staring up at one of those gigantic saguaro types of cactus with its many prickly arms, and the cactus stares down at them, repeating this poem of warning.  Would I enjoy being a kid again, say, just for a few minutes?  Wouldn’t we all?

Posted in Children, Country-western, Humor, Nostalgia, Uncategorized | 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.

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

In the Sticks

Wednesday, November 25th, 2009

Never once did it occur to me,

my love, that we’d end up

living in the sticks as we do.

A creature of the Nation’s Capital,

where I was born (probably one

of few who’ll admit to it),

I grew up with symphony orchestras,

visiting dignitaries, the up-and-down

Redskins, the ne’er-do-well Senators,

or Nationals as they’re now called,

guys who play at baseball, people

of all colors and creeds and hair styles -

a veritable hodge-podge of humanity

where everyone was so different

no one was thought to be different.

Then New York City, the Polished Big

Apple, with you for three dizzying years

before heading west, stopping first

in Denver where restaurants served

steaks, big steaks for big appetites,

and now finally in this burg, Broomfield,

or Field of Brooms, as I prefer to call it -

not at all a bad place but, baby, it’s

the sticks.  But you know something?

I love sticks.  And I love livin’ in ‘em.

(Published online in the Spring 2008 issue of Octopus Beak Inc. – now defunct)

Note:  A poem of love of small-town life and living.  After New York City and Washington, D.C., plus visits to Paris, Rome, Vienna, London, Dublin, Barcelona, Istanbul, Jerusalem, San Francisco and so many other fabulous cities around the country and world, it’s a total pleasure to settle down in the Field of Brooms.  Here we have access to the cultural and culinary pleasures of Boulder west, Denver south, as well as Denver International Airport for almost anywhere else in the world.  Life is easier, more contented here.  Take my word for it, please – just hesitate before you come calling.  We want small to remain small.  And the sticks ain’t the sticks with too many hicks.

Posted in Humor, Love, That's Life | No Comments »

The Dirty Boogie

Tuesday, November 24th, 2009

Being an older guy in Florida

has its advantages.  Sometimes.

I sauntered into The Vixens Bar

and all I saw were ladies – all

different shades, shapes and ages.

Not a single guy, just me, single

for the evening, as it happened.

Most were dancing, boogieing

at the moment to loud music,

swinging and swirling, having

a good old time, happy looking,

not the downer types of widows

I often encountered at other bars.

I sat at the bar, ordered a Bud,

studied the field, and tapped

a younger lady nearby on her

deeply tanned shoulder, asked

if she’d care to do some dancing.

She looked me up and down,

apparently didn’t like what she

saw but said, “Sure, but not

with you, Bub – this is an all-

ladies club, get my drift?”

I paid up quickly, and boogied

to the safety of the parking lot.

(Published in 2007 in the Quercus Review)

Note:  This is a piece of flimsy whimsy – at least, I’m rarely seen in Florida.  This piece of trivial pursuit was inspired by the memory of living in Greenwich Village in the early Sixties, a brownstone house at 65 Perry Street, where I could walk to work about ten blocks down Hudson Street in NYC.  We spent all our money, Irene and I, with so much to do in The City.  One cold night on the way home, we ducked into a boisterous, jam-packed bar, sat at the bar and tried to get served.  The barkeep kept passing us by, waiting on newcomers he knew, seemed happy to see.  Irene caught on, tugged my sleeve, said, “Let’s get out of here – it’s a gay bar.”  Damn, I felt foolish, looking around, not finding a single female, not even one in drag.  Education comes in many forms, often when we’re not prepared for it.

Posted in Human Nature, Humor, Nostalgia | No Comments »

The Lost Streetcars

Friday, November 20th, 2009

Lucky for me I got to know

some of the conductors

who courageously maneuvered

those old rattletraps I loved

so much along the tracks

in otherwise quiet, war-time D.C.

You could hear them coming

they made so much clatter.

When one of the streetcar drivers

regognized me, alone at a stop,

he’d often chime his bell

a few times in welcome.

I had no special destination,

though we’d go either to Union

Station downtown or way out

to Glen Echo’s amusement park.

The bumpy ride was the thing,

as well as the view, going or coming.

The stiff seats were covered with

crosshatched cane strips, often

worn through, stuffing coming out.

When we reached the end of the line,

we were supposed to push the back

forward, face the opposite direction.

If the cars weren’t crowded, those

friendly old drivers would let me

keep my seat back in place, so I’d

be able to watch where we’d been

rathter than where we were headed.

Not a bad idea, come to think of it.

(Published in the Fall 2008 issue of Bellowing Ark)

Note:  Thank goodness for publications like Bellowing Ark that appreciate nostalgia, the way things used to be.  Maybe more small press publications should be so appreciative, though consider what happens when you mention the initials JFK, LBJ or MM to a kid, not to mention AARP!  – total lack of understanding.  But I remember as a kid going with a parent to the open-air market right near Washington Circle in D.C., someone telling me, Abe Lincoln used to shop here too, not all that long ago. Abe Lincoln?  Who’s he?  So, dumb is as old as you are.  But, gosh, those streetcars were fun to ride, clicketty-clacking along.  For those of you who only know buses and/or subways, you missed a great thrill.  So did Abe Lincoln, whoever he was.

Posted in Humor, Nostalgia, Travel | No Comments »

Parents

Friday, November 20th, 2009

Parents were adults in my life

who seemed to delight in fighting,

physically, blood often drawn,

then make up behind a locked door

to their steamy upstairs bedroom.

After peace was made, usually

of short duration, we’d share a meal

of Dad’s favorites, usually Kosher

hotdogs, that he’d buy at the open

arcade, and New York sharp cheese.

Odd this combination – the food,

I mean – though my mother and

father were a strange pairing, too,

my Mom a farm girl from Oklahoma,

Dad, a Depression city boy of D.C.

What drew them to one another is one

of those mysteries of nature that

may never te explained, their chemistries

and physics so different, but their

physical magnetism worked wonders.

Me. It produced me, my being created

forced them into hasty marriage by a rabbi,

though neither of them was Jewish,

my father’s generous hooked nose

the product of evolution in Great Britain.

My mother’s IQ no doubt was closer to

half that of my father’s, but by some gift

of innate womanly wisdom she was able

to outsmart him on most occasions,

beginning with the expectation of me.

(Published in the 2008 issue of MOBIUS:  The Poetry Magazine)
Note:  How much could I write about my wonderful yet combative mother and father?  Several volumes, I’m sure.  They do figure prominently in my book-in-the-making, “Sneaking Out On the Rent,” along with other unforgettable characters.  At least they’re unforgettable to me.  I’m amazed at my memory for details of people, places, incidents, most of them minor, probably major at the time of happening.  But “truth,” as told in my poems from memory, is a curious bird – it doesn’t always fly too high with others who share the same memories.  My sisters in particular are fond of telling me, “It didn’t happen like that, Billy.”  Silly Billy, I’ll probably never outgrow the name.  Oh, my Mom could stop Dad in his tracks whenever there was a face-to-face confrontation, he the voluble wordsmith.  He’d be mouthing off, telling Mom all of her shortcomings, when suddenly she’d put up a hand, silence him, then say, “Kiss ass, Willy.”  He never, never once, was able to come up with a rejoinder.  Nice goin’, Mom.

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Last to Leave

Thursday, November 19th, 2009

Unless it’s a riotous comedy,

I’m usually the last to leave

a movie theater, hesitantly

walking down the steps

from the uppermost row.

My mother passed along this gift

of crying at the slightest

provocation, the reaction

to abuse, misuse or tragedy -

even sudden upbeat endings.

Is it weakness for a man to cry?

I used to think so, so I formed

the habit of reading final credits

to their end, wiping my eyes,

donning my pilot’s sunglasses.

What makes it worse is that

my wife has the same affliction,

considerably more noticeable

than mine, causing us often to stay

seated till the floorsweepers come.

“Juno” was the last tearjerker we saw

together, along with dozens of kids

in their teens enjoying Sex Ed 101,

none of them crying, just laughing

as they left.  Lucky dumbbells.

(Published online in a Fall 2008 issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  To say that Irene and I get caught up in the moment of a drama, so to speak, is understatement.  I try my hardest to believe what I’m seeing (or hearing or reading), to gain greater impact from movie, play, opera, book or whatever.  Of course, a price has to be paid for such emotion – a two-hour movie usually lasts 2-1/2 hours for us.  The great American poet, Shoshauna Shy, e-mailed me after reading this poem and said the last two words, “Lucky dumbbells,” knocked her out.  It is a heartfelt statement:  those kids were lucky, but dumbbells certainly.

Posted in Children, Human Nature, Humor, Movies | No Comments »

At the Old Poets Convention

Tuesday, November 17th, 2009

– to Helen, whose beauty is to me like those Nicean barks of yore…

At the Old Poets Convention

This year we elected

A new Heroic Poet to lead us

Into the uncertain stanzas ahead.

It was close, Edgar Allan Poe

Edging our Allen Ginsberg,

Whose rants most of us thought

To be too tired, predictable.

Time to return to Nevermore,

The tintinnabulation of the belles,

None finer than Annabel Lee,

Or so quoth the Raven.

Oh, this next glorious year

Should be like the good old

Days, days, days, days,

Days, days, days.

I saw thee once, Edgar Allan -

Once only – years ago.

You’ve returned to the Haunted

Palace, old time entombed forever.

(Published onlie in 2008 in Slow Trains)

Note:  Can you tell I prefer Poe to Ginsberg?  Truly, I like all poets and never met a poem I didn’t like.  People who write poetry, good or not so good, are thinkers.  You have to think before you write a poem.  And, oh, it always helps if you have something of substance to say.  What am I saying in this poem?  Just a whimsical recalling of lines and words assembled as the Old Master, Edgar Allan, might have put them had the demons not gotten to him at so young an age.  A highlight of my life was visiting Poe’s dormitory room at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.  What an experience and what a beautiful place.  I’m sure I saw his ghost, felt its presence anyway.  And heard vaguely, off in the distance, the admonition….Nevermore.

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

Floored

Monday, November 16th, 2009

It was just my bad fortune

that Bert Sugar found me

punching the light bag

that lazy summer afternoon

after he’d returned from camp

with Sugar Ray or Joe Louis

himself, the other kids having

already left Police Boys’ Club

Number Ten where I was a

three-sport star at 105 pounds,

none of the sports involving

the clumsy boxing gloves Bert

begged me to put on to go a few

rounds with him, as he put it.

Poor Bert:  overweight, not a gifted

athlete, and too often picked on

by bullies like Pete Chaconas who

tried to drown him in the pool

at Central Junior High one day.

We danced around a bit, me tired

from a day’s worth of play,

when suddenly Bert landed two

light left jabs, stinging me,

then whoom, he crossed with

a vicious right that landed on

my cheek, lifted me in the air,

and sent a curl of snot flying

as I fell leadenly on my back.

I didn’t mind the vengeance so

evident in Bert’s smirk, but his

incessant counting – “…thirty-one,

thirty-two, thirty-three…” -

irritated the hell out of me.

(Published in the May 2008 online issue of Chantarelle’s Notebook)

Note:  This is one of my favorite memories, showing you can take things for granted (e.g., me, the gifted athlete) and then get punched silly.  I think Bert counted to a hundred before bending to help me back to my wobbly feet.  Bert Sugar, who is he?  Well, he went on to become an All-American rugby player at Michigan for starters, earned a J.D. degree, bought and elevated the stature of Ring Magazine for many years, all the while improving the image of boxing.  Regarded these days as the guru of boxing worldwide, he’s often seen and heard giving expert commentary on ESPN, sometimes also appearing in movies with pal Robert De Niro.  And oh, nearly forgot – he’s written nearly 100 (count ‘em out) highly successful books on various sporting activities.  We still talk by phone occasionally and he only confesses to counting up to 10 over my prone body there at the boys’ club in D.C.  I get woozy thinking about it.

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