Bill Roberts, Poet

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.

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Mystery Solved

Monday, November 2nd, 2009

Her whereabouts no longer a mystery:

the Perfect Woman.

I’ve followed leads, seemingly solid clues,

suspicions, red herrings

all my life, but to no avail.

I’d nearly given up hope.

Check that – I had given up hope.

Until one day the answer came.

Not as you might expect -

in the mail, on television’s 60 Minutes,

a holy man whispering in my good ear,

a televangelist placing twitchy hands

on my discombobulated head.

Oh no, not the usual avenues

of sudden intelligence (certainly

not from a how-to course for seniors or,

horrors, a poetry workshop).

It just occurred to me one morning:

there is no perfect woman!

Eureka! The answer so simple,

so elusive so many years.

I deduced this from a lifelong study

of my fellow man -

not a single one perfect.

But by any measure,

woman comes the closest.

(Published in the November 2009 online issue of Flutter Poetry Journal)

Note:  Of course, this is hyperbole….or is it?  Personally, I’d much rather look at a woman than a man.  Maybe that’s why I’m losing interest in football (unless the game is played by teams of coeds).  A dirty old man by nature doesn’t have to be dirty, just old.  This is a poem meant to take a funny turn at the end, one of my signatures, I suppose.

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Just Watch Out For Side Effects

Thursday, October 29th, 2009

Not sure I like these truth-in-advertising

statements that tag along on TV when

a promising product is introduced.

Sure to cure a nagging headache before

you can whistle “Dixie.”  Just watch out

for a sudden outbreak of hives – with real bees!

Take two tablets first thing in the morning,

and by noon your nervous twitching will be

forgotten.  Alas, all memory also may be erased.

Your infant’s cries will subside normally with

the Taste-Just-Like-Mom Pacifier, but….

an allergic reaction to Mom also may result.

Remove unwanted wrinkles the easy way

with Top-Knot Skin Stretcher, but be sure

to release the knot before using heavy machinery.

You’ll be gratified with Jiffy-Stiff.

For erections lasting 24 hours or more,

stand rigid in a cool, dry, dark, lonely place.

Dr. Sproul’s Stool Softener works overnight.

If it works so well movements won’t stop,

double-dose our sister product, Jiffy-Stiff.

(Published online in the 2/26/09 issue of Sunken Lines)

Note:  A poem written entirely for fun, which could have included dozens of other new “products.”  I’m always intrigued by those anti-depressant products that tell you to be cautious if you develop suicidal tendencies.  Indeed!

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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.

Posted in Health, Human Nature, Humor, Science | No Comments »

The Appliance Coroner

Monday, October 26th, 2009

You really can’t know the meaning

of deprivation these days until

your microwave burns out, as ours did,

in the middle of reheating the morning coffee,

a practice with pseudo-religious significance.

It suddenly flashed an ominous blue light,

then spluttered, smoked and sighed,

too early in the cycle to ruminate

over its untimely death with

a second cup of Monsoon Malabar Gold.

Only a teenager, thirteen, same age as

our once-new house, and a top-of-the-line GE,

appliances are not what they used to be,

says my wife, who knows about appliances

except, that is, how to fix them.

The repair man, otherwise known as

The Appliance Coroner and well known to us

lately since everything seems to have

a lifespan of thirteen more or less years,

prays for the dead then renders his bill.

Sixty-nine dollars, the same as last month

when he administered last rites to a clothes drier.

A new microwave will cost six hundred bucks,

installation of new and removal of old included,

plus a promise that we’ll see him again soon.

(Published in the 2/26/09 online issue of 0f Sunken Lines Magazine)

Note:  Not surprisingly, this poetic piece was the result of too many of our appliances suddenly stiffening up and dying after living with us in our “new” house for thirteen years.  We have one of the early blenders, inherited from a sister in law fifty years ago, that still works!  Hence, “they don’t make ‘em like they used to.”  Hell, in this country they don’t even make ‘em any more.

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Applying the Scientific Method

Saturday, October 24th, 2009

Describe Experiment

I went to a country-western joint to meet girls and dance.

Most of the girls were women, with men.

They danced with me anyway.

Until the joint closed.

Parameters of Experimentation

I figured, go for broke – hold nothing back.

Each dance turned out to be a two-step.

Once I tried jitterbugging, to no avail.

Two-stepping is better in cowboy boots, not sneakers.

List Results

A scientist seemed welcome in this environment.

I danced with a new gal each number.

The guys looked relieved, consumed lots of beer.

2:00 A.M. closing came mighty early.

Conclusions

Country-western joints are accessible for socialization.

Though strenuous, dancing is aerobic exercise.

I would certainly consider repeating the experiment.

After recovery from the skull fracture.

(Published online in the April 2009 issue of Thick With Conviction and nominated for online poem of the year)

Note:  This was just a fun exercise to somehow apply my scientific background into an arena with which I’m only vaguely familiar, country-western music and dancing.  I grew up with country music in the Delmarva area surrounding D.C., heard many country stars on the way up, and am getting back to these “roots” again late in life.  Country-western makes me want to dance but, alas, I don’t own cowboy boots.  Still, I’m an aficionado of dance, all kinds, from two-stepping, ballet, modern (a la Pilobolus and so many others), ballroom, backroom, even dancing with the stars (as long as they’re overhead, not those out-of-work faded stars on TV).

Posted in Country-western, Dance, Humor, Science | 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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