Bill Roberts, Poet

Giving It Up

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010

– for Maxie

Maxie couldn’t have been happier

than he was the day our sister got married.

I picked him up at the hospital

as I usually did most Saturday mornings,

then headed directly for my apartment

where his new outfit awaited him:

brown wool suit, white shirt, rakish red

tie and matching pocket hanky,

sleek brown loafers with tassels –

even new socks and underwear.

He looked spectacular when finished,

even more handsome than sister Eileen’s

husband-to-be, who was plagued

by the jitters, as was fretful Eileen,

whose chief concern was Maxie.

I made sure Maxie swallowed two

Ritalin tablets, then my wife gave him

a final once over before we left

for the groom’s parents’ church.

Maxie circulated with snacks at the reception,

danced with every willing female,

and charmed everyone who noticed him –

many didn’t, because he fit right in,

regardless of the demons he suppressed.

His smiling mug showed up in many

of the wedding pictures, testaments

to his having enjoyed a wonderful day.

I picked him up again a week later,

expecting him to be wearing his new duds

but found him instead deep in thought

in his usual uniform, scruffy cottons.

Maxie said one of the other patients

had a sister who was getting married,

so he’d given away the suit and accessories.

I silently cursed his misguided generosity, but

finally gave it up when I saw how

genuinely pleased with himself he seemed.

Note:  Golly, Miss Molly, another too-true story.  Maxie, movie-star handsome, came down with the too frequent affliction of young men in those days, paranoid schizophrenia.  After nearly ten years in a mental hospital, the infamous St. Elizabeth’s in Washington, D.C., he began coming out of his long funk of  non-communication after starting on what would later become known as the miracle drug Ritalin.  Returning home most weekends, he came back to family but was, of course, never quite the same.  This incident of dear sister Eileen’s wedding had to be one of the highlights of his tormented life – a day of great merriment for him and for us, his family.  Alas, his dosage of Ritalin was said to be a hundred times what today is normally prescribed for patients and, after too few years, killed him.  We had him back for too short a while.  Good to remember a happy day, Eileen and Dave having recently celebrated fifty years of married life together.

(Published in Into the Teeth of the Wind, Vol. II, Issue 2-3, 2001)

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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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A Day Is Long

Sunday, February 14th, 2010

–from Peter Lieberson’s “Neruda Songs”

A day is long sometimes.

When winter lasts too long.

When silence invades, occupies.

When birds fear to return.

A day is long when work wearies.

When morning comes too early.

When fatigue sets in midday.

When on the lone ride home.

A day is long as children grow.

When all homework is done.

When they leave for school.

When they find their mates.

A day is long as life lumbers on.

When sickness strikes, stays.

When drugs are prescribed.

When fate hangs in the balance.

A day is long when word comes.

When advised of better days.

When the future is foreseen.

When you know what’s in store.

A day is long when you are gone.

When you take your leave.

When you say good-bye.

When day is finally over.

Note:  This poem is written in remembrance of Jim Peterson, whose memorial service Irene and I attended just yesterday.  A very fine man, very brave man, fighting against prostate cancer for thirteen years.  Not ones to let the stubborn foe intercede, Jim and Margaret Peterson traveled far and wide during those years, determined to get the most out of life with what was left to them.  They had great success.  Together they represent the true meaning to me of Valentine’s Day.

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My Sister’s Record Collection

Tuesday, February 9th, 2010

Just as CD’s were becoming affordable,

my sister gave me her large record collection

after Jimmy, one of her younger boys, was killed.

Jimmy had been waiting for a red light to change,

a bunch of Harley beneath him, waiting to surge,

when the drunk in too much of a hurry hit him

doing almost ninety in his Olds 88.

The coroner said he’d never before seen a

person with every bone broken until Jimmy.

Jimmy with long hair and long pauses between thoughts,

killed by a well-known man in the community,

nary a blemish on his record and still not

to have one after this nuisance of a hippie

kid without a job and little hope had gotten

in his busy path on the way home late to his

precious wife and their three darling kids who needed

their daddy more than the world needed another

unkempt kid on a Harley – no job, no promise.

The records were warped and didn’t play worth a damn

but I took them off my sister’s hands, already

moving too anxiously, in need of things to do,

to get busy again with her life, having lost

a son to a system that no longer enjoys

old records that should be broken to pieces.

(Published in The Raintown Review, January 2000 issue)

Note:  Sadly, a too true story, Jimmy one of sister Patsy’s twin boys.  They visited us in Boulder shortly before Jimmy was killed by this “solid citizen,” showed up with a pal in their love wagon, a temperamental VW bus.  Neighbors were aghast.  I was delighted – nothing I like more than surprising the neighbors.  We had a ball with the kids, though didn’t partake in any pot smoking.  Funny thing, Irene and I missed the drug generation.  Not nearly as much as I miss my nephew Jimmy.  Terrible loss.

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1936

Sunday, February 7th, 2010

It was almost too

late in the first year

of the promising

new century that

she was born there in

arid Miami -

Oklahoma, not

humid Florida.

She grew fast, married

too quickly and then

had her first brood too

quickly too, at least

too quick to give them

enough attention

or try to save them

instead of the damned

farm, which blew away

to some far off state

that needed it worse.

Two she brought with her

when she headed east,

the other three were

left to grow up more

quickly than she had

and make their way in

the not very promising

world they were all of

a sudden facing.

It was in the post

office in D.C.

that she met Dad, who

had swum ashore to

safety when the big

Depression wave hit.

Nine months and two days

later I showed up

for what appeared to

be an even less

promising future,

although in that year,

1936,

Franklin Delano

Roosevelt again

was elected, “I’ve

Got You Under My

Skin” was a big hit,

and Jesse Owens

won four gold medals

at Hitler’s Berlin

Olympic Games.  So

it really wasn’t

an entirely bad

year, I mean, what with

me being born, and

FDR, “Under

My Skin,” and Jesse

Owens being there

to help me along.

(Published in 1997 in the now-defunct George & Mertie’s Place, under the pseudonym, Bartlett Boswell)

Note:  Total conjecture on my part about being born nine months and two days after they met, my father more than magnetically attracted to my attractive mother.  That they were married hastily on a Sunday afternoon by a rabbi is another anomaly in my life – not Jewish, just in such a big hurry perhaps not to have their first-born a bastard (a name I’m still, however, often called).  What was childhood like after 1936?  Tough, but I wouldn’t trade mine with anybody, so full of adventure it was.  Helped to have a rich imagination, which often took the place of money.

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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.

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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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Assignment: Find Ernest

Thursday, January 7th, 2010

The sun also rises in Havana,

and when it did, we went in search

of Hemingway at his local haunts.

We started early, after exploring

one another’s body one more time,

with a drop-in at Harry’s Bar.

The only waiter awake at that hour

said, after pouring Coke on top of our

rum eye-openers, that Hem had disappeared.

The early lunch at Zargonana, a full bottle

of fino sherry blended with snapper turtle

soup, left us groggy and still clueless.

We took a nap in the afternoon, as Cubanos

do, and decided our next inquiry would be

at the Partagas Cigar Factory nearby.

The sweating, shirtless guys rolling those

splendid, perfect cigars told us, yeah,

Ernesto was in last month – or was it last year?

The fragrant rum distillery was peopled with

several shady characters from his novels, none

willing to talk about the Old Man or the sea.

We finally caught a glimpse of him one evening

at the Tropicana, where Nat King Cole was

playing, but the suspicious host shrugged,

opened up only after I slipped him a fin, seated us

next to Nat’s piano, and whispered that the pug

we saw was just a Hemingway impersonator.

Re-reading Hem killed the rest of our honeymoon.

(Published online in the December 2007 issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  Our diversionary search for Ernest Hemingway took place in February 1958 on our honeymoon to Havana, seeking him out at all of his known bars and hideaways.  Havana in 1958 – exotic, erotic, scary, with soon-to-be-deposed Ferdinand Batista guarding most street corners with high-piled sandbags, behind which were khaki-uniformed men carrying sub-machine guns ready to fire.  In the nearby hills, Fidel Castro and his small but loyal and growing band fired off occasional shots to remind Batista he’d soon be coming.  And he did, taking over the city less than a year after we returned to our lives in D.C. – me finishing my senior year at A.U. (plus working part-time at the National Bureau of Standards), Irene in her new security-related job at the Library of Congress.  So much to write about Havana.  ‘Twould be nice to return someday, see it again.  Friends who’ve been there recently say the decay is palpable.  In ‘58 it was evident the underclass of poor residents weren’t going to tolerate mighty Batista’s thieving shenanigans much longer.  They welcomed Fidel with open arms.  And so history is written.

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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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