Bill Roberts, Poet

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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A Sort of Christmas Story

Friday, December 18th, 2009

We were planning to head East, to

hometown D.C., to see friends, then

onward to Ocean City to stay with

Brother Jim and Laurie in their high-

rise, the fourteenth floor at the beach.

The latter sort of reminds me of all

those old folks forsaking their even

higher-rises in frigid New York City,

moving down to Miami Beach to

sequester themselves on the forty-ninth

floor, excellent view of sand and water.

But I got a call from kid sister in Mesa,

Arizona, saying she was ill – stage-four

ovarian cancer, she sounding like

maybe this was the closing act of her

slow-but-steady drama through life.

Once a kid sister, always the kid.

So, plans shifted and we were there

with her gigantic Mormon family night

before hysterectomy-plus, the plus

the great unknown, to be determined.

After a big Mexican take-out meal

hosted by eldest daughter, my sis just

observing, no intake of jalapeno flavors,

two sons, a son-in-law and husband

performed a “blessing,” perhaps a

secret Mormon ritual that wife and I

were allowed to witness, the four men

stationed north, east, south and west

of kid sis, all hands on her head as

they alternately prayed for deliverance.

Moving doesn’t do the blessing justice,

its simplicity and honesty so electric.

Next afternoon, the operation was

performed with a DaVinci robot,

through belly button and two sets of

holes either side, with a wash of belly

cavity to secure biopsy fluids and tissue.

Sis was home again within 24 hours,

feeling better than she did after any of

five rambunctious children – even hungry.

Her CA-125 blood indicator for cancer

started off the chart at 1,675, plummeted to

14 after the third chemotherapy, within

normal range and quite unprecedented.

Biopsy results a few days later showed no

further evidence of Big C or its spread.

A miracle in early December, just weeks

before Christmas, the news a blessing.

I don’t know if Mormons have special

powers, other than the magnificence of

family magnetism and beauty, but I,

semi-heathen that I am, have to admit

this Christmas is special, a gift, something

one might read in the Bible or whatever

it was you were made to study religiously

in your youth, probably foreseeing the day

you’d be free to follow your own path.

I will look for a star in the West – not East -

this Christmas, won’t be surprised when

I don’t find it because it showed up early.

Note:  The poem says it all, can’t add very much.  If miracles happen, sister Bee’s experience surely is one of them.  With great joy, Irene and I wish all of our family and friends peace, joy and good health to close out the year and throughout the new year, 2010.

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The Secret to a Successful Marriage

Thursday, December 17th, 2009

Now that I’ve captured your attention,

you’ll probably expect me to reveal

how it happens that I’ve been married

happily for the most part to the same

woman these past forty-eight years.

Sorry that I’ve misled you and probably

will disappoint you – I simply don’t know

how it happened….but it did, and my

wife and I are living testimony that it

can happen – stay happily married, I mean.

Maybe it was because we got to know

one aonther in those two years before

we got married and settled down, so to

speak, though we never really have done

that, settled down, taken anything for granted.

We contest nearly everything, even after

reaching the point where we trust one

another’s judgment (though mine isn’t

always to be trusted – to wit:  clothing I buy

without aforethought from mail order ‘zines).

It’s simply that we like pretty much the same

things – music, travel, food, drink, people,

books, movies, plays – and avoid pretty much

the same things – religion, politics, TV shows,

cell phones, joining groups, and most effluvia.

We’re not the same, and vive la difference.

So, don’t try to sell either one of us on crap

that’s unimportant and won’t figure into our

lives. We just don’t buy it.  We’ve heard it

all, seen most of it, and are set in our ways.

That said, let’s get down to the real secret.

We still enjoy sex.  And with one another!

Is that truly the secret?  Of course not.

We really just enjoy being with each other,

hugs and kisses – just not all the damned time.

(Published in the Fall 2006 online issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  The poem says it all, no further explanation needed.  Oh, and by the way – we’ve been married now going on 52 years in February 2010 – to repeat, happily for the most part.

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Chocolate Lips

Wednesday, December 16th, 2009

You don’t fool me with your pouty lips,

painted so carelessly with sticky chocolate

from a candy bar or ice cream on a stick.

You want me and everyone passing by

to notice you.  I do and chuckle at

the sensation you’ve made of your sweet face.

Soon enough, little girl, you’ll grow up and

put on real lipstick – shocking pink or mouth-

watering red, maybe bittersweet brown -

applied with precision, provoking passersby

to notice you and your moist, puckered lips,

ready for a whispered secret, even a kiss.

Then soon enough you’ll advance to an age

where those precious lips will tell quite

another tale, mouth crinkled and again

smeared with chocolate, quivering,

perhaps repeating a long-ago endearment.

May God bless your sweet chocolate lips.

(This poem was published somewhere, sometime, somehow, but who knows where and when?)

The inspiration for this poem is the image of so many kids, girls and boys, who eat chocolate, or any sweet for that matter, with gusto, carefree of the aftermath of their indulgence.  Life should be carefree for the young.  Well, to an extent.  Can’t believe the incredible freedom I enjoyed growing up in Georgetown, D.C., during the Second World War.  Wouldn’t doubt that my face was always smudged with some sort of candy remnant, though our choices were far fewer.  How far we’ve come, how little we’ve changed.  So be it.

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The Never Again Lady

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

I’m in love with a raven-haired woman

I saw in a movie not long ago.

She visits me frequently in sleep, seeking

my protection.  It was an amateur movie,

made by professional killers during a war,

depicting life, or the moments before

the end of life, at one of their camps

of concentration outside Germany.

This lovely woman was completely

naked, visibly terrified, attempting pitiably

to cover her breasts and black pubis.

I was mesmerized by the jumpy scenes,

stunned by the basic cruelty one people

could inflict on another, represented by

this lovely lady, beautiful even in her silent

horror, though scream she must have -

no sound accompanied the jittery footage.

The theater where this and similar films

play wasn’t a modern plex of theaters but

the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.

I confronted many horrors that sweltering day:

a ghastly-blue cattle car in which Jews

were transported, piles of old shoes,

rumpled clothing, broken eyeglasses,

and a haystack of multicolored hair,

handwritten letters questioning why

such horrors were happening, so much else

incriminating the perpetrators of so many

vile and indescribably savage acts.

I’m not sure if you’d care to visit this sacred

place that commemorates mankind’s atrocities.

Certainly the movie of that lone lady would

haunt you as it does me so many nights.

Yes, I love her, though we never met.

I miss her terribly, weep at her loss.

(Published in the Spring 2005 issue of Main Street Rag)

Note:  Our visit to the Holocaust Museum in the summer of 2003 was a deja vu event much like our first sight of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem in summer 1993 – staggering in its emotional impact.  Permitted the time now in retirement to sit and think back, it’s still hard to imagine how people – mainly the Germans but also their collaborators and supporters (many hidden behind masks of innocence) – could muster so much hatred to wantonly kill people so horribly as they did.  You have to pause and reflect:  those villains were human, highly cultured, advanced thinkers, yet they practiced a mass murder tirade the likes of which defy any reason whatsoever.  And today, we find those who, likemindedly, say it, the Holocaus, never happened.  Oh, my.  To those I say, visit the Museum in D.C., see for yourselves….if you dare.  The woman I describe in the poem was very real, still visits me on occasion.  Try as I might, alas, I can offer no protection.  It’s too late.  Best I can do is remember, as all good people must.

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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.

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Facing the Future

Sunday, November 22nd, 2009

Look at them, so young,

so happy – my parents

before I knew them.

So much hope

in those faces

in a year of little promise, 1936.

Ah, youth.

How little they knew

of the future

in spite of

the Great Depression

that drew them together.

Had they known,

they might have skipped

posing for the photographer.

(Published in Pegasus Magazine in 2008)

Note:  Ah, my mother and father, so unalike yet so attracted to one another, physically of course, which causes the world to keep spinning.  In spite of their mini-battles and major skirmishes during World War Two, they made peace often enough to create me, brother Jim, and sisters GeeGee and Bee/Betty during steamy truces.  What draws two people together, what pushes them apart?  The age old questions, too deep for me to fathom.  But I loved them both, in spite of their shortcomings.  Oh, yes indeed, mine, too.

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