your passing, quite a shock,

your life suddenly over.

We lost touch these past few years,

and that’s regrettable — my fault

more than yours, certainly.

Your life scrolls before me in segments

familiar only to you and me,

nothing monumental.

But there were times we had fun,

together, and I’ll remember

our funny moments.

Life is over for you, gone,

but you’re on my mind, will be,

as long as I have one.

(Published in a 2010 issue of Pegasus Magazine)

That’s how 2011 has gone, losing way too many people — family members and friends.  This poem is written to all, not with any one person in mind:  Doris, Mary, Pat, Bill, and five or six others.  It’s a year I won’t forget but wish I could, for the sake of those gone.  The memories of each one lives on.

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Note:  This poem is unpublished.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/talking-to-my-many-selves/ http://www.billrobertspoet.com/talking-to-my-many-selves/#comments Tue, 21 Sep 2010 21:29:09 +0000 Bill Roberts http://www.billrobertspoet.com/?p=302 Likely you’ll consider it weird,

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.

loved ones who’ve moved to the clouds.

Billowy Grandma most often,

her 12-egg lemon pound cake in hand.

Fast-moving Mama, always in such

a hurry to attend to the next family duty.

Dawdling Papa, reading from a fluffy

stack of books, including the inevitable potboiler.

Brother Max, drifting erratically after

pretending to take Ritalin, disordered bipolarity.

Shrewd sister Emma, the wispy family

matriarch, asking why we’re all so middle-class.

Mysterious older brother Howard, whom I met

only three times – he now floats by weekly.

So many aunts and uncles, usually forming

overhead as if at another family reunion.

Lost friends reappearing, even threatening

bully Pete, about to rain blows on me again.

Teachers, dear teachers, never forgotten for

their wisdom, now challenging me up there.

And the dogs, all my dogs – scampering along

as if once more I’ll give chase someday.

There’s something about clouds, so familiar,

so tempting to fly up, be there with them.

(Published online in 2009 in The Stray Branch)

Note:  I often write family-friend remembrances such as this, always slightly different, especially after the loss of someone close.  A month ago, I lost sister Carolyn Patricia, beloved Patsy, who was like a surrogate mother to me and my younger siblings, Jimmy, GeeGee and Betty.  There is much to write about her and it will come soon.  She is painfully missed, by me and all of those she touched.  Farewell, Beloved Carolyn Patricia.

his lightbulb flashed E equals m

times c squared, accounting for

the extra energy created when neutrons

begin to multiply like radioactive rabbits

during an angry nuclear excursion.

But, sacre bleu, m stands not for mass

but for money, c for collusion, not

collision, to Albert’s embarrassment.

George Gamow also badly missed

the target when he envisioned his lewd

Big Bang Theory, aka the Beginning

of the Universe and related destinations.

What he didn’t understand was that

it was Mom and Dad who mothered and

fathered Big Bang, creating G.G. himself.

Leonardo da Vinci was so befuddled by

scientific nightmares that he painted

his most lasting enigma, the curious

smile on the placid face of Mona Lisa,

a peripatetic prostitute and soothsayer.

Mona of smiling face soothsaw that she

and Leo would get serious, freezing for-

ever that smile so beloved by multitudes

of adoring Japanese tourists to the Louvre.

My own theory, in all humbleness, is that

Albert and George and Leonardo would

have made strange bedfellows in today’s

world, their gifts to science ignored by

modern Super-Thinkers – Leonardo di

Caprio, George W. Bush and Albert

Capone, all fiduciaries of the Big Bang.

(Published on 6/21/10 online by Marquis Cafeteria Round Table)

Note:  Just a piece of fluff, the “science” of the piece garbled on purpose.  Long ago, I did attend a lecture by Mr. Big Bang himself, George Gamow, at George Washington University.  It was curious to see how a genius operates:  though brilliant, Mr. G. smoked while onstage (a no-no), didn’t know how to tie his shoes and had to have assistance to blow up a balloon.  I ran into many folks like him – and thank goodness for them! – while a consultant at the infamous Los Alamos Laboratories in New Mexico.

my mother would ruin

a perfectly good slice of cantaloupe

by dousing it with pepper

until the flesh turned black.

That was then, this is now.

Now, with age, I’ve added pepper

to my repertoire, always fresh-

ground, to season a salad,

crust a grilled steak, flavor pasta

coated with tomato-based sauce,

sprinkle liberally on fried eggs

and the side of grits, even dust

lightly the peanut butter I smear

on my toast – it adds a little s0mething!

Ah, yes, you guessed it – I have

also graduated to grinding pepper

over cantaloupe slices, till

the natural color turns charcoal.

I am, after all, my mother’s child.

(Published, I believe, in 2008 in the wonderful online magazine, Slow Trains)

Note:  My mother rained pepper on almost everything she ate, to the point where it seemed all she would taste was the pepper.  I’ve followed somewhat closely in her gustatory misstep with pepper, though not to the point of killing off all other flavor.  Funny that….don’t know if my sisters and brothers have done the same or not.  Our breakfast growing up often was a big plate of freshly cooked rice, topped with crumbled up bacon and a generous slab of butter.  Lots of salt and pepper, of course, too.  Might have been the Oklahoma (from whence my mother cameth) equivalent to cereal, the poor person’s oatmeal.  For quite a long spell there I was sure we were part Chinese.

so he hasn’t had quite enough years

to really get to know Mary,

my mother-in-law, whose funeral

service he’s guiding this cold morning.

Of course, when he visited with her

over the past four years they gabbed

but never quite made contact

because Mary’s communication system

had irreparably malfunctioned:

Alzheimer’s, the great divider.

He’s happily chatting away now up there

in the pulpit about another important

old lady in his life, his grandmother,

whose home at the beach in New Jersey

he loved to visit until she introduced

him to death at age eight, about the same

time he was getting close with God.

He told God he wouldn’t stay with his

grandmother any more if He’d let her

live, and he found out that God

doesn’t make deals like that.

It was a nice story, put a lighter touch

on the funeral.  Mary would have loved it.

I know she would have loved Father

Guido, too.  After the funeral, we all

went for a drive to the beach.

(Published in the Piedmont Literary Review, Vol, XXII, Number 2, 1999)

Note:  Another poem about my dear mother-in-law, Mary Kjersgaard, one of the true loves of my life.  It was a painful four years for Irene and me while Mary wound down to that dreaded invader, Alzheimer’s.  She’s been gone for quite a few years now, but never forgotten.  Her joyous, loving spirit still sustains us.

I was handsome, virile,

strong as an ox

and worked like a slave

because I was a slave -

handsome, virile and strong.

Because I outworked my fellow

slaves, and possibly because

I had all my teeth

and preferred the ladies

to the laddies,

I was chosen as The Chosen One -

the fellow bestowed with the honor

of capping the Pyramid at Cheops

with its uppermost stone.

This really killed me, it really did.

Two lessons:  (1) avoid pyramid schemes

and (2) never be a slave to anything.

(Published in the Fall/Winter 2007 issue of The Homestead Review)

Note:  Is this a message poem?  Read the last two lines again for the answer.  Just a fun poem, again linking me to that mysterious subject, reincarnation.  Do I believe in reincarnation?  I don’t, but all my previous selves do.

Let’s face it:

Our business

In this country

Is the business of war.

We make weapons,

We sell weapons,

We like to use weapons,

Keeping WMD hidden in reserve.

The stock market climbs,

The economy thrives,

Millionaires become billionaires -

All’s right with our world.

Our President knows

Who we are,

How we respond,

Our natural inclination.

We thrive on war,

Launch into one willingly.

Hell, who’s next?

Bring ‘em on!

Note:  Just got nostalgic today for the good old days.  Don’t you miss George Bush and his gang of terrorists?  Naw, didn’t think so.

Continued to grow,

Wilder and wilder,

Petunias and marigolds and

Pansies peeking through

Weeds grown so thick

The flowers looked like

Prisoners peeking through bars,

Thanks to abundant rain

And my grandmother’s

Inability to leave the second

Floor where she was held

Prisoner in her room

Overlooking the garden,

Things growing wilder

As she too grew weaker,

Choked off from life,

Just like her precious flowers,

By wild, uncontrollable

Growing things.

(Published in the July 2002 issue of Offerings)

Note:  Just in the mood recently to write about loved ones lost.  I’ve written so much about my dear grandmother and her garden, which was maybe  a metaphor of life for her.  To watch that garden go the way it did after she began going downhill was another slow death to witness.  Oh, if only I had this love of growing things back then that I have now.  At least she, Emma Bartlett Boswell Roberts, left me her rich inheritance – the love of working in a garden.  Thanks, Grandma.