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.

Looking back,

the years seem like days,

a photograph of each one

makes a tidy treasure

of memories, each a reflection

to be studied, recalling

that special time together

when we….

when we….whatever you

care to recall about

being with her, Mary,

such a special person,

so here when she was here,

so gone now she’s gone.

The photos of her needn’t be

real, in color, instamatic –

simply memories of her,

painful at this moment,

more soothing as time passes.

I have mine, you have yours –

she gave them to us freely.

Be off, take to the wind,

dear friend.  Come past again,

let us know we’re not forgotten.

We won’t forget you.

Precious Mary.

Published in Mary’s Celebration of Life service booklet at the Atonement Lutheran Church in Boulder, Colorado on September 30, 2011.

to transport Dr. Sigmund Freud from Vienna

to our home on the Potomac, his last — and quite

surreptitious — analytical endeavor on this earth.

My snooping parents found me each day manipulating

the machinery in my undertogs, my crystal-ball-

gazing mother predicting I’d be blind before I was

twenty, a mere eight years from seeing Sigmund.

Sigmund noticed my trembling hands, said it was Long-

fellow’s Palsy, tell-tale sign of the masturbator, and, as

Mumsie predicted, I’d probably be blind before too long.

I admitted, to his delight, that I also play with others.

Which sex, he wanted to know, and I further admitted

both, my sight was failing and choices were quite

independent of rational thought, just free thought, as he

nodded in agreement, my ego grew to superego.

He did me no harm, Sigmund, and little good as well,

for blindness did ensue, my rational thinking slowly

advancing to irrational, my choices of sexual

partners irresponsible at the Sightless Children’s Clinic.

To my credit, though Sigmund might have disagreed,

I was the first to marry a person of the same sex,

though by then I was in my twenties, no longer

given to foreplay, simply content with companionship.

(Published online in the 6/14/11 issue of Thick With Conviction; nominated for Best of the Net 2011 on 9/16/11)

NOTE:  This poem is pure, not so simple, whimsy.  A spoof about sexual mores, an attempt to make fun of most of the old taboos — masturbation, going blind because of it,  playing with others (both sexes), and finally marrying a person of the same sex.  I would hope that Sigmund Freud would get a snicker out of it.  And, many thanks to the three brave young female editors at Thick With Conviction for recognizing an old codger enjoying horseplay involving the creative process.  Longfellow’s Palsy is pure invention, taking great liberties in my case, where Shortfellow’s Palsy may be more fitting….though not giving buoyancy to the poem.  And apologies to Dr. Freud for pretending to understand the intricacies of his theories — rational/irrational thought, ego and superego.  I am a student of the human condition but, alas, not the human brain.

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/my-interview-with-the-smiling-irishman/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BillRobertsPoet/~3/C9HfOjTyyBA/ http://www.billrobertspoet.com/light-on-their-feet/#comments Fri, 15 Jul 2011 23:05:00 +0000 Bill Roberts http://www.billrobertspoet.com/?p=347 You would swear they were younger

than whatever — seventy, eighty,

one possibly ninety.  All women,

of course, their men having disappeared

years before they gathered here.

Why do they seem so happy,

so diligently engaged, so light on

their feet though seated, playing cards?

They’re like quilters without thread

and needles, just the hand they’ve been

dealt, though they discard a few, examine,

arrange new ones with nimble fingers.

And these girls play for real money –

nickels and dimes, no worthless pennies.

It’s a joy to see them, watch their faces,

study their moves.  But, holy crap,

their language often sears the air!

(Published in a 2011 issue of Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream)

Note:  A slightly different take on my dear Grandmother Roberts, always so ladylike, so well and soft spoken, almost saintly, who, when she entered a Catholic hospital to recover from a broken hip, cussed like a drunken sailor.  My father had to take her home well before schedule, so my grandmother would get her way and the hospital could recover from the blue cloud of words she left behind.

]]> http://www.billrobertspoet.com/light-on-their-feet/feed/ 0 http://www.billrobertspoet.com/light-on-their-feet/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/BillRobertsPoet/~3/BEw73EtRZWY/ http://www.billrobertspoet.com/flowers-in-the-guest-room/#comments Mon, 04 Jul 2011 18:01:33 +0000 Bill Roberts http://www.billrobertspoet.com/?p=341 Most guests are thrilled

to find fresh flowers

in a nice vase in their room

when they arrive, settle in.

Depending on the guest,

or guests, my wife chooses

which seems best suited

for the invasion, er, occasion.

Rosebuds seem to last longest,

for when a close relative lands.

Roses in bloom usually wither

in just a few days, for casuals.

Whoever the guests may be,

they’d better heed my wife’s

message via flowers:  they start

wilting, you start packing.

(Published online in Wilderness House Literary Review on July 4, 2011)

Note:  Not exactly the truth, but not a bad idea, don’t you agree?  Guests are always welcome at our humble abode….as long as they travel light, pack a small suitcase.

she once told me,

to catch a snowflake on the tongue

and savor its flavor.

What do they taste like? I asked.

Why, snowflakes, of course –

each unique, a different flavor.

Of course.  Of course?

Toward the end, she would sit

in the community gazebo

down the hill from her house,

place herself strategically,

bald head back, open mouth,

and let snowflakes fall on

awaiting tongue, tasting them

one or two at a time.

Her passing this summer

won’t allow me to share my

experimentation at same gazebo

when snows again return.

She said not to expect too much

the first time out –

snowflakes are an acquired taste.

(Published online in a 2009 issue of Foundling Review)

Note:  Mary was a lovely, delicate lady who played the piano and organ at her church for fifty years, writing poetry most of her life — mainly for the pleasure of her grandchildren.  I coaxed her to send her sweet poems off for publication, but she demurred, said it was just for her grandkids.  I’ve taken her advice and have tasted snowflakes (when I’m certain no one is looking).  To me, they all taste like chocolate.  Oh, not just any chocolate — seventy percent or better rich, dark chocolate.  Try ‘em sometime.

I saw Jesus standing in an open

red convertible, long hair flying

arms stretched out as if off the cross

ready to embrace the world again.

A little old lady — Mary Magdalene? –

was hunched over the wheel

driving below the speed limit

so I pulled a U turn at the first safe spot

and sped after them, flooring it.

I wasn’t able to catch up

wondered if they’d turned off

but there were few turns

so they must have sped up

reached the city shortly before I did.

How curious.  I told my psychotherapist

and he agreed, though seemed doubtful

of the plausibility of my tale.

I saw him, Jesus, in a red convertible.

Just sorry I missed the plate number.

(Published online in the December 2010 issue of Decompression Magazine)

Note:  Did I see Jesus, you might ask.  Well, I thought I did, but the vision ain’t what it used to be.  I admit, I could have been wrong……….it could have been a yellow convertible.

Sweet of face, smooth of skin

she bubbled over with laughter

so intent on discovering herself

and life’s close-in, far-away pleasures.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

She held my hand, took my heart

swayed with me to music we shared

whispered to me, guided me through

uncertainty, understood when I faltered.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

Eager to learn, just as eager to share that

knowledge, content with our journeys

careful with difficult choices, caregiving

to those who had fallen to adversity.

I once knew a girl that looked like you.

She endured through years both difficult

and joyous, met and conquered her own

demons, settled into life’s quiet rhythms

dancing a bit slower, without a partner.

I once knew a girl that looked just like you.

(Published in the February 2011 online issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  Not much mystery here:  a love poem dedicated to my life’s partner, Irene.  Yes, I do love her.

high school, me with a diploma,

Frankie kicked out for brawling.

He lived with us awhile, after his

own mother threw him out and he

threw himself at the mercy of my Mom.

She fell for his line and handsome face,

so we took him in for better part of

a year, that year I got so sick.

One night, I came down with spinal

meningitis, nearly died, was in a coma

a week before waking up, cheating death.

First thing I saw was Frankie, standing

at the foot of my hospital bed, wearing

all of my best clothes, shoes, underwear.

I turned deep purple with rage,

resolved to get out of that bed, get home,

as soon as I could, salvage my wardrobe.

Frankie then went to live with Eddie,

just a few blocks away, also charming

Eddie’s mother with his handsome looks.

He hung in there for nearly another year,

convincing poor Eddie that he looked

better in Eddie’s clothes than Eddie did.

So, the years have flown, when suddenly

I get a call from Anaheim, Frankie,

telling me he’ll be in Denver next week.

We chitchat, of course, resurrect old times,

good and bad, ring off with him saying,

“I hope you and I are still the same size.”

(Published online in the February 2011 issue of The Orange Room Review)

Note:  Always great to go back in time, recall good times, bad times, rarely the in-between times.  Frankie Boy was real, a handsome dog of a guy, always a tough home life, smart enough to land somewhere, usually with a buddy like me and Eddie, survive and eventually thrive.  Oh, what happened, you might wonder, when he showed up in Denver after the phone call?  He decided not to come after all.  Well, after I told him I’d ballooned to 350 pounds.  Whew, that was a close one.