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.

Mrs. Easterday wasn’t my favorite teacher,

wasn’t even my teacher,

but all of us patrolboys had to pass

her inspection, in front of her class,

when we came off duty mornings from

protecting kids as they walked to school.

She made it a point to pick on me,

point out to her snickering class that

my hair needed cutting, a good cleaning, too.

Back in those days, I got a haircut

every seven or eight weeks, so by week five

or six I probably looked a pretty fair nightmare.

She made fun of my soles, too, because they’d

flap whenever I walked or ran, so I’d have

to cut them off, walk nearly barefoot.

One particular cold morning, I must have looked

awfully shaggy, so Mrs. Easterda made a big

production in front of her kids,

handing me thirty-five cents to get a haircut,

“And I want to see it cut by tomorrow,”

she admonished, gloating as I pocketed the coins.

I entered her room shivering the next day,

bald as a veritable cueball, horrifying her and

humoring her class of perfectly coiffed kids.

She left me alone after that.  I never spilled

the beans that my barber shaved me for only

a quarter, leaving the dime to be spent recklessly.

Note:  Mrs. Easterday was a sixth-grade teacher at H. D. Hyde Elementary School in D.C., a real terror.  But, oh boy, did I put one over on her, getting head shaved and keeping that precious dime for whatever I damn well pleased.  That I almost contracted pneumonia I try to forget but can’t.  This vignette hopefully shows two things:  how so many teachers “back then” were bullies (maybe in this case for the right reason), and also how a kid, me, could cut off his hair to spite his nose.  It was another life lesson in growing up.  This poem was read at the memorial service for Bob Riddle on March 17, 2001.  Bob and I had chatted in his hospital room shortly before his death about the crazy things we did as kids.  As I recall, his stories topped mine.

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)

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.

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.

Or Coppola made the first film,

We’d often eat with Don Corlene,

Or someone who did a heckuva good

Imitation of him, at Mary’s

On Bleeker Street in The Village.

He’d be there Sundays at a table by himself

In a dark corner, two lookout guys

Alert at a table near the front door

When my wife and I walked in.

The bodyguards did a fast frisk of us

With their beady eyes, then nodded

To wide-eyed, grandmotherly Mary

That it was okay for us to come in, sit.

The Don rarely looked up from his plate

Of sizzling shrimp swimming in garlic butter

Or steaming pasta with vongole sauce

Or pan-fried steak that Patsy,

Mary’s husband, pan seared in the kitchen

Just off the dining area with seven tables.

The thought of dining with a Mafioso

Did something to heighten our appetite.

After we read the book and saw the films,

It dawned on us that we could be

Wearing cement shoes and swimming

With the fishes in some river

Instead of calling Domino’s for a pizza

Out here in the boonies where we now live.

(This poem, or one like it, was published in some hard-print magazine but I’ve lost track of when and where)

Note:  Mary’s delightful Italian restaurant was two and a half blocks around the corner from where we lived in 1961 in The Village in a brownstone, 65 Perry Street.  Mary’s was in a walk-up brownstone, very small but fabulous eatery, the building perhaps the one where Coppola filmed his second Godfather epic, when DeNiro played the Don as a young man struggling to exist, feed his family.  Some of the finest Italian meals in memory at Mary’s.  Alas, we went back, many years later after moving to Colorado, found Mary and Patsy gone, the restaurant becoming a much larger (two floors), upscale eatery, not nearly as good – nor as atmospheric – as we remembered it.  And no, the Don, was no longer seated in a dark corner (no dark corners!), protected by his two goons.   Ah, so it goes…

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.

in those bottles in that cabinet,

no locks on the doors,

screw caps easy to uncouple,

let him breathe before you

start the transition, drinking

all of him so you become him.

Once you start, no stopping

until the transformation is complete -

you once again the beast you fear,

couldn’t keep bottled up.

Your weakness, no secret,

usually in control until….something

happens, trips an unquenchable thirst.

Then the beast rages, for days at

a time, contained within the walls

of your domicile, no longer a castle

but a prison, you in the dungeon.

With time, the beast will exhaust

himself, creep away into shadow.

You will recover, though the brain

has taken another concussive blow.

Slowly a form of normality returns

and you return to the world of

semi-beasts, wondering, wondering…

when will he return, the beast?

He’s there, always, waiting for you

in stores – purchase prices always

reduced twenty percent Mondays

and Tuesdays, still beastly prices.

(This poem was published today, 2/08/10, online by Marquis Cafeteria Round Table)

Note:  I was probably spared the life of a drunkard for several reasons, the most important being that I saw so many ruin their lives and the lives of others as they came and went through my mother’s rooming house.  So many!  Being an analytical kid, I studied cause and effect, said uh-uh, not for me.  Oh, I love my wine, have a cellar full, try to keep it well stocked in case the Big Drought ever hits.  Fortunately, don’t see too many drunks these days, just read about them occasionally in the newspapers after they’ve crashed and killed themselves.  Brother and sister, so it goes…

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.

The enemy had humiliated me

and I needed to retaliate.

My thought process wasn’t working too well

but I settled on a hand grenade.

I pulled the pin -

actually a broken shoelace -

and tossed the grenade -

one of my worn-out tennis shoes -

into the nest of unsuspecting Japs -

the enemy in 1945 -

masquerading as my new, third-grade

classmates who’d laughed at something

I said when introduced to them

the previous day.

No harm was done.

The teacher deposited the smelly sneaker

in her trash can

and marked me down as tardy.

Kids still see other kids as the enemy -

as I had done -

but sometimes react differently.

It’s not make-believe any longer.

They go after their schoolmates

with real guns,

live ammunition,

intending to inflict real damage.

Years back we relied on our imagination.

We’ve come a long way since 1945.

(Published in George & Mertie’s Place, Vol. 4, Issue 9, October 1998 – magazine now defunct)

Note:  This poem was written after several shootings occurred in the South, schoolkids killing other schoolkids, making we wonder what it was about the South that caused such carnage.  I’d done some contract work in South Carolina and knew how fond the populace in general was of guns – a gun culture, I thought.  Shortsightedly I also thought, surely something so awful couldn’t happen in Colorado.  The poem was published before the massacre at Columbine High School, not fifteen miles from where I live.