I wrote this after the election, thinking a lot of what a vote truly means and the fact that it wasn’t that long ago that women won the right to vote.  I thought she would win, as you will see at the bottom of the poem.  I toasted with the other women in my National Organization of Women’s group, the night of the election, to the first woman president.  Then when I got home, got the shock of my life.  He won.  Still can’t believe it.

I think back
on women
just getting
the vote in 1920.
Our great grandmother’s
went to bat &
now here we are
getting the chance
to vote for a
woman president.
What a change
a push forward
a new high.
Still people
think she is
a bitch in a
red pant suit
exuding her
power & influence.
Coming from
giving so much
of herself
to children & non-profits
and politics
& people somehow
come up with the
title of bitch.
I don’t get it
I see strong, powerful,
says what she thinks
articulate, does what is
right.
Stands up to men and
women alike,
heads of state,
people who we
deem to be our
enemy.
She tries to communicate
consensus and agreement,
to make the world
a better place.
A real strong woman in
a statement red pantsuit.
Our next president.

10-2016 Jewel Roberts

I wrote this before Trump was elected.  I was never a fan, but thought I would give him a chance.  That idea left very quickly, I find him to lack empathy, back out of things we should still be in WHO contributions, Climate Change pacts & conferences, encourages racial discord, makes friends with our enemies like Putin and Kim Jong-un and alienates our allies.  It is time to get him out before our standing in the world further deteriorates.

People say I’m
orange.
That my father
is an orangutan,
that my hair
is a laughable
comb over.
My wife copies
other’s speeches
& looks like a
Barbie doll.
I act as if
it doesn’t hurt,
all the comments,
but it stings.
My whole life
I have acted
immune.
Immune to criticism,
that I was
born with a silver
spoon in my mouth,
only was successful
because my father
lent me money.
I did only what
was good for myself,
man handled and
googled eyed women,
then just as quickly called
them pigs and dogs & asked
managers to fire those who I
didn’t deem “looked hot”.
I screwed people
out of money,
architects, builders,
contractors, poor
people trying to get
an education.
People don’t see the
real me, the guy
that made 14 million
into 3 billion. Who
gave lots of people
jobs & success, who would
run for a political office
just to further my ideals
and no matter how painful
it gets for my family & my
wives, I continue seeking my goal.
I despise anyone who
disagrees with me,
Rosie, beauty queens,
Hillary, John McCain,
and the Bushes.
Because they don’t see
the real me,
the unselfish guy
the one who deserves all
this, but everyone is
too critical, to see this.
Don’t run over me
or I will run over you.
Underneath there is a hurt
little boy, trying to soothe
my inner child.
Painful, sensitive, lashing
out at all who cause me pain.
Because I am in pain
I hide this secret
of wanting to be liked and
admired from everyone,
including myself.

10-16 Jewel Roberts

I wrote this at a memorial at Descanso gardens on the 25th anniversary of my Dad’s passing.

Ten people
in a circle,
talking about
a long ago
man, his secrets,
his handsomeness,
his intelligence.
Son and daughters
and grandchildren with
different memories of
him.  What would it have
been like if we
really knew him,
the real him,
not the booze soaked
man, or the teenager
sleeping with an axe
under his pillow,
protecting his Mom
from his Dad.
A man who held
people at bay,
a man who revealed
only so much.
A genius, an engineer,
a charmer from the
outside.  A loner,
a drinker, a hurt
child, a lover
of travel and
culture, and a
space engineer
whose space capsule
is still orbiting around in
space.  All missed,
as we stand I look at my
children, a sadness
that he didn’t ever get
to meet my brother’s
boys, who would carry
on his name.
We laugh too,
at his habits
his ladies man ways,
his gardening obsessions,
toastmasters, and even more
so his love of food and his
pride in us.
His talk of Zen and his talent,
his beautiful handwriting,
and the incredible advances
he made in space engineering
and getting information from
space.  Still ice cubes
clinked, bourbon and
beer went down easily.
We lost him to it
25 years ago today,
we tried to hold on,
but were forced to learn
to let go.
The plaque in Descanso
gone now, reminding us
of just how long it has been
since he left us.  We are your
proud children, mourning
with sadness and also with
smiles of good memories of you.

10-21-2017  Jewel Roberts

I wrote this during a family reunion, with all of the cousins were present.  I always seem to have some difficulties when we get together, but I love the times we do that and always have fond memories of the reunion times together, despite my heart hurting at times.

Excitement, plans
renting a house.
We are all getting
together!
Even the nieces and
nephews,
for hiking & nice meals,
volleyball games cheered
on by relatives and
“Como Piedro” sessions
& college advise for the
young ones.
Love, competition,
and birth order.
Making my Mom happy
trying to be the
favored child of the
moment.  Cute towns
and shopping,
cousins off and bonding on
San Francisco trips-
their own private reunion.
Parks, artists
galleries, and finding
a good inexpensive
meal out, some good music,
good wine and to reconnect
& make that early bond
unbreakable and renewed.  The bond
where the cousins couldn’t wait
to see each other-
a little heaven on earth for a week
or two each year.
Those small children,
now adults, and now
no longer interested
in being in the pool,
diving under legs &
being thrown in a dive
by the Dads.  They are architects
doctors, spiritual center
managers, college students &
data analysts at Pinterest.  Grown up
and flown yet their connection
is solid.
I still have my sensitivities
when I am with my brother and sister.
Being the third, even at
60 I still feel left out by them.
But that is not
what is important, it
is the bond, the connection.
The crazy grading of
how we did as parents,
are we good parents?
We hope like our parents
we did our best with what
we had on our plates.
Remembering, old times, trends,
duck, playhouses, dad puttering
around in the yard and kitchen
and mom studying away.
We have incredible pride in our
children, each on their own,
path,-just being with each
other and keep on
building and connecting
and maybe one reunion
I can just sit down
& listen & enjoy,
none of the difficult
feelings will come up,
the competitiveness left
at the door, a thing of the past.
Just look at my brother,
sisters and my Mom and
feel love and a desire to just
enjoy the moment of being
with them, remembering,
laughing and sometimes even
crying a bit.

4-16-2017  Jewel Roberts

I wrote this poem about my Dad who lived his life struggling with alcoholism.  He was a good DAd,
tried with all his heart to give up drinking, but in the end sadly didn’t make it.

I remember
the anticipation
the tickle of
the strange but
cooling taste of
the beer in my mouth.
My Dad who always
had trouble with
liquor,
would always let
me have a sip.
Even as a very young
child.
The feel of the cold can,
being close to my Dad,
being rewarded for
my bravery with a big
hug or kiss from him.
How can something
seemingly so
attractive hurt someone,
undermine a family
pickle his brain so
he forgets all the
wonderful parts of
family and children.
Impairs his judgment
with women and at
work.  That tickle
on my lips has cost me,
cost all my family-
a lot!
The pleasure it once brought
is gone,
he is gone now,
taken too young at 60,
by a sickness he did
not choose and did
not want.
That cold brew kept
calling his name until
it took him away from us.
Those shiny cold cans and
bottles lined up in
grocery stores and on
glass shelves in bars,
call to people.
If they are calling
to you too much,
time to say ‘”no”,
time to say I want to
live! Let that tickle
on your lips
be laughter or
hugs or carbonated water.
Don’t let it hurt
you or others-
A tickle can come
from other things,
from siblings, lovers,
kisses and playfulness,
with out the shiny cold
cans and shimmering
bottles of gold liquid.
to loosen you up and
drawing you in.
Say instead,
I want to live,
I want to be there
for my family
and walk away if you can.

Jewel Roberts 01-10-2017

Wrote this poem about my Father who struggled with alcoholism.  Sad, disappointing for his children and his family, but hopefully we learn from his mistakes.

The smart
good looking
brainy JPL engineer,
with a fashion
flair,
Neru jackets,
(not his best),
good black suits,
with crisp white shirts.
A great chef, yard
afficianado, duck
caretaker, creator
of playhouses,
sending various
mariner missions
into space and
tracking the information
that the orbitors send
back. A high pressure
job, but interesting.
An uphill climb
until age 40-45-advancement
financial security and
first class travel.
Then quickly downhill –
drunkenness at work
conferences,
not showing up to work-
booze on his breath, and
many excuses.
Three dry out clinics
with lots of Hershey bars
and various drug and
alcohol addicts
including much counseling.
Loosing keys, police
calling, my father drunk in
hotel room, Calls from
Dad, Can you rescue me?
Pick ups from
seedy LA hospitals
and alcohol prevention
clinics.
My good looking Dad,
looked like a bum.
I actually did not recognize him
once-I walked right past him.
My own Father, unrecognizable
to me.
Then an Asian wife-
lots of Asian girlfriends.
After that divorce,
two burnt down apartments,
where he left his cigarette
going when he was out of it.
Blackouts, California taking
away his driver’s license.
Wandering around his
apartment complex
drunk and naked,
your understanding
neighbors shooing you
back inside.
My good, successful
father reduced to this.
I remember he didn’t show
up the last time
we had planned to get
together.  I was always heart-
broken, my last possible
chance to see him and he
didn’t show up because
he was drunk.
I hadn’t seen him
in 6 months before
he died, not because
I didn’t want to
but because he kept
backing out because
he was drunk.
My brainiac Father
became a danger to
those around him
because he couldn’t
turn it around.
I know he wanted
to, but it had a hold
on him and wouldn’t
let go.
I still miss him,
the real him.
I accept that he
had  truly tried but
couldn’t change permanently
and didn’t make it out.
A hold that wouldn’t
release him and that
he couldn’t break.
Miss you still Dad.

Jewel Roberts 1-10-2017

Why is it
that they
always make alcohol
so attractive..
They line it up
at bars with
lights and glass shelves,
with clean clear
glasses in all
shapes and hues,
they back light it
making all the colors
shimmer and shine
and looking like
the main star of
a show.
They dress it up
with umbrellas and
fancy stir sticks
and good looking
and friendly bartenders
serve you.
I often look over
at all the hoopla-
are those people
hurting themselves?
or their families?
by being drawn
into all this?
It it pulling
them so hard
that they can’t
pull away?
is the relaxation
or the drink
so intoxicating
That life isn’t as
fun without it.
Do the old drunken
stories take a
great place
in their hearts.
The glory days
of drinking
of doing outrageous
things, of being free
and easy and under
the influence,
still draw them in and
long for a different time.
I remember my Dad’s
beautiful bronze shot glass
carved with dark
black lines of
flowers and leaves.
It was beautiful who
knew that beauty
could destroy him?
You see my
Dad drank
a bourbon shot with
a six pack every single
night that I can
remember of his life.
He was more fun
and more relaxed after
a hard day’s work
and then later he would
become angry and sullen
and depressed and would
get sick nearly every
morning as the years
progressed.  What ever
happened to that
beautiful carved shot glass?
I think if I had it
I might toss it in the
trash-the pure beauty
of it, tainted in knowing
what would happen
in the end.

I wrote this during the women’s March in March of 2017.

A sea of red,
women marching
for rights we
should already have.
For equal pay,
for the same
opportunities.
We have already
over taken men
on college advancement,
but overtaken is not
important, fairness is.
For the same pay
for control over our
bodies, for safety and
no harassment in
the work place
for being given an
equal chance to rise up.
Choices- children,
husbands, lovers, friends
daycare-household job
sharing.  Should I take
a job that allows me to be
with the kids more.
Should my choice be high power
or should I lean out
and give the rising
up the ladder to my husband/
significant other and
more time to the
kids at home.
These are the choices
that either have us leaning
in or stepping back.
Follow your heart,
they are all good
choices-because we
are women and we
are strong.
We are the heart and
soul of the family
& whatever your decide
is perfect.
What we want is choice
and equality and respect
for the choices we
have to make.
We are women-
at the heart of our
beautiful families,
filled with love and
pride.  Hear us roar!!!

I wrote this during the Tubbs fire.  Napa is one of our favorite places, the sadness and loss of life staggering.  We had to wear masks, even at 40 miles Southwest of the fire.

Embers fly
to and fro.
Heat, sparks,
people deciding
what to take
from their houses.
Close to those embers,
engines, firemen, planes
above dumping bright
orange chemicals to
subdue the flames.
Winding roads, small
passages, grapevines,
and tasting rooms
farm equipment and
bottles, bursting from the
unbearable heat.
Historic wineries,
with aged vines,
craggy and full
of bursts of red, yellow,
and orange foliage.
Sky, black and gray,
with touches of sparks
and fires and
sometimes great walls
of fire.
Coming from
all directions,
destroying as they
move randomly.
Exhausted firemen,
heartbroken home
owners seeing their
dream homes turn
to ash and all the
memories inside them.
and most sadly people
lost.  I see their faces,
their stories.
Now quiet,
hush, ash and brick
fireplaces and
pottery stand alone
in the ash.
It is quiet now, most of
it over.  in control.
Maybe the point
is we are never
totally in control.
Mother nature rules
sometimes with a fury.
A green spout
emerges from
the ashes.
It will be rebuilt,
hope will emerge
from all the destruction.
We are renewed,
we move on.
There will be
laughter flowing
from those homes,
The ashes and sadness
a long ago memory.
I will toast to the people
lost in all this, Napa will
begin again, but the lessons
learned will be there always.

Jewel Roberts 10-17-2017

I created this poem after a particularly tough fire season when we lived up in Northern California.  Some of our favorite  places, Napa, Sonoma all damaged, lives lost, wineries and houses completely gone.  It was a very sad time, but things get better, renewal will happen, what doesn’t defeat us makes us stronger eventually.

A lovely
evening in the
wine country.
A wind stirs
up from the East
and then just as
quickly from the
West as well.
A few glowing
sparks-
who knows what
stirred them up.
But what follows
is heart break and
fear.  People leaving
this earth covered
in smoke and ash,
running for their
lives, hiding in pools,
vacationers in a nightmare.
So sad, even 40 miles
away our cars were covered
in ash.
One of the most destructive
fires ever, 8900 homes,
44 people and hundreds of
animals gone.
So much smoke
that it makes,
it an effort
to breathe, even 40 miles
away it clings to
my lungs,
almost a China smog
look to the air.
The sunsets are more colorful
but have a darkness and
sadness to them.  As I look
at the beautiful sunset,
It reminds me of the lives
up in smoke, people’s
homes, memories,
photos and keepsakes,
inherited items from
long ago relatives
all gone. Consumed
quickly and permanently.
I am tremendously
sad,  a bit selfishly
too as Napa is one of my
favorite places to visit.
I will watch
for green
starts of plants
to arise from the ashes-
it always comes back.
Still I am heartbroken.

Jewel Roberts 10-17-2017