SUMMER NIGHT

SUMMER NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The heat makes skin sticky;

we are sweet cakes

of sweat and powder

by mid-day.

In bed,

you turn towards me;

your quiet, gritty arm

drapes across me

in sleep.

You moan,

chasing away some night vision.

We walked this evening,

watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.

The lights came on in the windows,

people singing their night songs:

"Go to sleep, my little ones;

Go to sleep, the day is done."

We bought some coffee and chili dogs

from the corner vender,

anxious to close up shop

for the night.

Crickets serenaded us home.

Soon,

fall will arrive,

and with it,

change.

The babe within me sighs,

and stretches.

Soon,

he will share our lives.

I savor our last alone summer.



Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

FINI

FINI

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



On a rainy night,

when driving is treacherous,

and the wind howls,

making it impossible to warm up and ward off the chill,

he calls.

Our relationship,

if ever the was one

(of all of a week)

is over.

Fini,

as they say.

He has decided

I am much too difficult.

I laugh –

quietly, to myself,

since it hurts.

The reasons he lists for leaving

are

the reasons he listed for first calling:

I’m a difficult free-spirit,

laughing during a crying-jag.

I seldom misrepresent myself;

this becomes a turn-on-and-off.

I try to warn people right away –

this is how I am,

outrageous,

boisterous,

but prone to meditative silences –

so that I can quickly cut away

the dead weight that might leave

with no interest

on my time unwisely invested.

And yet,

with a single call,

I feel the cold hand grip my heart,

its icy fingers sending chills throughout my being.

He has decided to take his leave

at the most inopportune time,

just when I need his arms around me,

his hand caressing my hair,

a warm blanket of kiss on my forehead,

cheeks,

lower,

his love warming me,

his…

But he calls to let me know it’s over.

I’ve been through this enough to know

not to plead;

in the end,

it will make no difference.

And so,

I let him go,

knowing that,

even as I numb myself

against the cold pain,

someone

someday

may be brave and strong enough to stay.



Most of us, at one time or another, have had a relationship that we thought might be the one but that shortly implodes. No matter how long or short that relationship was, it can be painful. But in the end, when the right person comes along, and sticks around, it can be so much sweeter.

This comes from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

BLUES DAYS

BLUES DAYS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



What kind of day do I like?

The kind where the weather has the blues:

the wet blues,

slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy blues,

the white cold flurry blues,

grey-sky-overhead blues,

where the colors have a chance to

scream out and soar,

and you get to sit around the

nice, warm, well-lit-house,

snuggled into your warm flannel shirt

and your dry jeans

and warm, dry, fuzzy socks,

your hands wrapped around

a nice hot cup of tea,

warm homemade cookies on a plate

or maybe a toasty, chewy muffin,

brimming with raisins and cranberries,

a lemony scent from

who knows where,

as you listen to a car going by

in the slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy rain,

its wipers going

slick-slick-slick,

back and forth in cadenced rhythm with the rain,

tires singing s-w-o-o-o-o-s-s-h-h with the road.

Hardly any traffic

on the cold wet grey roads

on a cold wet grey day.

Those who do venture out bundle up against the cold.

I feel sorry for them

and exhilarated for them:

Sorry,

since they brave the cold and wet,

the colors muted and laced with grey wet;

Exhilarated,

since they see neon lights

and other colors

dance off the road,

running in strange water-colored art,

then heading home to a place with light and dry.

White wet comes later—and earlier—in the year,

dancing,

swirling

down,

caught in a whirling updraft

before drifting down.

Grey winter skies whispered in cold breathy tones,

"Scarf, hat, mittens!

Boots, coat!"

Trudging home at the end of the day,

slip-sliding down sidewalks

and crossing streets to leap grey encrusted snow,

carrying grocery bags and attaché cases

before

getting home

to warm houses and apartments to

dream away to sunny days.



Written during the 1990s, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher. I'd written it after being out and about on a chilly, rainy wintery afternoon.

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Surprise me.

Not that you haven’t already.

The day we met,

I unintentionally stepped on feet;

you set me straight.

I expected an explosive barrage of rage;

it was not to be.

I kept my distance,

not knowing what to expect.

Imagine my surprise

when friendship developed.

We’d meet,

our paths crossing,

and always,

always

you offered your friendship,

yourself,

nothing less.

Times, too many to count,

that you picked up the pieces

of my life,

my heart,

and never once asked in return,

can not be ignored

or forgotten.

There came a time

when I thought someone else would do;

I saw you less as I tried

to make it work.

When he left,

shattering my heart into so many pieces,

you were there,

soothing wounds I swore would never heal.

Imagine my surprise.

It seems amazing that

the one who was “only” a friend,

the one who I never meant to hurt

and did

may very well be

the one who could make me the happiest,

there all the time.

Imagine my surprise.



If we're lucky, we all run into people who surprise us in a good way.

This is from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.