DELIGHTS

DELIGHTS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1984



There's something enduring,

deliciously comforting,

about a well-written poem;

one you can read on a wet,

soppy, sloppy gray day,

taking us out of ourselves.

My mother

used to encourage me,

at age eleven,

to try my hand at poems;

"You can use imagery, words;

describing birds waving

while they fly south for the winter."

I laughed,

mocking her.

What did she know?

I wanted to write stories, books.

I never got past the first chapter.

But a poem! A well-written poem

is the fine wine in the soda aisle,

the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,

a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.

It ages well,

comforts,

relaxes

alone

or taken with

a cup of hot tea

while curled up on a favorite couch

on a rainy day.



My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.

This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

Delights

DELIGHTS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1984



There's something enduring,

deliciously comforting,

about a well-written poem;

one you can read on a wet,

soppy, sloppy gray day,

taking us out of ourselves.

My mother

used to encourage me,

at age eleven,

to try my hand at poems;

"You can use imagery, words;

describing birds waving

while they fly south for the winter."

I laughed,

mocking her.

What did she know?

I wanted to write stories, books.

I never got past the first chapter.

But a poem! A well-written poem

is the fine wine in the soda aisle,

the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,

a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.

It ages well,

comforts,

relaxes

alone

or taken with

a cup of hot tea

while curled up on a favorite couch

on a rainy day.



My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.

This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

Delights

DELIGHTS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1984



There's something enduring,

deliciously comforting,

about a well-written poem;

one you can read on a wet,

soppy, sloppy gray day,

taking us out of ourselves.

My mother

used to encourage me,

at age eleven,

to try my hand at poems;

"You can use imagery, words;

describing birds waving

while they fly south for the winter."

I laughed,

mocking her.

What did she know?

I wanted to write stories, books.

I never got past the first chapter.

But a poem! A well-written poem

is the fine wine in the soda aisle,

the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,

a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.

It ages well,

comforts,

relaxes

alone

or taken with

a cup of hot tea

while curled up on a favorite couch

on a rainy day.



My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.

This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

Delights

DELIGHTS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1984



There's something enduring,

deliciously comforting,

about a well-written poem;

one you can read on a wet,

soppy, sloppy gray day,

taking us out of ourselves.

My mother

used to encourage me,

at age eleven,

to try my hand at poems;

"You can use imagery, words;

describing birds waving

while they fly south for the winter."

I laughed,

mocking her.

What did she know?

I wanted to write stories, books.

I never got past the first chapter.

But a poem! A well-written poem

is the fine wine in the soda aisle,

the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,

a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.

It ages well,

comforts,

relaxes

alone

or taken with

a cup of hot tea

while curled up on a favorite couch

on a rainy day.



My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.

This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

DELIGHTS

DELIGHTS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1984



There's something enduring,

deliciously comforting,

about a well-written poem;

one you can read on a wet,

soppy, sloppy gray day,

taking us out of ourselves.

My mother

used to encourage me,

at age eleven,

to try my hand at poems;

"You can use imagery, words;

describing birds waving

while they fly south for the winter."

I laughed,

mocking her.

What did she know?

I wanted to write stories, books.

I never got past the first chapter.

But a poem! A well-written poem

is the fine wine in the soda aisle,

the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,

a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.

It ages well,

comforts,

relaxes

alone

or taken with

a cup of hot tea

while curled up on a favorite couch

on a rainy day.



My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.

This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.