THE LOSS OF A FRIEND
for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005
"He died," you say.
The words echo impotently,
as strange and empty
as though you had told me
it rained one day in 1852.
I hear you, I understand,
but somehow, it does not seem real.
Last week, when I stopped by
you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,
and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.
I heard him upstairs,
occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,
or coming down hard when he stood up,
thumping and shuffling around above us.
The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,
he had come in from his office-cubicle,
and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,
offered to bring me back one.
I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,
and thanked him, anyway.
And now, "He died Monday."
Just over 24 hours since I heard him.
Never made it to the procedure to make him better
(but maybe not well),
which, had Wednesday come,
he might have been too weak for.
The past two days,
I have looked at the ceramic porcupine
you gave me from the shop,
as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.
This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at
the overcast sky, promising rain,
and noticed birds huddle on the power line
like so many musical notes.
I counted to see how many birds there were
in this melody.
Oooonnneee,
(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)
two, three,
(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;
I share the Christian belief of
one birth,
one life,
one death,
one afterlife per person)
four, five, six,
(I almost feel, though,
that I can sense your spirit
with these notes
shivering against the impending rain)
seven,
eight,
nine, ten,
(you had a great record collection in
your store -
Big Band,
jazz,
everything)
eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen,
on the top line,
numbers sixteen and seventeen
one line lower,
and three more -
eighteen, nineteen and twenty -
on a third line at a right angle.
Suddenly,
as if on a quiet count from
a Big Band Beat,
they fly,
bringing your spirit soaring with them.
This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.
Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.
Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.
This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
Monday, October 9, 2017
Saturday, October 7, 2017
Where's the sense, Lord?
Where's the Sense, Lord?
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1988
Where's the sense, Lord?
The news is on:
Tornadoes have devastated a town,
killing adults, old people, children, babies.
An avalanche in Colorado has buried a section of road,
leaving people wondering if their cars are to be their tombs.
And then, a child, 12, missing since Friday
when she got off the school bus.
It's Monday now.
The police suspect foul play.
Where's the sense, Lord?
This was a group of poem/prayers written while I was trying to finish up at St. Petersburg (Florida) College during the mid- to late- 1980s. Most of the poem/prayers were written in the main campus's cafeteria over cups of coffee.
There was several TVs around the divided cafeteria, frequently with the news on. This was written after seeing several depressing news stories.
This is from the Prayers from an Average Person of Poetry Unassigned, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1988
Where's the sense, Lord?
The news is on:
Tornadoes have devastated a town,
killing adults, old people, children, babies.
An avalanche in Colorado has buried a section of road,
leaving people wondering if their cars are to be their tombs.
And then, a child, 12, missing since Friday
when she got off the school bus.
It's Monday now.
The police suspect foul play.
Where's the sense, Lord?
This was a group of poem/prayers written while I was trying to finish up at St. Petersburg (Florida) College during the mid- to late- 1980s. Most of the poem/prayers were written in the main campus's cafeteria over cups of coffee.
There was several TVs around the divided cafeteria, frequently with the news on. This was written after seeing several depressing news stories.
This is from the Prayers from an Average Person of Poetry Unassigned, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Oh, Those Cretin Sons-of-Bitches
Oh, Those Cretin Sons-of-Bitches
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
Oh, those cretin sons-of-bitches,
I’m not sure which is which
when it comes right down to the politics,
too many in power are ‘way too sick.
They think of themselves and forget the people’s needs
while they’re taking all the riches to fill their greed.
Sometimes I feel that we need peaceful revolution
to bring about an empathetic solution.
If you’ve never been broke or worked a real job in your life,
you’ll never understand the minimum wage strife
or what it’s like to work twenty hours a day,
trying to support yourself with very little pay.
And the kids are always crying ‘cause they hardly ever see you
and you’re always ‘way too tired to even try to be true
to the dreams you once had ‘way back when you were young,
and now you’re wishing that you were strong
enough to go to DC and kick some butt
so we can all just get a cut
of that American Dream we’ve been wanting a piece of
‘cause no matter what, what push comes to shove,
those politicians don’t give a damn,
and the rhetoric ‘bout values is nothing but a sham.
So we need a revolution where we all stand a chance
to have a solution, to have more than a glance
at a piece of the pie and afford a life
instead of having to live in constant strife.
Nothing like being in a mood about class injustice. This is from my growing collection titled Working Class Poems, still evolving.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
Oh, those cretin sons-of-bitches,
I’m not sure which is which
when it comes right down to the politics,
too many in power are ‘way too sick.
They think of themselves and forget the people’s needs
while they’re taking all the riches to fill their greed.
Sometimes I feel that we need peaceful revolution
to bring about an empathetic solution.
If you’ve never been broke or worked a real job in your life,
you’ll never understand the minimum wage strife
or what it’s like to work twenty hours a day,
trying to support yourself with very little pay.
And the kids are always crying ‘cause they hardly ever see you
and you’re always ‘way too tired to even try to be true
to the dreams you once had ‘way back when you were young,
and now you’re wishing that you were strong
enough to go to DC and kick some butt
so we can all just get a cut
of that American Dream we’ve been wanting a piece of
‘cause no matter what, what push comes to shove,
those politicians don’t give a damn,
and the rhetoric ‘bout values is nothing but a sham.
So we need a revolution where we all stand a chance
to have a solution, to have more than a glance
at a piece of the pie and afford a life
instead of having to live in constant strife.
Nothing like being in a mood about class injustice. This is from my growing collection titled Working Class Poems, still evolving.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Politics
Politics
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016
I like my morning coffee light
with a sweet roll on the side.
I'd take my whisky sour
but I never want to hide.
There's way too much duplicity
to let the b.s. slide,
Especially with the trash-talkers
trying to take us for a ride.
The first four lines were written a while back, while the remainder was written within later on. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016
I like my morning coffee light
with a sweet roll on the side.
I'd take my whisky sour
but I never want to hide.
There's way too much duplicity
to let the b.s. slide,
Especially with the trash-talkers
trying to take us for a ride.
The first four lines were written a while back, while the remainder was written within later on. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.
Monday, September 11, 2017
Elena, 1985
ELENA, 1985
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Sunday, September 10, 2017
Days Like This
DAYS LIKE THIS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Days like this,
I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.
True,
the scenery is mundane,
the colors somewhat mute,
when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,
but the ride is so much safer.
The “down” days, the ride is like this:
you “drag ass”, not able to get up,
not quite having all the gears “mesh”,
but an outer force keeps you going,
moving;
you let it because,
if you stop,
even for a second,
you’ll never move.
Ever.
Again.
Sounds are muted, distorted;
those that are loud enough to come through startle
with their bone-jarring
teeth-gritting noise.
Colors appear darker;
dark green leaves on brown-black trees
emit deep endless shadows
that threaten to drown you,
even as the branches menacingly reach for you.
The huge white clouds appear malicious,
creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.
Night arrives,
threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.
Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,
almost unnerving in their endless progression,
when suddenly,
you feeling yourself
as you come close to drowning
hit bottom,
sink slightly,
then push off against the
bumpy hardness beneath you.
Suddenly - sometimes -
but oh, so surely,
you break through the foggy film into sunshine.
Wonderful sunshine!
There it is!
The sounds! The joyous sounds!
Birds singing, children laughing,
dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging
as the trains roar up the track,
puffing, chugging,
whistles blowing,
wheels turning,
engineers waving at
small children waving back.
Colors!
Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!
Even in the blackest night
and rainiest days,
the neon lights are alive,
dancing,
calling to you,
singing, “Here we are!
And There you are!
Hello!
Hello!”
The smells of roses!
Coffee floating out of open shops,
colorful sounds,
wonderful smells,
laughing sights,
everything’s so “up,
you’ll never come back down.
Yup, there’s something to be said for straight lines.
This was written years ago and is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Days like this,
I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.
True,
the scenery is mundane,
the colors somewhat mute,
when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,
but the ride is so much safer.
The “down” days, the ride is like this:
you “drag ass”, not able to get up,
not quite having all the gears “mesh”,
but an outer force keeps you going,
moving;
you let it because,
if you stop,
even for a second,
you’ll never move.
Ever.
Again.
Sounds are muted, distorted;
those that are loud enough to come through startle
with their bone-jarring
teeth-gritting noise.
Colors appear darker;
dark green leaves on brown-black trees
emit deep endless shadows
that threaten to drown you,
even as the branches menacingly reach for you.
The huge white clouds appear malicious,
creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.
Night arrives,
threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.
Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,
almost unnerving in their endless progression,
when suddenly,
you feeling yourself
as you come close to drowning
hit bottom,
sink slightly,
then push off against the
bumpy hardness beneath you.
Suddenly - sometimes -
but oh, so surely,
you break through the foggy film into sunshine.
Wonderful sunshine!
There it is!
The sounds! The joyous sounds!
Birds singing, children laughing,
dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging
as the trains roar up the track,
puffing, chugging,
whistles blowing,
wheels turning,
engineers waving at
small children waving back.
Colors!
Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!
Even in the blackest night
and rainiest days,
the neon lights are alive,
dancing,
calling to you,
singing, “Here we are!
And There you are!
Hello!
Hello!”
The smells of roses!
Coffee floating out of open shops,
colorful sounds,
wonderful smells,
laughing sights,
everything’s so “up,
you’ll never come back down.
Yup, there’s something to be said for straight lines.
This was written years ago and is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Monday, September 4, 2017
Ybor Afternoon
YBOR AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
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