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.

BEACH, AT SUNSET

BEACH, AT SUNSET

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,

I pull myself away

to totally “veg-out” at the beach;

as time

(or fate)

would have it,

I arrive before sunset,

but just barely.

Slowly,

steadily,

the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.

I keep a watchful eye on it

as I walk towards the water’s edge;

once there,

with sandals in hand,

I wade in, ankle deep,

and, following the shoreline,

watch as the sun edges

closer

toward the horizon.

Nearby,

several screaming sea gulls

swoop and dive,

chasing each other around

before settling

on the beach.

A pelican,

large and awkward,

dives for a fish;

at the last second,

it folds up,

looking as though shot,

then with delicate swiftness,

it snatches a fish,

eats and leaves.

It is then that the sun

slowly

sinks

into the Gulf,

looking as though it, too, has been eaten,

consumed by the water.

The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange

as the water becomes a steely gray.

Slowly,

I wander away,

refreshed.



This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

TRUTH

TRUTH

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Why do old refrigerators come

in a variety of colors?

That's fine for

little old ladies

with no family.

Any mother, though, knows this truth:

Buy the white one;

it costs less,

and,

besides,

with kids,

the front is always covered with pictures,

made from finger paints,

crayons,

and markers.

Why pay more for an avocado green

you'll ever see?



Written after looking at a refrigerator covered with kids' art. From Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

WINTER

WINTER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



Winter has unofficially arrived.

The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.

Still,

here outside my window,

is the first

unsullied

virgin snow.

Here and there,

little specks of mica and sparkles glisten

on the cold, white velvet.

A flash of color on the edge of the woods;

the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,

swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.

I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.



Later, I trek outside,

watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.

I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;

his voice carries and echoes slightly.

A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,

as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,

it held tight in its death grip.

The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.



Later, I sit before my large picture window,

fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,

knowing that,

when winter has gone on too long

(longer than it should,

even for the children),

the packed snow will crunch as we walk;

that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off

with its deafening roar,

scaring birds into flight;

the trees will creak and groan under its weight.

But, for the moment,

I will relish the warmth within,

reflecting on the glittering beauty without.



Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a four hour trip,

the gray sky opens up

and delivers the deluge it has been promising

all afternoon.

Wouldn't be so bad

if it hadn't started

shortly before crossing the bridge.

It's not the driving that depresses me

so much as all the gray:

the steel girders,

the pavement,

the choppy gray water beneath even that,

as well as the sky with its varying shades of gray.

Even the profusion of white, gray and beige cars

lend to the somber mood.

The only color around me

is the electric blue car ahead of me,

seeming garishly out of place.

Finally reaching land,

I search out my gray exit

with its darker gray and black trees.

Finding it amidst the rain,

I turn, then,

slowly heading home.



This was written during a time when I had family in another part of Florida. Once a week, I'd take time off for a visit, then head home. One dreary winter afternoon, the skies opened up, letting loose the rains it had been promising most of the day.

This is part of my book titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I will not be silenced.

You can try to quiet me

in any number of ways,

gently reasoning

through which I hear the

undercurrents of threats

(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”

to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,

people get angry.” You retort,

“Bitch.”),

followed by blatant threats

and strong-arm tactics.

But -

I will not be silenced.

Close my mouth,

my actions will scream.

Shut my eyes;

my soul will see.

Plug my ears;

my heart will hear.

You can not quiet me.

Worse men have tried.

Only justice will tame my shouts;

only peace will calm my rantings;

only true love will settle me

without trying to master.

Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.

But, even a whisper is a sound,

so,

I will not be silenced.

Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”



From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.

In Absentia

In Absentia

for Mom

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016



I used to write for my mother.

It was something that connected us,

first as Mother/daughter,

later as writers,

then as...

well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.

Relationships can be confusing, complicated.



As a child, I knew writing was important.

It was something Mom did.

As a 1950s mom,

when women weren't supposed to work

if they were married to a middle-class man

she found her Bachelor's in English

from St. Lawrence University where she met my father

to be a luxury:

Enough to make her think

while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.

Even as I write that, I wonder:

Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,

or did she,

like so many other women of her generation and class,

wish for more, but do what was expected?

I can still see Mom at her desk,

tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,

typing out stories on her manual typewriter,

building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.

While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,

I'd type out short stories, too.

They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,

barely covering a page of type.

Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,

having a child typing away,

using these resources,

I now realize was an act of love.



Later, after my parents' divorce,

I mourned not seeing my father more,

relating more to him than Mom.

But I still wrote.



After moving out on my own,

I'd show Mom my stories,

my poetry,

hoping for her approval.

We were never as close as Dad and I were.

“Why can't you be more like your sister?”

was a common reframe.

My sister, the good one.

But even that's not fair,

to either of us.

Mom and I spoke less,

until she moved.

Slowly, I started sending her my stories,

my poetry,

hoping for her approval.

Slowly, it came.

“This one's good,” she'd say

after reading my latest offering.



After Dad's death,

mourned by step-mom,

me,

and mom,

Mom and I spoke more.

I sent her more writings,

trying for at least once a week.

Every day,

I'd go for a walk,

then write a poem about what I saw.

These I'd send her

sometime during the week.

“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.

I loved the praise,

and kept the writing coming.

It gave me a reason to keep writing

while trying for my first sale.



Mom passed in November,

almost two years ago.

No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.

I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”

My uncle,

Mom's older (only) brother,

knows that better than I.



And now I write.

For Mom.

In absentia.

I picture her reading over my shoulder.

Hi, Mom.

(August 19, 2016)



Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from.