Paul

PAUL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



The time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart

or feeling left inside.

I hide

my fears,

knowing depression here

will be misread by those

whose side

did I

come to see. Though I chose

to see my next of kin,

and I

did fly

to be with them, time when

I should be overjoyed,

I sink

within

myself. Beautiful boy,

red hair, blue eyes, smile pure

a glance,

per chance,

his dad's fair looks, for sure,

mom's temperament, both love,

I see

these three

beautiful ones betrothed.

Soul mates, like us, they need

to be

able

to see our love, stable.

Yet, time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart.

And when, at last, I'm home,

I say

I'll stay,

to share love – not alone.

This was written while visiting family, while my better-half stayed home. This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Painted Words.

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 bullshit slide,

Especially with the trash-talkers

trying to take us for a ride.



The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1990



Turn loose my heart.

Your love attempts to wrap itself around me

like a vine,

choking my heart and emotions

in its stranglehold.

I have no use for your love.

At least not now,

and probably not ever.

I've been hurt too often

by those claiming to be different,

who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities

committed by those who came before,

all the while planning their next moves,

variations of those same crimes

trying to mask the stench

rising like the fog of their deceit.

And so,

turn loose my heart.

Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love

before I die from an emotional coronary.



Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?

From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.

WORDS UNSPOKEN

WORDS UNSPOKEN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



Grandma spoke a lot.

"Marie is doing better today."

"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,

static crackling and snapping,

"Was she ill?"

"Just a cold."

Grandma spent the springs with us.

By then, the snow was old.

"I need a change."

Which meant, "I'd love to see you."

She'd buy the kids clothes,

giving them out,

watching the smiles.

"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!

Baseball mitts!" Whatever the

occasion said.

"It's only money," she'd reply,

eyes sparkling.

The look said love.

As relations drifted,

shifted,

changed,

she alone said,

"If you love him, stay.

But if you love him better apart,

go.

It's up to you. Alone."

Meaning, "I'll love you either way."

The last spring,

the last week,

she said,

"You'll love being alone again.

You'll love having your own space;

to see me go."

This after a tense afternoon,

us dancing back and forth,

stomach in knots.

"You'll be glad to be home,"

I replied.

"Trips are nice; so's home."

She smiled;

I did, too.

Air cleared,

we came to a loving,

uneasy,

funny tender

truce.

December,

she began talking trips.

"March'll be here soon," she stated,

the line dancing with distance.

"So will you," I replied.

"How's Marie?"

"Better today."

"See you soon."

"Definitely. In March."

"March."

The phone clicked off and,

for a moment,

I listened to the

thin, faraway sound

on the line.

March came,

along with the mail.

"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"

said the note inside the box.

Her wedding ring -

initials inside, a date.

"She always spoke of you with love."

Marie had signed the note.



Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2018



I



For years,

my ex and I lived for the weekends.

Unemployed for months,

living in the house next door

to his parents,

a house they'd inherited,

he'd finally found work,

bringing in a weekly paycheck –

pittance, though it was –

when combined with

food stamps and

no rent,

it paid the bills, if just barely.

Friday,

after work,

we'd gather the kids,

pile into the car,

and go to the nearest Albertson's,

a farther drive than

the Winn Dixie,

but newer and cleaner.

After the weekly shopping,

reminiscent of going to the A&P

as a child

with my parents on Fridays,

we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's

for dinner,

always a treat.

Burgers, fries and sodas,

a big deal for the kids,

and no cooking or clean up,

a big deal for me.

Every week,

we'd see the same families,

kids in tow,

having Friday fast food dinners,

feeling comfortable enough

for some conversations.

“How was your week?”

“Great, and yours?”

When one family's boys spent too much time

in the rest room,

Mom'd tell the youngest,

“Go tell your brothers

to quit homesteading

if they want to eat.”

We all laughed at that.

Now, years later,

if someone takes too long,

the family code is that

they're homesteading.

We'd watch the sky

across the street

darken in the winter,

stay light in the summer

as we ate.

Then, finished,

we'd tell the other two or three families

we'd see them

the next week.

Gradually,

kids grew, jobs and hours changed,

Albertsons built a new, closer store

that took us closer

to other fast food places.

I wonder about the homesteaders.



II



His parents split,

and the rental became

his mom's home.

She lived with us for a month or so;

you relegated her,

in her own house,

to the utility room.

Finally,

I told her to come inside.

You lost a job,

found another,

lost it,

found another.

In desperation,

I found and took a job

with a future,

and, after a contentious weekend,

moved us out of your mom's house.

She mourned,

wanting us back.

But six people in a 2-bedroom place

was rough.

The rent in the new place

took a third of our income,

then went up more.

I lost my job,

in part because

you were too proud to do

“women's work,”

laundry,

dishes,

cleaning

while I worked full time

and you stayed home,

watching TV and the kids.

A job

revolving around

physical work

required more than three hours of sleep a night,

and catching up on weekends.

You then took a job,

while I stayed home.



III



Three moves later,

you leave to find work out of state,

leaving me to care for four kids.

I find work

while going to school full time.

We move,

and you come back.

You promised to change,

and found a job

you loved

(security in a topless bar).

You spent weekends at

the flea market,

and took a job there,

working with a friend,

running errands while he ran the booth,

helping him sell radios and such.

The security job failed,

and the flea market was your main job,

paid $100 a week.

Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –

his first –

making almost as much

as you on weekends.

Finally, the stress of

work,

kids,

not enough money,

too much rent,

and other nonsense too its toll.

We had to move again.



IV



Every place we looked,

they'd rent to me,

even with four kids and a dog.

But you'd somehow jinx the deal.

Finally, you checked with a rental place.

“Sorry, you don't make enough,”

the man told you.

Our income was $20 a month shy

of 1/3 the rent,

which meant they wouldn't

rent to you.

The next day,

I took off from both jobs and school,

went to the rental agency

and fast-talked the same man

into handing me keys

to two houses.

“Take your pick,” he told me.

I picked one,

paid the rent and deposit,

and had us in the next day.

You lost,

found,

lost,

found

several dead-end jobs,

finally finding one you loved

only when I'd

asked you to leave.

With your own place to rent –

a cheap efficiency –

you made do.

I took a job driving cab,

took a few days off

when you died –

the job had no health insurance,

which meant you neglected your health –

then worked hard,

long,

12-hour days.

Met another driver

who knew how to treat a lady.

He'd nursed his late wife,

a waitress in several diners,

when her cancer showed up,

was cured,

then came back.

A man who'll care for

a dying wife

is a real man.

We married eight years after her death,

three years after my divorce,

and your death.

We both worked,

then had to quit

when our eyesight

started to fail.

I cared for him

as he'd cared for her

during his final years.



V



Working class life

is so much harder than

life for the rich.

The hours are long,

the pay is crap,

the rents are high,

the little bit of Obamacare

is being pulled away

by the obscenely rich,

making health care hard to come by.

It's the working poor's work

that has built up the rich,

built on our backs,

giving them their life

as they pull aways ours.

Someday –

probably soon –

the revolution will knock

the crap out of those rich who don't care.

Be forewarned.



This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.

HOP, SKIP AND JUMP

HOP, SKIP AND JUMP

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Running fast and feeling free,

skip and hop, this child of three.

Trampolining on the bed

(hope he doesn't hit his head!).

Full of fun, full of joy,

full of giggles is my boy.

Wind blown hair back in the breeze,

no more blue left on jeans' knees.

I think he'll take a nap today.

(I'm tired out from all his play!)



Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.

This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

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.