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.
Saturday, September 14, 2019
Thursday, September 12, 2019
THE MOVE OF A FRIEND
THE MOVE OF A FRIEND
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1987
Today, a friend of mine
is moving out of state.
We've both known for months about today,
the date marked on two calendars.
I've known her most of the four years she's been here.
We met during a critical time in our lives:
she was back in school, a mother of two,
I, newly separated, in a new house, with double the kids.
Fate had us go to the same park
for a Labor Day picnic.
Friends immediately,
fast, though maybe not too fierce.
We started out together,
once a week.
Then, somehow, it slowed
as other necessary commitments arose.
Once every six months,
we'd bump into each other
or call,
and catch up
as though our last contact was yesterday.
Yesterday,
we went out for an ice cream,
a needed break from packing for her,
a final time together for us both.
It felt a little funny;
I learned a lot from her,
picked up on her cues for the dance.
I hoped she learned, too, from me,
from my subtleties.
I felt betrayed, somehow, by her leaving.
She was the first friend I picked out
without a husband/parent overhead.
This morning,
I stand on my back porch, a cup of tea in hand.
This porch, house, I moved into a week after I met her.
A lot has happened.
We've talked of children -
we both had ones with major medicals,
so knew the nuances,
the doctors and problems,
pain in a shared way.
She gave me permission to go to school
with her example,
then moved on to a job she loved
that had nothing to do
with her unfinished schooling.
I watch the new grass coming up,
the delicate diamond glitter of dew on the new green.
I'll miss her,
betrayed or not.
Maybe now I'll have permission to move, too.
This was written shortly after a friend moved out of state. We exchanged letters for a year or two after her move, then slowly lost touch as our lives took over. Years later, we found each other again on Facebook, though her posts have almost disappeared. As with Maryann, I wonder how Karen is doing.
This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1987
Today, a friend of mine
is moving out of state.
We've both known for months about today,
the date marked on two calendars.
I've known her most of the four years she's been here.
We met during a critical time in our lives:
she was back in school, a mother of two,
I, newly separated, in a new house, with double the kids.
Fate had us go to the same park
for a Labor Day picnic.
Friends immediately,
fast, though maybe not too fierce.
We started out together,
once a week.
Then, somehow, it slowed
as other necessary commitments arose.
Once every six months,
we'd bump into each other
or call,
and catch up
as though our last contact was yesterday.
Yesterday,
we went out for an ice cream,
a needed break from packing for her,
a final time together for us both.
It felt a little funny;
I learned a lot from her,
picked up on her cues for the dance.
I hoped she learned, too, from me,
from my subtleties.
I felt betrayed, somehow, by her leaving.
She was the first friend I picked out
without a husband/parent overhead.
This morning,
I stand on my back porch, a cup of tea in hand.
This porch, house, I moved into a week after I met her.
A lot has happened.
We've talked of children -
we both had ones with major medicals,
so knew the nuances,
the doctors and problems,
pain in a shared way.
She gave me permission to go to school
with her example,
then moved on to a job she loved
that had nothing to do
with her unfinished schooling.
I watch the new grass coming up,
the delicate diamond glitter of dew on the new green.
I'll miss her,
betrayed or not.
Maybe now I'll have permission to move, too.
This was written shortly after a friend moved out of state. We exchanged letters for a year or two after her move, then slowly lost touch as our lives took over. Years later, we found each other again on Facebook, though her posts have almost disappeared. As with Maryann, I wonder how Karen is doing.
This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.
Monday, September 9, 2019
THE LOSS OF A FRIEND
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.
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.
Saturday, September 7, 2019
I WONDER
I WONDER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
If I were to suddenly disappear,
I wonder if anyone would wonder
where I was,
or if I was okay;
if anyone would ask,
“What is she up to these days?”
Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,
and,
if so,
would they really care for an answer,
or would it be a rhetorical question,
similar in consequence and concern as
“Some weather, huh?”
And so,
quietly I begin to cut ties,
sure it doesn’t matter
much
to anyone.
Except,
maybe,
to me.
We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
If I were to suddenly disappear,
I wonder if anyone would wonder
where I was,
or if I was okay;
if anyone would ask,
“What is she up to these days?”
Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,
and,
if so,
would they really care for an answer,
or would it be a rhetorical question,
similar in consequence and concern as
“Some weather, huh?”
And so,
quietly I begin to cut ties,
sure it doesn’t matter
much
to anyone.
Except,
maybe,
to me.
We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, September 6, 2019
FALL AFTERNOON
FALL AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
SURREALITY
SURREALITY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Driving home from a surreal afternoon,
the lights on the bridge remind me
of strings of pearls,
glistening,
glowing
against the grey velvet sky.
There are few cars ahead of me,
spaced apart,
their taillights like sparking rubies,
following the sensuous curve of the bridge.
Glancing when I can to my right,
the distant headlights on the north bridge
spanning the bay
are like diamonds,
glittering on their moving strands.
The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,
pointing the car into the soft sunset;
the clouds have parted just enough to turn
pale pink
and
peach,
soft as worn flannel,
drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.
Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,
the liquid colors turn,
becoming pale yellow,
pencil-sketched clouds
turning to charcoal.
The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,
then slowly,
gently
lets me drop back to earth.
Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,
swirling skies and all.
I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.
This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Driving home from a surreal afternoon,
the lights on the bridge remind me
of strings of pearls,
glistening,
glowing
against the grey velvet sky.
There are few cars ahead of me,
spaced apart,
their taillights like sparking rubies,
following the sensuous curve of the bridge.
Glancing when I can to my right,
the distant headlights on the north bridge
spanning the bay
are like diamonds,
glittering on their moving strands.
The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,
pointing the car into the soft sunset;
the clouds have parted just enough to turn
pale pink
and
peach,
soft as worn flannel,
drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.
Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,
the liquid colors turn,
becoming pale yellow,
pencil-sketched clouds
turning to charcoal.
The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,
then slowly,
gently
lets me drop back to earth.
Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,
swirling skies and all.
I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.
This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
STORM
STORM
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
It's growing dark outside.
I wander out;
the clouds are rolling in,
slowly churning,
climbing
over each other.
The air has a certain feel,
expectant,
ready to charge,
held in suspended motion.
Somewhere,
someone has recently mowed their space;
the scent lightly perfumes the air.
Splat.
The first rain drop hits right on my nose.
I wait, watching the tentative drops splatter on the sidewalk
in front of the house.
Slowly,
I wander back inside,
curl on a chair in the darkening room
and watch as the light-and-water show begins.
Summer tends to be the rainy season in Florida, with the Tampa Bay being called the Lightning Capital of the U.S. This was written after one such storm.
This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
It's growing dark outside.
I wander out;
the clouds are rolling in,
slowly churning,
climbing
over each other.
The air has a certain feel,
expectant,
ready to charge,
held in suspended motion.
Somewhere,
someone has recently mowed their space;
the scent lightly perfumes the air.
Splat.
The first rain drop hits right on my nose.
I wait, watching the tentative drops splatter on the sidewalk
in front of the house.
Slowly,
I wander back inside,
curl on a chair in the darkening room
and watch as the light-and-water show begins.
Summer tends to be the rainy season in Florida, with the Tampa Bay being called the Lightning Capital of the U.S. This was written after one such storm.
This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
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