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.
Friday, October 11, 2019
Thursday, October 10, 2019
LIFE
LIFE
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1970
What is Life?
It is the time
when man can take
the world's strife
and struggles
and call them "Mine"
and solve them,
or act indifferent
and die within
himself.
Written a life-time ago. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1970
What is Life?
It is the time
when man can take
the world's strife
and struggles
and call them "Mine"
and solve them,
or act indifferent
and die within
himself.
Written a life-time ago. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Walking Early December Florida Morning
Walking Early December Florida Morning
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2013
Walking, early December Florida morning,
coolness trying to descend from northern climes,
I had wanted to still be running.
Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.
Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades
as a country road,
dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.
A chain-link fence separates the house's property
from the dirt road in front,
the woods next to it on either side.
The road continues past the woods.
One can only go the full length –
a total of four blocks –
if on foot or horseback,
as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.
This early December Florida morning,
a small flock of birds –
six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –
stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.
A gated townhouse community is beyond.
Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.
As I walk, the flock of birds moves.
Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.
White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.
Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,
walking, spreading apart to let me through.
One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.
He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,
like an aging denison
in a bathing suit in Boca,
skinny legs sticking out,
dusky rose feet and backwards knees,
carrying a plump white-clad body,
topped with a funny bathing cap.
The denison would call back home,
New York, probably,
saying on crackling long-distance lines
to an equally aging sister,
“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”
The sister, mink-coated denison,
or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,
will say,
“Maybe next year, honey.
No, really, I don't mind the cold.”
The wood stork denison passes,
reconnects with the flock
just as the flock takes flight.
This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2013
Walking, early December Florida morning,
coolness trying to descend from northern climes,
I had wanted to still be running.
Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.
Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades
as a country road,
dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.
A chain-link fence separates the house's property
from the dirt road in front,
the woods next to it on either side.
The road continues past the woods.
One can only go the full length –
a total of four blocks –
if on foot or horseback,
as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.
This early December Florida morning,
a small flock of birds –
six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –
stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.
A gated townhouse community is beyond.
Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.
As I walk, the flock of birds moves.
Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.
White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.
Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,
walking, spreading apart to let me through.
One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.
He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,
like an aging denison
in a bathing suit in Boca,
skinny legs sticking out,
dusky rose feet and backwards knees,
carrying a plump white-clad body,
topped with a funny bathing cap.
The denison would call back home,
New York, probably,
saying on crackling long-distance lines
to an equally aging sister,
“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”
The sister, mink-coated denison,
or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,
will say,
“Maybe next year, honey.
No, really, I don't mind the cold.”
The wood stork denison passes,
reconnects with the flock
just as the flock takes flight.
This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
I THOUGHT OF YOU
I THOUGHT OF YOU
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
I thought of you today.
It was morning,
and the sun had just come up.
I could feel its gentle rays shining through the window
as the birds greeted the dawn and each other.
Off to a perfect start!
Yet –
something
somewhere
wasn't right.
I rolled over to tell you how I felt,
and remembered
with pain
that you had left.
The sun offered to turn pure gold for me,
and the birds sang their most delicately musical song for me.
The flowers I bought last week and planted outside
bowed and waved to me, trying to make me smile.
And yet,
in spite of all
the gaiety,
I thought of you today
and wept.
Most of us have had a relationship (or two) that have broken up, leaving us feeling sad. This was written with that in mind, and is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a permanent home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
I thought of you today.
It was morning,
and the sun had just come up.
I could feel its gentle rays shining through the window
as the birds greeted the dawn and each other.
Off to a perfect start!
Yet –
something
somewhere
wasn't right.
I rolled over to tell you how I felt,
and remembered
with pain
that you had left.
The sun offered to turn pure gold for me,
and the birds sang their most delicately musical song for me.
The flowers I bought last week and planted outside
bowed and waved to me, trying to make me smile.
And yet,
in spite of all
the gaiety,
I thought of you today
and wept.
Most of us have had a relationship (or two) that have broken up, leaving us feeling sad. This was written with that in mind, and is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a permanent home.
Saturday, October 5, 2019
ELEVEN
ELEVEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Friday, October 4, 2019
LAUNDRYMAT
LAUNDRYMAT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
THE WHISPER
THE WHISPER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
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