RAINY NIGHT

RAINY NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Rainy night.

I’d planned to stay home,

sealed against the cold drenching.

As luck would have it,

an old friend changed the night

with his call,

steering me into the downpour.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs someone to listen,

a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.

Traveling

to pick him up,

I wonder if he wants so much to go out

as to have someone who cares,

knowing someone will brave the rain.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs a hero,

a warm friendly face.

On the way there,

I tense as the car tries to slide.

The road is slick

and doesn’t give much traction.

Up ahead,

a light turns red,

sending long fingers of light

reflecting toward me.

I slow up,

trying not to skid,

begin to lose, then steadily stop.

Rivers of rain

snake down my windshield

as the wipers swoosh back and forth.

This is a long light,

prone to give new meaning to the term

“light year.”

He’s given that to me, our private joke.

As I wait,

I look around.

Lights reflecting everywhere:

red and green stoplights,

neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,

apartment and store windows

all bouncing off the pavements,

shimmering,

swimming in the puddles

and wet.

Light change,

I ease forward.

The car slides,

then catches as I ease off.

A block,

then another,

a third,

and then,

on the fourth (and two lights later)

is the brownstone that surrounds him.

The third floor is his;

high enough for a view,

but not too high.

This evening,

we’ll sit in the window,

watch the view,

talk,

and maybe more.

We decide I’ll stay the night;

no sense going home

in the driving rain.

In the morning,

I head home before work.

The dry daylight

is a different world.



Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

In Absentia, for Mom

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. This from a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother

While I've posted this before, today is the fifth anniversary of her death.

DRESS UPS

DRESS UPS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



She's dressing up in fancy clothes -

satins, silks, and ancient lace,

high heeled shoes with skinny legs,

lipstick on a pouty face.

This child-like game of dressing up -

"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -

will turn to laughs in later years

(in photos shown to friendly boys).

But now, my little girl and I,

("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)

we're sitting down to lemonade.

(We're pretending that it's tea.)



Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

RAIN-CHILLED LOVE

RAIN-CHILLED LOVE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1971



There is anger in his voice as he tries

to make her stay. She cries,

wanting so much to leave,

because she has not found love.

He promises to love, but his promises

go unheard by the one that they

are directed towards.

She has heard the promises before,

and she has stayed,

but in vain.

Her heart has felt pain,

but now there is no feeling there

as she prepares to venture out into the rain.

The chill of it is no worse

than his coldness towards her,

and her heart is as empty

as his promises.

She'll find love again

when the rain lets up

and she can see ahead.

For her the sun will shine,

but he will be drowned

in the rain from his heart

as he cries for a love lost

that he was too foolish to see.



Written circa 1969-1971, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher.

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.

GRANDMOTHER

GRANDMOTHER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Grandma,

you've gradually aged

without seeming to.

Seventy-six,

but where has

the time gone?

Pictures

of you, holding a baby.

Mom.

Another picture of you,

years later,

another baby.

Great-grandson.

Same love,

but from a distance.

You've seen so much,

loved so much,

passed love on.

You'll always be remembered;

the memories are sweet.



This was written for my grandmother. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.