YBOR AFTERNOON

YBOR AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 1995



Ybor -

even the name evokes memories.



On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,

the air so heavy,

you can almost see the water droplets

suspended in air

in a heavy shrouded mist,

I drive there.

My son and his wife, my friends, live there.

He has called;

“We’re ready when you are.”

I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”

The drive is not long

over battleship grey, shimmering water —

on a dreary day,

the only real color being

the head and tail lights,

the bright red car ahead of me,

the electric blue one next to me.

In half an hour, I’m there,

knocking on the door.

The house appears

deserted,

but in actuality

houses three or more in the dim decay.

The door opens slowly,

then wide.

“You’re here!” she exclaims.

She had no way of knowing I was on my way;

besides no lights,

there is no phone.

There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING

from a house nearby,

blaring reggae music,

as if the noise could shake some color

into the area,

the rain away.

We talk in hushed and raucous tones,

depending on the swinging mood,

then head out to meet up with him.

Turning the corner to the main drag,

we are bombarded by cascading lights

draped across the street as archways,

waterfalling down light polls.

Even if it were not December,

it still looks like Christmas,

lights and hustling noise

bombarding the senses.

We cruise along,

looking at the brightly lit shops,

the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.

We find a parking space,

leave the warm car,

and brave the chill

where we wait

among friends

and crazy,

harmless

strangers

for him to show.

The sky darkens,

deepens,

closing softly as a velvet cape.

When finally he arrives,

we are ready for coffee;

the specialty shop,

close by,

a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,

has a brick wall inside,

café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.

It feels comfortable,

as though no strangers can arrive,

only friends.

We debate on coffee flavors

before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,

with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,

which we greedily consume

at a table by a window,

where we watch the parade of window shoppers

wander by.

Finally,

it is time to leave;

I drop them off at home,

feeling scared, depressed,

empty,

at leaving them in a cold,

unlit house.

And yet,

it is their first place,

their leaping-off point.

And so,

I turn the car toward the interstate,

see the line of tail lights heading into the

grey and grainy misty night

and head for home.



Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).

My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently 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.

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Grey, dreary day, first week in January,

I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.

Ten more minutes, and I can get it.

Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one

before getting another loan.

A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.

Paul Simon is singing Graceland,

Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.

“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.

An old woman,

crippled up from life,

eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.

The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.

“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,

as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation

would give the statement a life of its own,

thus making it more than she can bear.

Several more people wander in,

needing money,

needing more until their next pay day.

Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.

I turn and lean against the window where the teller,

who is helping the old woman,

will help me in – now – five minutes.

I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall

and part of another.

It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.

If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –

snow would be imminent.

The teller glances at me.

“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.

His voice stands out in the Florida winter,

telling of snow days and shoveling snow

neither of us no longer need to do.



There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,

when I would never have to come in here again.

Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.

And the it wasn't.



“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me

as the old woman shuffles off.



*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon



There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.

This was first posted on October 20, 2016.

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995





The Revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

people without jobs who want to work

who need to work

who strive to work

who’ve given up trying to work

within a system that strives to keep them down

while saying “no more safety net”

while letting children go hungry

while giving themselves humungous raises

and building more bombs and guns

to keep the underclass under them

but

The Revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

the child who cries herself to sleep after a day

of abuse and neglect

while the child lovingly corrected cries

after being removed from home

and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,

who questions what he sees,

who questions the system,

who questions the questions,

who questions why,

and when and where and what and who

but

The revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses

don’t buy into what their

children and grandchildren will breath,

drink or eat in the years to come,

who feel that money is

more important than air,

more important that water,

more important than the future,

more important than anything else

including the fact that

The Revolution will not revolve around you.

Instead,

it revolves around those brave enough

to take on the system,

who strive to prove that justice for some

should be justice for all

and help to make that possible;

around those who see a need and try to

honestly and with courage

and passion

and compassion

try to solve it,

around those who see those

whom life has dealt harshly with

and who still struggle to stand up and fight

and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,

around those who see the hunger

and strive to feed;

who see the abuse

and try to end it;

who see the hurt

and try to heal it;

and then, only then,

if you have the courage

to instigate this revolution,

then and only then will

the revolution involve and revolve around you.



This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.

Christmas, 2004

Christmas, 2004

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,

Could have been December, certainly not May.

The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey

on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.



On holidays, I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.

ARTISTIC TIME

ARTISTIC TIME

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



No matter what anyone says,

men have it easier being artists than women -

especially those with outside work.

Men work,

come home,

take up pen and paper,

whatever their talent dictates.

Women,

on the other hand,

work,

come home,

deal with the housework,

the laundry,

the children,

the cleaning up after the pets,

dealing with the whims of their men,

their men’s needs,

(screw their own needs),

fix dinner,

do the dishes,

screw their men,

then,

if we are very lucky,

we may be able to fit in

a couple of minutes of

writing,

painting,

creating

between

cleaning the bathroom

and sleep.

What is amazing

is not that we can create well,

but that we have time to create. Period.



While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently 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. This from a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother

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