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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Monday, April 27, 2020
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.
Friday, April 24, 2020
Morning Walk, Misty Day
Morning Walk, Misty Day
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,
beginning of the new year,
the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.
There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies
and there's a slight chill to the air.
Any other day, I'd think cold,
but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,
it really isn't bad cold.
Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,
long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,
turquoise shoes getting muddy
on the damp dirt path.
Somewhere nearby is a
rhythmic thump-thump-thump
of heavy equipment.
Finally spot city trucks,
working in the mist to
spruce up the park –
horse trails,
little league baseball fields,
life in a small town.
Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,
all various shades of brown,
held up by green grass,
capped by grey skies.
Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,
horses outside in the fields,
breakfasting on hay and water
in the mist
while the two women who work the stable,
one, the owner, the other, a friend,
muck out stalls,
dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile
to be carted off later,
then replacing it with fresh woodchips,
putting fresh oats and water in each stall
before bringing the horses, now wet,
back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.
A radio in the tack room plays a country station;
Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist
like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.
To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,
looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.
The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.
Just before crossing the wet street,
I hit the large button that switches on
the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.
The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,
though lightly, mistily so.
In one of the townhouses that backs against
the drainage ditch next to the road
the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree
show through the partially open curtains.
First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.
Who am I to say what's right,
what's wrong
in other people's lives?
Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.
A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,
temporarily making a flash of color.
Finally,
I turn back,
pass the twinkling Christmas lights,
hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,
see the barn, horses being brought inside,
the country DJ saying rain, all day,
hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,
before unlocking the front door,
seeing two sleeping cats
and grab a cup of coffee.
Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,
beginning of the new year,
the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.
There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies
and there's a slight chill to the air.
Any other day, I'd think cold,
but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,
it really isn't bad cold.
Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,
long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,
turquoise shoes getting muddy
on the damp dirt path.
Somewhere nearby is a
rhythmic thump-thump-thump
of heavy equipment.
Finally spot city trucks,
working in the mist to
spruce up the park –
horse trails,
little league baseball fields,
life in a small town.
Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,
all various shades of brown,
held up by green grass,
capped by grey skies.
Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,
horses outside in the fields,
breakfasting on hay and water
in the mist
while the two women who work the stable,
one, the owner, the other, a friend,
muck out stalls,
dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile
to be carted off later,
then replacing it with fresh woodchips,
putting fresh oats and water in each stall
before bringing the horses, now wet,
back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.
A radio in the tack room plays a country station;
Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist
like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.
To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,
looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.
The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.
Just before crossing the wet street,
I hit the large button that switches on
the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.
The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,
though lightly, mistily so.
In one of the townhouses that backs against
the drainage ditch next to the road
the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree
show through the partially open curtains.
First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.
Who am I to say what's right,
what's wrong
in other people's lives?
Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.
A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,
temporarily making a flash of color.
Finally,
I turn back,
pass the twinkling Christmas lights,
hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,
see the barn, horses being brought inside,
the country DJ saying rain, all day,
hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,
before unlocking the front door,
seeing two sleeping cats
and grab a cup of coffee.
Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
Thursday, April 23, 2020
WINTER
WINTER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, April 22, 2020
THE WALK
THE WALK
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
We went for a walk
at his insistence.
I hesitated;
his shoes still damp.
(Amazing how many puddles
have magic magnets
that draw little feet to them.)
I carried him to the corner stop sign,
all forty-plus wiggly pounds.
We tested the breeze.
Nothing happening, we headed back.
"Let me down," was the demand.
"Me run."
So, down he went,
and,
pell-mell,
all his might,
ran to the edge of our yard.
Then, mincey-run-steps on the
stones on the driveway,
and finally, full-tilt ahead
to the sidewalk
in front of the house.
"I beat 'ou!" he sings screechily,
happily hopping,
hands clapping.
We go inside to play.
From my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
We went for a walk
at his insistence.
I hesitated;
his shoes still damp.
(Amazing how many puddles
have magic magnets
that draw little feet to them.)
I carried him to the corner stop sign,
all forty-plus wiggly pounds.
We tested the breeze.
Nothing happening, we headed back.
"Let me down," was the demand.
"Me run."
So, down he went,
and,
pell-mell,
all his might,
ran to the edge of our yard.
Then, mincey-run-steps on the
stones on the driveway,
and finally, full-tilt ahead
to the sidewalk
in front of the house.
"I beat 'ou!" he sings screechily,
happily hopping,
hands clapping.
We go inside to play.
From my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
BLUES DAYS
BLUES DAYS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
What kind of day do I like?
The kind where the weather has the blues:
the wet blues,
slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy blues,
the white cold flurry blues,
grey-sky-overhead blues,
where the colors have a chance to
scream out and soar,
and you get to sit around the
nice, warm, well-lit-house,
snuggled into your warm flannel shirt
and your dry jeans
and warm, dry, fuzzy socks,
your hands wrapped around
a nice hot cup of tea,
warm homemade cookies on a plate
or maybe a toasty, chewy muffin,
brimming with raisins and cranberries,
a lemony scent from
who knows where,
as you listen to a car going by
in the slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy rain,
its wipers going
slick-slick-slick,
back and forth in cadenced rhythm with the rain,
tires singing s-w-o-o-o-o-s-s-h-h with the road.
Hardly any traffic
on the cold wet grey roads
on a cold wet grey day.
Those who do venture out bundle up against the cold.
I feel sorry for them
and exhilarated for them:
Sorry,
since they brave the cold and wet,
the colors muted and laced with grey wet;
Exhilarated,
since they see neon lights
and other colors
dance off the road,
running in strange water-colored art,
then heading home to a place with light and dry.
White wet comes later—and earlier—in the year,
dancing,
swirling
down,
caught in a whirling updraft
before drifting down.
Grey winter skies whispered in cold breathy tones,
"Scarf, hat, mittens!
Boots, coat!"
Trudging home at the end of the day,
slip-sliding down sidewalks
and crossing streets to leap grey encrusted snow,
carrying grocery bags and attaché cases
before
getting home
to warm houses and apartments to
dream away to sunny days.
Written during the 1990s, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher. I'd written it after being out and about on a chilly, rainy wintery afternoon.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
What kind of day do I like?
The kind where the weather has the blues:
the wet blues,
slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy blues,
the white cold flurry blues,
grey-sky-overhead blues,
where the colors have a chance to
scream out and soar,
and you get to sit around the
nice, warm, well-lit-house,
snuggled into your warm flannel shirt
and your dry jeans
and warm, dry, fuzzy socks,
your hands wrapped around
a nice hot cup of tea,
warm homemade cookies on a plate
or maybe a toasty, chewy muffin,
brimming with raisins and cranberries,
a lemony scent from
who knows where,
as you listen to a car going by
in the slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy rain,
its wipers going
slick-slick-slick,
back and forth in cadenced rhythm with the rain,
tires singing s-w-o-o-o-o-s-s-h-h with the road.
Hardly any traffic
on the cold wet grey roads
on a cold wet grey day.
Those who do venture out bundle up against the cold.
I feel sorry for them
and exhilarated for them:
Sorry,
since they brave the cold and wet,
the colors muted and laced with grey wet;
Exhilarated,
since they see neon lights
and other colors
dance off the road,
running in strange water-colored art,
then heading home to a place with light and dry.
White wet comes later—and earlier—in the year,
dancing,
swirling
down,
caught in a whirling updraft
before drifting down.
Grey winter skies whispered in cold breathy tones,
"Scarf, hat, mittens!
Boots, coat!"
Trudging home at the end of the day,
slip-sliding down sidewalks
and crossing streets to leap grey encrusted snow,
carrying grocery bags and attaché cases
before
getting home
to warm houses and apartments to
dream away to sunny days.
Written during the 1990s, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher. I'd written it after being out and about on a chilly, rainy wintery afternoon.
Monday, April 20, 2020
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.
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.
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