SUMMER DAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Monday, September 2, 2019
Friday, August 30, 2019
EVEN IN DESOLATION
EVEN IN DESOLATION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Even in desolation,
I know there’s life.
In the dust bowl of my emotions,
where all my tears have burned
the flowering vegetation off
and made a mockery of joy,
is the whoosh of wind
blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing
in the dusty
gritty storm.
My entire being feels picked clean
like the skeletal remains of
a buffalo left to die in the desert;
the sensation is wholly complete,
leaving me completely disconnected.
My withered spirit craves
water,
food,
colors of the spectrum.
And yet,
even in desolation,
I know that there is life.
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, 1995
Even in desolation,
I know there’s life.
In the dust bowl of my emotions,
where all my tears have burned
the flowering vegetation off
and made a mockery of joy,
is the whoosh of wind
blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing
in the dusty
gritty storm.
My entire being feels picked clean
like the skeletal remains of
a buffalo left to die in the desert;
the sensation is wholly complete,
leaving me completely disconnected.
My withered spirit craves
water,
food,
colors of the spectrum.
And yet,
even in desolation,
I know that there is life.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, August 29, 2019
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.
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.
Friday, August 23, 2019
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.
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.
Monday, July 29, 2019
NIGHT SONGS
NIGHT SONGS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Friday, July 26, 2019
“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.
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.
Thursday, July 25, 2019
REBEL
REBEL
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
“Sit down and shut up,”
he orders with a snarl.
I have been to hell and back,
seen things -
no, experienced them -
that no living being,
human or otherwise,
should know exists.
There are abuses which,
bad enough when done by unknown,
are a thousand times worse
when done in the name of love.
There are those who bully for what they want,
who fight without conscience against us all,
unless someone is brave enough to
STAND UP
and break the cycle.
Sooner
(or later)
the beaten spirit does one of two things:
either it breaks, withers and dies,
or becomes a strong warrior,
becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.
I have lived too much to go back.
Now, looking for new relationships,
I see through the gauzy,
glittery
starry-eyed good times,
and frequently see to the center,
the rigid unyielding core of a person.
I have to to survive.
And so,
I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,
stand tall, strong,
and,
looking him straight in his surprised eyes,
state in a loud,
clear,
strong voice,
“I will not sit down.
I will not shut up.”
I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
“Sit down and shut up,”
he orders with a snarl.
I have been to hell and back,
seen things -
no, experienced them -
that no living being,
human or otherwise,
should know exists.
There are abuses which,
bad enough when done by unknown,
are a thousand times worse
when done in the name of love.
There are those who bully for what they want,
who fight without conscience against us all,
unless someone is brave enough to
STAND UP
and break the cycle.
Sooner
(or later)
the beaten spirit does one of two things:
either it breaks, withers and dies,
or becomes a strong warrior,
becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.
I have lived too much to go back.
Now, looking for new relationships,
I see through the gauzy,
glittery
starry-eyed good times,
and frequently see to the center,
the rigid unyielding core of a person.
I have to to survive.
And so,
I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,
stand tall, strong,
and,
looking him straight in his surprised eyes,
state in a loud,
clear,
strong voice,
“I will not sit down.
I will not shut up.”
I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)