SEPARATION

SEPARATION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1983



We're separated,

you and I;

split up,

as it were,

no longer a couple,

not quite a whole person,

either.

More like a half-person,

missing parts

(our hearts),

emotional amputees.

The night we decided,

we spent hours

talking,

hashing,

rolling onto our sides

in bed,

trying to ignore the other,

our innards too knotted to sleep.

Exhaustion reached us

shortly before the alarm clock went off.

The next day, we sorted,

shifted,

through fifteen years

of marriage.

You

got the

plates your mother gave us,

the chairs,

and a large pile of books.

I,

on the other hand,

got

my grandma's china,

the silverware,

and the kids.

We'll survive, somehow,

remain friends.



I just wish we could have stayed more.

Is there anything harder than breaking up with someone we were once very close to, with a shared history? This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.

GIFT

GIFT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



There's a breeze outside.

I know,

because my wind chimes

are dancing.

They were a

Christmas present

from a friend who

finds me hard to shop for.

He's right, of course.

I'm, at times,

a fragmented,

puzzling person,

who likes a

little

of a lot of things,

but not quite enough

to spend a lot

on one particular thing.

But there are the chimes.

They dance and twirl,

singing musically

their tinkling,

swirling song.

First,

we hung them out back.

But no one heard their

delicate music there.

In front was nice,

until,

on a very windy day,

they nearly

beaned the mailman.

So now,

they sing outside the

kitchen window,

where I spend my time

and hear them

enough to really

enjoy their sound.



This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.

SURREALITY

SURREALITY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a surreal afternoon,

the lights on the bridge remind me

of strings of pearls,

glistening,

glowing

against the grey velvet sky.

There are few cars ahead of me,

spaced apart,

their taillights like sparking rubies,

following the sensuous curve of the bridge.

Glancing when I can to my right,

the distant headlights on the north bridge

spanning the bay

are like diamonds,

glittering on their moving strands.

The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,

pointing the car into the soft sunset;

the clouds have parted just enough to turn

pale pink

and

peach,

soft as worn flannel,

drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.

Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,

the liquid colors turn,

becoming pale yellow,

pencil-sketched clouds

turning to charcoal.

The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,

then slowly,

gently

lets me drop back to earth.

Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,

swirling skies and all.



I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.

This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

THE FLOWER

THE FLOWER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1970s



I picked a flower today.

It was in a field of tall, green grass.

I had been laying there,

watching the clouds take shape,

and,

upon getting up to leave,

there it was!

In a scattered group of yellow daffodils

and wild red roses

was a single white flower -

bigger,

more beautiful than the rest.

And now,

inside,

it is only

a pretty flower

in an otherwise

bare room.



Written during the 1970s. Sometimes, it's best just to leave beauty where it's found.

This is part of my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.

SUMMER

SUMMER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The days are ablaze with life;

heat shimmering off the sidewalks,

slithering up the outside walls

of the buildings,

giving people a funny, wavy look from

the distance,

as though they dance

while,

really,

they walk.

Children,

out of school,

screeching

happily

through the streets,

down the sidewalks,

careening around the corners,

playing tag,

hide-and-seek,

red rover.

Shouts –

"I'll get Johnny;

meet us for baseball"

fill the air.

Mothers and fathers

taking children

to the zoo,

the park,

wherever,

while the other parent works,

studies,

is otherwise disengaged,

or, maybe, just not there.

Evenings come later, this time of year,

giving rise to more time

for outdoor play,

cookouts,

lazing around.

No hurry to do things before

turning on the lights.

Life is a carnival,

a blast,

easier to move

(no heavy clothes

to weigh one down).

As evening arrives,

people wander home;

maybe a late dinner,

or,

dinner over,

sit outside

in the grass,

on the porch,

wherever,

talking out plans,

futures,

loves,

what-have-you.

Dreams

simply have to drift

from consciousness

into sleep,

as crickets serenade one to sleep,

and stars cover the land

as a giant blanket.

Summer,

everyone can be a child.



Most of us have a favorite season, and each season seems to have its own feel, little nuances that make it different from the other seasons.

This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

THE MOVE OF A FRIEND

THE MOVE OF A FRIEND

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1987



Today, a friend of mine

is moving out of state.

We've both known for months about today,

the date marked on two calendars.

I've known her most of the four years she's been here.

We met during a critical time in our lives:

she was back in school, a mother of two,

I, newly separated, in a new house, with double the kids.

Fate had us go to the same park

for a Labor Day picnic.

Friends immediately,

fast, though maybe not too fierce.

We started out together,

once a week.

Then, somehow, it slowed

as other necessary commitments arose.

Once every six months,

we'd bump into each other

or call,

and catch up

as though our last contact was yesterday.

Yesterday,

we went out for an ice cream,

a needed break from packing for her,

a final time together for us both.

It felt a little funny;

I learned a lot from her,

picked up on her cues for the dance.

I hoped she learned, too, from me,

from my subtleties.

I felt betrayed, somehow, by her leaving.

She was the first friend I picked out

without a husband/parent overhead.

This morning,

I stand on my back porch, a cup of tea in hand.

This porch, house, I moved into a week after I met her.

A lot has happened.

We've talked of children -

we both had ones with major medicals,

so knew the nuances,

the doctors and problems,

pain in a shared way.

She gave me permission to go to school

with her example,

then moved on to a job she loved

that had nothing to do

with her unfinished schooling.

I watch the new grass coming up,

the delicate diamond glitter of dew on the new green.

I'll miss her,

betrayed or not.

Maybe now I'll have permission to move, too.



This was written shortly after a friend moved out of state. We exchanged letters for a year or two after her move, then slowly lost touch as our lives took over. Years later, we found each other again on Facebook, though her posts have almost disappeared. As with Maryann, I wonder how Karen is doing.

This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.