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.
Friday, February 24, 2023
Thursday, February 23, 2023
Salt Creek, St. Petersburg
Salt Creek, St. Petersburg
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2011
Historical, varied, over-looked Salt Creek.
Saltwater waterway,
used for littering, garbage-dumping for too long.
Once pristine, now muck-filled,
wanting to become once-again – vibrant,
Vital
estuary
life-giving
ebb-and-flow
peaceful waterway.
“Watch out for sharks!”
Crabs, fish, pelicans
displaced by cans, ring-tops, litter,
to be (hopefully) replaced (again) by nature.
Wonder if Native Americans used this
as their water-highway?
The wind and currents steer us.
This was written on 2-10-11 for a Nature Writing class at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, taught by Tom Hallock. It was a fun class, including a kayaking trip on Salt Creek, as well as writing.
When I took the class, a man standing on a bridge above the creek watched us paddling along, and hollared, "Watch out for the sharks!" Got a good laugh from all of us.
How good was the writing? There was even a book (Salt Creak Journal) published with some of the writing and photography, along with a release part.
Professor Hallock's Nature Writing class has moved on to other local waterways to write about.
This poem is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Painted Words.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2011
Historical, varied, over-looked Salt Creek.
Saltwater waterway,
used for littering, garbage-dumping for too long.
Once pristine, now muck-filled,
wanting to become once-again – vibrant,
Vital
estuary
life-giving
ebb-and-flow
peaceful waterway.
“Watch out for sharks!”
Crabs, fish, pelicans
displaced by cans, ring-tops, litter,
to be (hopefully) replaced (again) by nature.
Wonder if Native Americans used this
as their water-highway?
The wind and currents steer us.
This was written on 2-10-11 for a Nature Writing class at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, taught by Tom Hallock. It was a fun class, including a kayaking trip on Salt Creek, as well as writing.
When I took the class, a man standing on a bridge above the creek watched us paddling along, and hollared, "Watch out for the sharks!" Got a good laugh from all of us.
How good was the writing? There was even a book (Salt Creak Journal) published with some of the writing and photography, along with a release part.
Professor Hallock's Nature Writing class has moved on to other local waterways to write about.
This poem is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Painted Words.
Monday, January 30, 2023
LIFE, IT SEEMS
LIFE, IT SEEMS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Thursday, January 26, 2023
LAUNDRYMAT
LAUNDRYMAT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
Monday, January 23, 2023
FOGGY MORNING
FOGGY MORNING
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
Morning starts off dreary,
as though it had rained
hours ago.
Then,
when it should be clearing,
fog moves in,
blanketing the area
like an old
handmade quilt,
tucking in around
neighboring houses,
making one feel pleasantly safe.
I step outside
to bring the garbage can
from the curb,
and watch the fog
thicken,
move in,
surrounding the neighborhood,
muting the sounds of
cars passing by,
birds calling,
the gate opening
and shutting.
An hour later,
the sun peaks out,
pushing aside the gauzy veil.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
Morning starts off dreary,
as though it had rained
hours ago.
Then,
when it should be clearing,
fog moves in,
blanketing the area
like an old
handmade quilt,
tucking in around
neighboring houses,
making one feel pleasantly safe.
I step outside
to bring the garbage can
from the curb,
and watch the fog
thicken,
move in,
surrounding the neighborhood,
muting the sounds of
cars passing by,
birds calling,
the gate opening
and shutting.
An hour later,
the sun peaks out,
pushing aside the gauzy veil.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
Wednesday, January 18, 2023
MUGLY DAYS
MUGLY DAYS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2022
Muggy day,
weighing down the air,
muting colors to an ugly pastel wavy mass,
a Mugly day,
so Mugly it leaves your skin
sandy, sweaty, gritty,
plasters your hair to face,
shirt to back, sides and front.
So muggy,
it’s ugly,
giving way to mugly.
August in Florida is brutal.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2022
Muggy day,
weighing down the air,
muting colors to an ugly pastel wavy mass,
a Mugly day,
so Mugly it leaves your skin
sandy, sweaty, gritty,
plasters your hair to face,
shirt to back, sides and front.
So muggy,
it’s ugly,
giving way to mugly.
August in Florida is brutal.
From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.
Monday, December 26, 2022
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.
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.
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