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.
Poetry, Unassigned
Poetry, Unassigned
Wednesday, November 20, 2024
Friday, November 8, 2024
RAINY NOVEMBER SUNDAY AFTERNOON
RAINY NOVEMBER SUNDAY AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2022
On a rainy November Sunday afternoon,
too dreary to go out,
with nowhere to go,
I start a batch of homemade bread,
three loaves’ worth.
As it rises
in the oven
for the first of two risings,
I sit at the table,
and listen to music.
Temptations’ “The Thing You Do,”
then “I Will Wait for You,” by Mumford and Son.
Almost turn off the music,
but Saffire Uppity Blues Women
convince me to stay, with “Elevator Man.”
Sometimes,
there’s nothing better than
Saffire’s beautiful blues
with homemade bread rising
in the oven,
especially on a rainy November Sunday afternoon.
This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2022
On a rainy November Sunday afternoon,
too dreary to go out,
with nowhere to go,
I start a batch of homemade bread,
three loaves’ worth.
As it rises
in the oven
for the first of two risings,
I sit at the table,
and listen to music.
Temptations’ “The Thing You Do,”
then “I Will Wait for You,” by Mumford and Son.
Almost turn off the music,
but Saffire Uppity Blues Women
convince me to stay, with “Elevator Man.”
Sometimes,
there’s nothing better than
Saffire’s beautiful blues
with homemade bread rising
in the oven,
especially on a rainy November Sunday afternoon.
This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
Wednesday, November 6, 2024
THE PITCH
THE PITCH
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
The summer I was 15,
I obsessed about the Red Sox.
I’d been a Boston fan
for several years,
but ‘69 was different.
I had to have surgery
on my knee;
I’d hurt it playing basketball
in a Catholic high school
A senior and I,
a lowly sophomore,
were the two best players
on the team.
She had a scholarship
to UConn,
the only school nearby
that gave girls athletic scholarships
pre-Title IX.
The surgery ended my
basketball days;
had Title IX been in place,
I would’ve kept at it,
no matter what.
After several days in the hospital,
I was released,
getting home in time
to turn on the radio
to the first Rec Sox game
of the season.
That was the summer
when I wanted to pitch for the Red Sox.
So many kids
had major-league aspirations,
but only boys could follow them.
Every time the Red Sox played,
I listened on my radio
or watched on TV,
wishing I could
someday pitch.
I tried to think of ways
I could play ball.
But nothing I thought of
would have worked.
I envisioned myself
going to try outs,
being allowed to throw,
since no one thought
a girl
could pitch,
then proving I could do it.
That summer,
my brother and I
walked to the nearby
Little League fields,
where he had me,
his big sister,
throw the ball for him.
“You’d make a great pitcher,”
he told me after one pitching session.
He always believed in me.
“You’d be better than Yastrzemski,”
he said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him
that Yaz didn’t pitch.
We moved to Florida a few years later.
All we had there
was spring training
until the Marlins came along,
but they were in Miami.
When the Rays came to St. Pete,
I became a Rays fan.
You have to root for the home team.
“You like baseball? What teams to you root for?”
“The Rays, the Red Sox, and whoever’s
playing the Yankees.”
Yankees fans’d roll their eyes,
but they got it.
Along the way,
a movie for us “girls” –
“A League of Their Own,”
about women playing ball.
One day, just before I turned 60,
I stood in line at the
customer service booth at Publix,
behind a mom and 10-year-old daughter
getting ready for her soft-ball game.
An older woman – late 80s, turned,
talked to the pair.
“I played years ago,”
she said in a strong voice.
“Ever hear of the All American Girls League?
I was pitcher for the Rockford Peaches.”
She was my instant hero.
Early in the season,
one of the local TV stations
worked something out
with the local team –
a party, of sorts.
One person from each decade of life
would face a pitcher,
get a chance to hit,
round the bases,
if they did.
Me,
in my late 60s,
got picked for my decade.
When my turn came,
I headed for home plate,
and chatted with
the manager,
ump,
pitcher,
and more.
54 years of
wanting to play
with the boys of summer,
making it the kids of summer.
I pick the bat I want to use,
approach the plate.
54 years of dreams,
of Yaz,
of the Conigliaro brothers –
first Tony and
then Billy –
54 years of remembering photos
of Tony after he’d been
beaned by a ptich,
then coming back
later,
but never able to play
as he had,
always shy about
wild pitches –
54 years of remembering
Wade Boggs,
who finished his career
with the Rays,
remembering when he
joined the 3000 club,
running the bases,
arm pumping a cheer,
54 years of hearing about
the curse of the Babe,
of Ted Williams,
of wanting to be able to
have female names
in with the greats,
the Conigliaros,
Big Papi,
Carl Crawford,
Price,
and the All-American Girls League.
I wait,
watching the pitcher,
who’s been instructed
to take it easy.
54 years of
waiting for the wind up,
to hit a home run
worthy of playing the game.
“Ready?”
he calls,
as he was instructed
for the fans.
I nod.
And he pitches.
Home run,
some day for all of us girls.
This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
The summer I was 15,
I obsessed about the Red Sox.
I’d been a Boston fan
for several years,
but ‘69 was different.
I had to have surgery
on my knee;
I’d hurt it playing basketball
in a Catholic high school
A senior and I,
a lowly sophomore,
were the two best players
on the team.
She had a scholarship
to UConn,
the only school nearby
that gave girls athletic scholarships
pre-Title IX.
The surgery ended my
basketball days;
had Title IX been in place,
I would’ve kept at it,
no matter what.
After several days in the hospital,
I was released,
getting home in time
to turn on the radio
to the first Rec Sox game
of the season.
That was the summer
when I wanted to pitch for the Red Sox.
So many kids
had major-league aspirations,
but only boys could follow them.
Every time the Red Sox played,
I listened on my radio
or watched on TV,
wishing I could
someday pitch.
I tried to think of ways
I could play ball.
But nothing I thought of
would have worked.
I envisioned myself
going to try outs,
being allowed to throw,
since no one thought
a girl
could pitch,
then proving I could do it.
That summer,
my brother and I
walked to the nearby
Little League fields,
where he had me,
his big sister,
throw the ball for him.
“You’d make a great pitcher,”
he told me after one pitching session.
He always believed in me.
“You’d be better than Yastrzemski,”
he said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him
that Yaz didn’t pitch.
We moved to Florida a few years later.
All we had there
was spring training
until the Marlins came along,
but they were in Miami.
When the Rays came to St. Pete,
I became a Rays fan.
You have to root for the home team.
“You like baseball? What teams to you root for?”
“The Rays, the Red Sox, and whoever’s
playing the Yankees.”
Yankees fans’d roll their eyes,
but they got it.
Along the way,
a movie for us “girls” –
“A League of Their Own,”
about women playing ball.
One day, just before I turned 60,
I stood in line at the
customer service booth at Publix,
behind a mom and 10-year-old daughter
getting ready for her soft-ball game.
An older woman – late 80s, turned,
talked to the pair.
“I played years ago,”
she said in a strong voice.
“Ever hear of the All American Girls League?
I was pitcher for the Rockford Peaches.”
She was my instant hero.
Early in the season,
one of the local TV stations
worked something out
with the local team –
a party, of sorts.
One person from each decade of life
would face a pitcher,
get a chance to hit,
round the bases,
if they did.
Me,
in my late 60s,
got picked for my decade.
When my turn came,
I headed for home plate,
and chatted with
the manager,
ump,
pitcher,
and more.
54 years of
wanting to play
with the boys of summer,
making it the kids of summer.
I pick the bat I want to use,
approach the plate.
54 years of dreams,
of Yaz,
of the Conigliaro brothers –
first Tony and
then Billy –
54 years of remembering photos
of Tony after he’d been
beaned by a ptich,
then coming back
later,
but never able to play
as he had,
always shy about
wild pitches –
54 years of remembering
Wade Boggs,
who finished his career
with the Rays,
remembering when he
joined the 3000 club,
running the bases,
arm pumping a cheer,
54 years of hearing about
the curse of the Babe,
of Ted Williams,
of wanting to be able to
have female names
in with the greats,
the Conigliaros,
Big Papi,
Carl Crawford,
Price,
and the All-American Girls League.
I wait,
watching the pitcher,
who’s been instructed
to take it easy.
54 years of
waiting for the wind up,
to hit a home run
worthy of playing the game.
“Ready?”
he calls,
as he was instructed
for the fans.
I nod.
And he pitches.
Home run,
some day for all of us girls.
This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
Monday, November 4, 2024
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.
Tuesday, April 30, 2024
THINKING TIME
THINKING TIME
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
There are two best times for thinking:
Going for a walk,
and riding the bus.
Both activities make other distractions difficult.
Some of my best thinking,
idea-wise,
have come from both.
I have a path I love to walk.
It goes cross-country,
down dirt roads,
through woods,
past houses,
town homes,
stables full of horses,
parks and little league fields.
Once, walking down the dirt road,
past a moved-in house on acres of land,
just at the start of woods on one side,
a drainage ditch and stable on the other,
I had the feeling of my grandmother,
long gone,
as though waiting for me.
Over the years,
it has felt that others
gone, but not forgotten,
have joined her,
to where I almost feel them saying,
Here she comes, here she comes,
She's coming
as I head out.
I've thought of these family members
long gone,
but not forgotten.
Mom has recently joined this group.
During her memorial,
months after her death,
I couldn't help but think that
my sister and I are the
last two in our birth family.
As the elder,
I can remember when a little easier than she can.
And yet,
at the memorial,
I realize that our uncle,
Mom's only brother
(she had no sisters)
is the last one left from his birth family.
He has no one to remember when with,
at least in the same way Mom could.
Also on walks,
I've thought of the people who live in the town houses
I pass:
an old couple whose daughter
(I'm guessing)
fixes their dinner
around the time for my evening walk;
the couple with the baby in a stroller
and two small dogs
whose antics make the baby
laugh and clap;
the couple who leaves their Christmas tree
up through mid-January
every year.
Bus rides give way to
another kind of thinking.
You get to see people,
wonder about their lives.
One time, coming home from school
in downtown St. Pete,
Matt met me at Williams Park.
He knew I'd take one of two buses,
both disembarking riders
and departing on the same side of the park.
He waited, and when I saw him,
we got on the same bus –
the 52 –
together.
We watched the others on the bus,
from the bus,
pointed people out to each other.
At Central Plaza terminal,
we gasped, then laughed
at one man,
sitting and talking to a woman.
He was wearing gray slippers,
tie-dyed socks,
a purple bathrobe with gold sparkles,
and topped by a red beret,
set at a jaunty angle
atop his head.
The woman,
about his age – late middle aged –
was nondescript next to him.
I want to write them into a story,
I tell Matt,
as he laughs and rolls his eyes.
We all have times when our mind naturally drifts and starts wandering back in time, into the future, or kicking around the present. This poem is about that. I've run and/or walked for years, as well as riding buses; both are great for thinking.
This is part of a growing group of poems tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
There are two best times for thinking:
Going for a walk,
and riding the bus.
Both activities make other distractions difficult.
Some of my best thinking,
idea-wise,
have come from both.
I have a path I love to walk.
It goes cross-country,
down dirt roads,
through woods,
past houses,
town homes,
stables full of horses,
parks and little league fields.
Once, walking down the dirt road,
past a moved-in house on acres of land,
just at the start of woods on one side,
a drainage ditch and stable on the other,
I had the feeling of my grandmother,
long gone,
as though waiting for me.
Over the years,
it has felt that others
gone, but not forgotten,
have joined her,
to where I almost feel them saying,
Here she comes, here she comes,
She's coming
as I head out.
I've thought of these family members
long gone,
but not forgotten.
Mom has recently joined this group.
During her memorial,
months after her death,
I couldn't help but think that
my sister and I are the
last two in our birth family.
As the elder,
I can remember when a little easier than she can.
And yet,
at the memorial,
I realize that our uncle,
Mom's only brother
(she had no sisters)
is the last one left from his birth family.
He has no one to remember when with,
at least in the same way Mom could.
Also on walks,
I've thought of the people who live in the town houses
I pass:
an old couple whose daughter
(I'm guessing)
fixes their dinner
around the time for my evening walk;
the couple with the baby in a stroller
and two small dogs
whose antics make the baby
laugh and clap;
the couple who leaves their Christmas tree
up through mid-January
every year.
Bus rides give way to
another kind of thinking.
You get to see people,
wonder about their lives.
One time, coming home from school
in downtown St. Pete,
Matt met me at Williams Park.
He knew I'd take one of two buses,
both disembarking riders
and departing on the same side of the park.
He waited, and when I saw him,
we got on the same bus –
the 52 –
together.
We watched the others on the bus,
from the bus,
pointed people out to each other.
At Central Plaza terminal,
we gasped, then laughed
at one man,
sitting and talking to a woman.
He was wearing gray slippers,
tie-dyed socks,
a purple bathrobe with gold sparkles,
and topped by a red beret,
set at a jaunty angle
atop his head.
The woman,
about his age – late middle aged –
was nondescript next to him.
I want to write them into a story,
I tell Matt,
as he laughs and rolls his eyes.
We all have times when our mind naturally drifts and starts wandering back in time, into the future, or kicking around the present. This poem is about that. I've run and/or walked for years, as well as riding buses; both are great for thinking.
This is part of a growing group of poems tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
Monday, April 29, 2024
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when one of my kids was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when one of my kids was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Sunday, April 28, 2024
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)