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.
Poetry, Unassigned
Poetry, Unassigned
Tuesday, April 30, 2024
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.
Saturday, April 27, 2024
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.
Friday, April 26, 2024
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.
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.
Thursday, April 25, 2024
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.
Wednesday, April 24, 2024
TRIBUTE
TRIBUTE
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
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