MARYANN

MARYANN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2000



I



High school friends,

we were always just a little different

from the crowd.

You were too straight-laced and shy,

hiding in your Catholic girl-school uniform,

not sure if you should

be a nun (too shy for boys, and your love of God)

or go to college to be a librarian

(at least you loved books, too),

me, loud and outrageous,

trapped in an identical uniform,

complaining we had to remain "uniformed"

on "do-your-own-thing" day

(stating, "Right – do your own thing,

but do it my way",

to which you laughed the loudest and

longest).

An unlikely pair, we were,

but locked together in friendship

brought first together by mutual,

if opposite,

"differences" from the crowd.



II



I'm driving home,

watching an incredible sunrise,

while trying to catch up with your bus

before I'm stuck getting off the

"correct" interstate exit,

the last one before the bridge.

I see the bus rounding the

long

sloping curve up ahead,

try to catch up,

but can't –

here's the exit –

you're gone.

You called two weeks ago.

"Is it still okay to visit?"

"Yes, yes," I cry, "please come."

Eighteen years is too, too long to be apart

from friends.

We wrote faithfully for several years –

you telling of college life

(library life suited you),

me telling of various men,

here today,

gone tomorrow,

then marriage to a man

who never quite understood

women's friendship,

a connection from the past

of those "who knew us when",

especially when we were so different.

I loved your quiet,

a calm balm for my spirit,

you loved my outrageousness,

saying it "kickstarted" your laughter.

You flew down,

arriving at our little

nickel-and-dime airport

rather than opting for the bigger one

in the next town.

A pleasant week,

the only problem being when my

car died for two days;

we spent time shuttling

back and forth

by cab

to "rescue" my car

with cash.

Thursday,

we drive into town

for your bus ticket

so you can afford Disney World

before flying back home.

The sights and sounds of the city

delight and excite us;

we are 5 years old

and 105

simultaneously,

talking fast

of "what ifs"

and "remember whens".

Friday,

I'm up at four,

take a fast shower,

then pick you up by 4:30

to take you to the bus terminal

by five.

We sit in silence,

occasionally

commenting on

how short the trip was

how good to see each other,

we mustn't let eighteen years pass by

without a visit.

Then, bus call,

you're on,

and I zap across the street for gas

so I can caravan with you

to my exit.

Darned bus, though,

pulls out while

I'm inside paying

and it takes until my exit

to even pull close.

The sunrise is beautiful.

Did you notice?



III



You visit again.

The two years since your last one went fast.

This time, you chose the big airport.

My car having died,

you're stuck taking a cab here.

This becomes our joke;

car dead? Maryann's on her way for a visit.

You state this happened

while visiting your sister in Missouri, too.

You rent a car for the week,

and let me use it to find a job

after having safely deposited you

at a local tourist park

I couldn't afford but

insisted you see,

since I knew you'd enjoy it.

You did,

your childlike excitement evident

when I picked you up later that day.

We enjoyed the stay.

The last day, we thought maybe

that stress was getting to me,

having to explain for the zillionth time

to the other half

of a dying marriage

about women

and friendship,

and having company.

You take a cab back to Tampa International,

and I take the rental back to

the smaller one,

then catch a ride home.

The next morning,

I call you for two reasons:

how was the flight home,

and the headache wasn't stress –

I'm sick as a dog.

But thank goodness the trip was nice.



IV



Time flies.

We write with news of our mutual lives.

Your brother got a new kidney.

My other half got a new love.

Your brother died.

So did my marriage.

You obtained new books for the library.

I obtained the courage to go back to school.

Then, no word for months.

Finally, I reach you by phone,

after trying for months.

You've been hospitalized,

your brother's death taking tolls

in more ways than just his own.

I talk you through,

encouraging you to take a

small step at a time.

"You will recover," I promise.

"I did."

Things got better, for a while.

Then, nothing.

I've heard no replies to my letters,

no answer on the phone

for over six months.

I'm worried for you.

I hope you're okay.



This was written sometime between the late 1990s-2002 and is part of a book of poetry titled Poetry, Unassigned currently looking for a publisher.

The poem is about my high school friend, Maryann. We'd both felt like out-casts while going to an all-girls Catholic high school in the northeast corner of Connecticut - although during our sophomore year, boys were allowed in. Maryann and I kept in touch for years, writing faithfully, occasionally calling, and then with Maryann - who was still single - visiting a couple of times.

Slowly, the letters stopped, and while I tried writing, there was a gap of several years with no word from her. Finally, I received one letter around 2000 - 2002, which was sadly disjointed in places; I could tell she'd been depressed while writing it. A Christmas or two later, the card I sent was returned, with the postal stamp stating, "Undeliverable; no forwarding address." I still miss hearing from Maryann, and hope that all is well.

A photo of Maryann is on my photography blog, A Year (Or More) Of Photos, taken during one of her trips here. Maryann

In Absentia, For Mom

In Absentia

for Mom

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016



I used to write for my mother.

It was something that connected us,

first as Mother/daughter,

later as writers,

then as...

well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.

Relationships can be confusing, complicated.



As a child, I knew writing was important.

It was something Mom did.

As a 1950s mom,

when women weren't supposed to work

if they were married to a middle-class man

she found her Bachelor's in English

from St. Lawrence University where she met my father

to be a luxury:

Enough to make her think

while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.

Even as I write that, I wonder:

Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,

or did she,

like so many other women of her generation and class,

wish for more, but do what was expected?

I can still see Mom at her desk,

tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,

typing out stories on her manual typewriter,

building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.

While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,

I'd type out short stories, too.

They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,

barely covering a page of type.

Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,

having a child typing away,

using these resources,

I now realize was an act of love.



Later, after my parents' divorce,

I mourned not seeing my father more,

relating more to him than Mom.

But I still wrote.



After moving out on my own,

I'd show Mom my stories,

my poetry,

hoping for her approval.

We were never as close as Dad and I were.

“Why can't you be more like your sister?”

was a common reframe.

My sister, the good one.

But even that's not fair,

to either of us.

Mom and I spoke less,

until she moved.

Slowly, I started sending her my stories,

my poetry,

hoping for her approval.

Slowly, it came.

“This one's good,” she'd say

after reading my latest offering.



After Dad's death,

mourned by step-mom,

me,

and mom,

Mom and I spoke more.

I sent her more writings,

trying for at least once a week.

Every day,

I'd go for a walk,

then write a poem about what I saw.

These I'd send her

sometime during the week.

“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.

I loved the praise,

and kept the writing coming.

It gave me a reason to keep writing

while trying for my first sale.



Mom passed in November,

almost two years ago.

No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.

I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”

My uncle,

Mom's older (only) brother,

knows that better than I.



And now I write.

For Mom.

In absentia.

I picture her reading over my shoulder.

Hi, Mom.

(August 19, 2016)



Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from. This from a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother

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.

DAYS LIKE THIS

DAYS LIKE THIS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



Days like this,

I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.

True,

the scenery is mundane,

the colors somewhat mute,

when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,

but the ride is so much safer.

The “down” days, the ride is like this:

you “drag ass”, not able to get up,

not quite having all the gears “mesh”,

but an outer force keeps you going,

moving;

you let it because,

if you stop,

even for a second,

you’ll never move.

Ever.

Again.

Sounds are muted, distorted;

those that are loud enough to come through startle

with their bone-jarring

teeth-gritting noise.

Colors appear darker;

dark green leaves on brown-black trees

emit deep endless shadows

that threaten to drown you,

even as the branches menacingly reach for you.

The huge white clouds appear malicious,

creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.

Night arrives,

threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.

Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,

almost unnerving in their endless progression,

when suddenly,

you feeling yourself

as you come close to drowning

hit bottom,

sink slightly,

then push off against the

bumpy hardness beneath you.

Suddenly - sometimes -

but oh, so surely,

you break through the foggy film into sunshine.

Wonderful sunshine!

There it is!

The sounds! The joyous sounds!

Birds singing, children laughing,

dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging

as the trains roar up the track,

puffing, chugging,

whistles blowing,

wheels turning,

engineers waving at

small children waving back.

Colors!

Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!

Even in the blackest night

and rainiest days,

the neon lights are alive,

dancing,

calling to you,

singing, “Here we are!

And There you are!

Hello!

Hello!”

The smells of roses!

Coffee floating out of open shops,

colorful sounds,

wonderful smells,

laughing sights,

everything’s so “up,

you’ll never come back down.



Yup, there’s something to be said for straight lines.



This was written years ago and is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

SUMMER NIGHT

SUMMER NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The heat makes skin sticky;

we are sweet cakes

of sweat and powder

by mid-day.

In bed,

you turn towards me;

your quiet, gritty arm

drapes across me

in sleep.

You moan,

chasing away some night vision.

We walked this evening,

watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.

The lights came on in the windows,

people singing their night songs:

"Go to sleep, my little ones;

Go to sleep, the day is done."

We bought some coffee and chili dogs

from the corner vender,

anxious to close up shop

for the night.

Crickets serenaded us home.

Soon,

fall will arrive,

and with it,

change.

The babe within me sighs,

and stretches.

Soon,

he will share our lives.

I savor our last alone summer.



Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

FINI

FINI

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



On a rainy night,

when driving is treacherous,

and the wind howls,

making it impossible to warm up and ward off the chill,

he calls.

Our relationship,

if ever the was one

(of all of a week)

is over.

Fini,

as they say.

He has decided

I am much too difficult.

I laugh –

quietly, to myself,

since it hurts.

The reasons he lists for leaving

are

the reasons he listed for first calling:

I’m a difficult free-spirit,

laughing during a crying-jag.

I seldom misrepresent myself;

this becomes a turn-on-and-off.

I try to warn people right away –

this is how I am,

outrageous,

boisterous,

but prone to meditative silences –

so that I can quickly cut away

the dead weight that might leave

with no interest

on my time unwisely invested.

And yet,

with a single call,

I feel the cold hand grip my heart,

its icy fingers sending chills throughout my being.

He has decided to take his leave

at the most inopportune time,

just when I need his arms around me,

his hand caressing my hair,

a warm blanket of kiss on my forehead,

cheeks,

lower,

his love warming me,

his…

But he calls to let me know it’s over.

I’ve been through this enough to know

not to plead;

in the end,

it will make no difference.

And so,

I let him go,

knowing that,

even as I numb myself

against the cold pain,

someone

someday

may be brave and strong enough to stay.



Most of us, at one time or another, have had a relationship that we thought might be the one but that shortly implodes. No matter how long or short that relationship was, it can be painful. But in the end, when the right person comes along, and sticks around, it can be so much sweeter.

This comes from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

BLUES DAYS

BLUES DAYS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



What kind of day do I like?

The kind where the weather has the blues:

the wet blues,

slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy blues,

the white cold flurry blues,

grey-sky-overhead blues,

where the colors have a chance to

scream out and soar,

and you get to sit around the

nice, warm, well-lit-house,

snuggled into your warm flannel shirt

and your dry jeans

and warm, dry, fuzzy socks,

your hands wrapped around

a nice hot cup of tea,

warm homemade cookies on a plate

or maybe a toasty, chewy muffin,

brimming with raisins and cranberries,

a lemony scent from

who knows where,

as you listen to a car going by

in the slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy rain,

its wipers going

slick-slick-slick,

back and forth in cadenced rhythm with the rain,

tires singing s-w-o-o-o-o-s-s-h-h with the road.

Hardly any traffic

on the cold wet grey roads

on a cold wet grey day.

Those who do venture out bundle up against the cold.

I feel sorry for them

and exhilarated for them:

Sorry,

since they brave the cold and wet,

the colors muted and laced with grey wet;

Exhilarated,

since they see neon lights

and other colors

dance off the road,

running in strange water-colored art,

then heading home to a place with light and dry.

White wet comes later—and earlier—in the year,

dancing,

swirling

down,

caught in a whirling updraft

before drifting down.

Grey winter skies whispered in cold breathy tones,

"Scarf, hat, mittens!

Boots, coat!"

Trudging home at the end of the day,

slip-sliding down sidewalks

and crossing streets to leap grey encrusted snow,

carrying grocery bags and attaché cases

before

getting home

to warm houses and apartments to

dream away to sunny days.



Written during the 1990s, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher. I'd written it after being out and about on a chilly, rainy wintery afternoon.