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.

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.

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.

TRAIL, EARLY EVENING

TRAIL, EARLY EVENING

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Evening walks are the counter-point to those in the early morning.

Mornings feel fresh;

the day's heat hasn't made the air

too oppressive,

except in August.

But evening walks are better for unwinding,

decompressing from the day.

I follow my usual path,

heading south to the end of the street

then head cross-country.

Going through the park's back entrance,

the sounds and sights of little league games explode nearby.

Cheers, shouts,

the loud tink! tink! of ball on aluminum bats resounds

from adjacent diamonds.

On the other side of the ditch,

the stable's owner exits the barn, heading for the pastures.

Horses standing by gates

stomp and whinny,

toss heads

as they wait their turn to head inside.

I get to the avenue as a car passes,

slows,

then turns into the townhouse community.

On the dirt path,

ditch now on the right,

townhouses beyond,

the light is different.

Sun's rays dappling trees' leaves

between townhouses and ditch.

A light is on in the dining/living room

of one of the townhouses,

one of the few with the blinds open

during the day.

An old couple,

white haired heads touching,

sitting at their dinner table,

watching game shows.

A middle-aged woman –

their daughter, maybe? –

brings their plates,

kisses the top of their heads,

then,

grabbing a mug,

sits beside them.

I head farther down the dirt road.

A woman,

sitting on the porch swing of the fenced-in house on the left,

looks up and waves.

Farther still,

past the house,

the woods' shadows deepen.

On the right,

beyond the ditch,

the community's back wall

separates townhouses from another stable.

A man is exercising a horse.

I haven't seen him riding

for more than a year,

since he finished taking

Saturday morning riding lessons.

Another horse stands in a grazing area

between exercise area and barn.

It looks over,

whinnies,

goes back to grazing.

I turn back,

past woods,

fenced-in yard,

woman still readying on the porch,

past townhouses,

where the older couple and their daughter

laugh over something,

the happy sound wafting through the air.

Cross the street,

now on the same side of the ditch as the stable,

opposite the park.

The owner,

her sister,

and several others

are bringing horses in,

feeding them,

talking over the low sound of a radio,

playing a country-western tune.



There is a path near my house that I frequently use for my walks/runs/bike rides. This poem was written on 4/16/14 after an evening walk that inspired this.

There's a very definite difference in the feel of an evening walk or run compared to doing the same in the morning, as many people will attest to. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.

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. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.

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.

Rejection

REJECTION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The day I dyed my hair blue,

I was asked “why?” more than once.

Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”

Of course, it’s much more complex,

but what it boils down to is this:

Rejection.

Being way different is hard enough,

the biggest fear being that

No One Will Like You.

However,

give someone something they can latch onto:

Dye your hair blue,

wear combat boots with your dress,

and people can immediately give you a reason

you can laugh at.

It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,

it’s the fact that you have blue hair.

At least this way,

you can always pretend

“When the dye wears off,

then they’ll accept me.”

It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways

then things you can’t change.



This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.

"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."

At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.

"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.

Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...

This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.