ELENA, 1985
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, April 24, 2026
Thursday, April 23, 2026
MIDNIGHT MAGIC
MIDNIGHT MAGIC
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Magic must have visited last night.
Standing on the porch at ten,
I felt the light,
fall rain.
The air had cooled -
"Only from the rain,"
we had agreed.
We went to bed.
Just before midnight,
the children stirred.
"It's cold, Mama."
We covered them,
then stood,
huddled together by the kitchen window,
and watched
as the rain
turned white
and fluffy.
Back in our bed,
we watched the
eerie blanket fall.
The oak
outside our window
became a powdered beauty.
By one,
the snow had stopped.
The wind came,
blew with all its might,
and pushed the slight
powder onto the ground.
It was bitter,
the wind,
and froze everything
with its icy stare.
By morning,
our oak had
become glass-like in its appearance.
Magic had arrived.
A brief description on the seasons changing. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Magic must have visited last night.
Standing on the porch at ten,
I felt the light,
fall rain.
The air had cooled -
"Only from the rain,"
we had agreed.
We went to bed.
Just before midnight,
the children stirred.
"It's cold, Mama."
We covered them,
then stood,
huddled together by the kitchen window,
and watched
as the rain
turned white
and fluffy.
Back in our bed,
we watched the
eerie blanket fall.
The oak
outside our window
became a powdered beauty.
By one,
the snow had stopped.
The wind came,
blew with all its might,
and pushed the slight
powder onto the ground.
It was bitter,
the wind,
and froze everything
with its icy stare.
By morning,
our oak had
become glass-like in its appearance.
Magic had arrived.
A brief description on the seasons changing. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
Wednesday, April 22, 2026
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 Red 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 Red 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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2026
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.
Monday, April 20, 2026
Love in Haiku
Love in Haiku
For Paul
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2007
I dream of your touch,
love of my life, gone too soon.
Some day, I’ll join you.
I’ve always loved you;
we both know I always will.
Your love is still here,
keeping me alive.
Our love is what warms me still,
our love never fades.
Though winter brings death,
I feel your warmth on the breeze,
loving me always.
Written well after a loved-one's death. Part of Painted Words, which should be ready for a publisher in the next few months.
For Paul
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2007
I dream of your touch,
love of my life, gone too soon.
Some day, I’ll join you.
I’ve always loved you;
we both know I always will.
Your love is still here,
keeping me alive.
Our love is what warms me still,
our love never fades.
Though winter brings death,
I feel your warmth on the breeze,
loving me always.
Written well after a loved-one's death. Part of Painted Words, which should be ready for a publisher in the next few months.
Sunday, April 19, 2026
Eleven
ELEVEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, April 18, 2026
DAYS LIKE TODAY
DAYS LIKE TODAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995, 2022
Days like today
there are places I’d much rather be.
On rainy days like this,
the perfect day would be something like this:
sleeping late in a large comfortable bed
(preferably,
though not necessarily,
with the man I love)
and,
on waking,
finding the children off at school;
the afternoon spent in the living room of the house I grew up in,
fireplace going,
a large pot of herbal tea on the table before me
and nowhere to go
nowhere to be
but here.
Days like today,
I tend to think back to other rainy days,
days that went like this:
sitting in a coffee shop,
seeing the lights outside
reflected off the
streets and sidewalks,
people scurrying home
or other places,
collars pulled up around their necks,
bright umbrellas
leading the charge,
know I soon
will be joining them,
or driving home from Tampa
across a bridge,
seeing the other two bridges,
one to the right,
one to the left,
with strings of moving lights
reflecting off the bay,
as I head home.
There are worse ways
to spend days like this –
homeless,
scared.
But none better than what I’d imagine.
The first half was written 4/11/1995; it was finished 11/11/2022. It is part of a yet-unnamed poetry collection.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995, 2022
Days like today
there are places I’d much rather be.
On rainy days like this,
the perfect day would be something like this:
sleeping late in a large comfortable bed
(preferably,
though not necessarily,
with the man I love)
and,
on waking,
finding the children off at school;
the afternoon spent in the living room of the house I grew up in,
fireplace going,
a large pot of herbal tea on the table before me
and nowhere to go
nowhere to be
but here.
Days like today,
I tend to think back to other rainy days,
days that went like this:
sitting in a coffee shop,
seeing the lights outside
reflected off the
streets and sidewalks,
people scurrying home
or other places,
collars pulled up around their necks,
bright umbrellas
leading the charge,
know I soon
will be joining them,
or driving home from Tampa
across a bridge,
seeing the other two bridges,
one to the right,
one to the left,
with strings of moving lights
reflecting off the bay,
as I head home.
There are worse ways
to spend days like this –
homeless,
scared.
But none better than what I’d imagine.
The first half was written 4/11/1995; it was finished 11/11/2022. It is part of a yet-unnamed poetry collection.
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