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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2018



I



For years,

my ex and I lived for the weekends.

Unemployed for months,

living in the house next door

to his parents,

a house they'd inherited,

he'd finally found work,

bringing in a weekly paycheck –

pittance, though it was –

when combined with

food stamps and

no rent,

it paid the bills, if just barely.

Friday,

after work,

we'd gather the kids,

pile into the car,

and go to the nearest Albertson's,

a farther drive than

the Winn Dixie,

but newer and cleaner.

After the weekly shopping,

reminiscent of going to the A&P

as a child

with my parents on Fridays,

we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's

for dinner,

always a treat.

Burgers, fries and sodas,

a big deal for the kids,

and no cooking or clean up,

a big deal for me.

Every week,

we'd see the same families,

kids in tow,

having Friday fast food dinners,

feeling comfortable enough

for some conversations.

“How was your week?”

“Great, and yours?”

When one family's boys spent too much time

in the rest room,

Mom'd tell the youngest,

“Go tell your brothers

to quit homesteading

if they want to eat.”

We all laughed at that.

Now, years later,

if someone takes too long,

the family code is that

they're homesteading.

We'd watch the sky

across the street

darken in the winter,

stay light in the summer

as we ate.

Then, finished,

we'd tell the other two or three families

we'd see them

the next week.

Gradually,

kids grew, jobs and hours changed,

Albertsons built a new, closer store

that took us closer

to other fast food places.

I wonder about the homesteaders.



II



His parents split,

and the rental became

his mom's home.

She lived with us for a month or so;

you relegated her,

in her own house,

to the utility room.

Finally,

I told her to come inside.

You lost a job,

found another,

lost it,

found another.

In desperation,

I found and took a job

with a future,

and, after a contentious weekend,

moved us out of your mom's house.

She mourned,

wanting us back.

But six people in a 2-bedroom place

was rough.

The rent in the new place

took a third of our income,

then went up more.

I lost my job,

in part because

you were too proud to do

“women's work,”

laundry,

dishes,

cleaning

while I worked full time

and you stayed home,

watching TV and the kids.

A job

revolving around

physical work

required more than three hours of sleep a night,

and catching up on weekends.

You then took a job,

while I stayed home.



III



Three moves later,

you leave to find work out of state,

leaving me to care for four kids.

I find work

while going to school full time.

We move,

and you come back.

You promised to change,

and found a job

you loved

(security in a topless bar).

You spent weekends at

the flea market,

and took a job there,

working with a friend,

running errands while he ran the booth,

helping him sell radios and such.

The security job failed,

and the flea market was your main job,

paid $100 a week.

Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –

his first –

making almost as much

as you on weekends.

Finally, the stress of

work,

kids,

not enough money,

too much rent,

and other nonsense too its toll.

We had to move again.



IV



Every place we looked,

they'd rent to me,

even with four kids and a dog.

But you'd somehow jinx the deal.

Finally, you checked with a rental place.

“Sorry, you don't make enough,”

the man told you.

Our income was $20 a month shy

of 1/3 the rent,

which meant they wouldn't

rent to you.

The next day,

I took off from both jobs and school,

went to the rental agency

and fast-talked the same man

into handing me keys

to two houses.

“Take your pick,” he told me.

I picked one,

paid the rent and deposit,

and had us in the next day.

You lost,

found,

lost,

found

several dead-end jobs,

finally finding one you loved

only when I'd

asked you to leave.

With your own place to rent –

a cheap efficiency –

you made do.

I took a job driving cab,

took a few days off

when you died –

the job had no health insurance,

which meant you neglected your health –

then worked hard,

long,

12-hour days.

Met another driver

who knew how to treat a lady.

He'd nursed his late wife,

a waitress in several diners,

when her cancer showed up,

was cured,

then came back.

A man who'll care for

a dying wife

is a real man.

We married eight years after her death,

three years after my divorce,

and your death.

We both worked,

then had to quit

when our eyesight

started to fail.

I cared for him

as he'd cared for her

during his final years.



V



Working class life

is so much harder than

life for the rich.

The hours are long,

the pay is crap,

the rents are high,

the little bit of Obamacare

is being pulled away

by the obscenely rich,

making health care hard to come by.

It's the working poor's work

that has built up the rich,

built on our backs,

giving them their life

as they pull aways ours.

Someday –

probably soon –

the revolution will knock

the crap out of those rich who don't care.

Be forewarned.



This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.