DAY'S END

DAY’S END

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2000, 2022



At a yellow brick building in Clearwater,

I wait for my final fare.

It’s been a long day,

but could’ve been longer,

had dispatch not cared about

paying overtime.

Thank God for small miracles and favors.



The building is a church.

A flash of thought –

did they use yellow bricks

to simulate the golden bricks

the roads in heaven are made of?

Probably not,

but a nice thought.

One never knows.



The stained glass windows,

in various shades of greenish-yellow,

with a dark green stripe around the edges

and a blue, purple and dark

– I don’t know – dark green?

black?

dark brown or blue? –

cross in the center of each,

are unlit from inside the church.



I know not where the choir practices inside,

only that,

when I come exactly on time,

my fare is waiting on the bench

I’m parked in front of.

She has only three minutes

by my estimation

(and car clock)

before we’re exactly on time;

she’s still not here.

Two minutes now.



The church’s security guard

has already wandered by,

checking out my car

from a discreet distance

before going back to his post inside;

he can see me from his window.

That’s okay;

I’m not leaving until I have my fare –

or she’s five minutes late.



It’s one minute past time

and here she comes.

“Hey,” she says,

sliding into the car.

We exchange pleasantries,

and head for our day’s end.



Started in 1999 or 2000; finished 11/11/2022. Part of Working Class Poems, 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.

ELENA, 1985

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.

Mugly Days

MUGLY DAYS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2022



Muggy day,

weighing down the air,

muting colors to an ugly pastel wavy mass,

a Mugly day,

so Mugly it leaves your skin

sandy, sweaty, gritty,

plasters your hair to face,

shirt to back, sides and front.

So muggy,

it’s ugly,

giving way to mugly.



August in Florida is brutal.



From a new collection titled Painted Words, which is still being added to.

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.

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.

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.