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.
Sunday, April 19, 2026
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.
Friday, April 17, 2026
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2026
YBOR AFTERNOON
YBOR AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, April 15, 2026
WORKING CLASS DAY
WORKING CLASS DAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2021
First thing in the morning,
bringing the garbage can
to the side of the road,
I feel the cool air of
the last cold front of the season.
It’d be the perfect weather
to throw open windows,
air out the house
before the on-slaw
of hot Florida summer.
But renting from a slumlord
makes that near impossible.
He owns maybe a third
of all the rentals in the county
and has a reputation
of not fixing things
unless forced to, legally.
The reputation is justified.
He lived in a three-story, multi-million dollar house
in a gated community
for years,
bought off the backs of
working-class renters in
over-priced,
under-maintained
homes and apartments
just this side of being condemned.
Our neighborhood
has the same service vehicles
as the rich do,
except here,
the service trucks –
cable TV truck,
Joe’s Plumbing,
Best County Electric –
head out in the AM.
for their daily work,
and return at night
for a working man’s
and woman’s dinner
of burgers,
hot dogs
and mac and cheese.
While the rich
only see these trucks
and their drivers
for repairs,
have burgers and dogs cooked on a grill
in the backyards
during summer.
Garbage day
is frequently
scavenger day.
This is when several vehicles
whose owners are always
half-a-step
ahead of the garbage trucks,
cruise through the neighborhood
looking for
large metal items –
washers,
dryers,
old bathtubs –
to cart off to recycle
for cash,
old discarded furniture –
“Oh, look, the Jonesess bought
a newer couch” –
to sell at yard sales,
and other such finds.
My kids grew up
calling the discarded furniture
“early American curbside.”
I cringed when I’d see the furniture,
especially on my way out of the neighborhood
on my way to work;
since my ex- would sometimes
cart the stuff home.
“Look, honey, a new couch!
Chair!”
I hated this,
and also refused
his attempts to bring home
sed mattresses.
Some of the stuff
is salvageable:
a fresh coat of paint,
a little cleaning,
and it sells for
a few extra bucks.
If the same items
were in antique shops,
the rich might pay
even more.
A neighbor once told me
of his uncle,
a man who’d made a small fortune.
“He always said
that the poor just don’t working
hard enough,
which is why we’re poor.”
I think of those I know –
working-class poor,
with their multiple part-time
minimum wage jobs
piece-mealed together
with over-lapping shifts
feeling lucky when we get
50, 60 hours a week
(with no over-time pay on
those multiple jobs)
and think,
“How does one call it a life
when you can hardly afford to live?”
It wasn’t the rich
who built this country,
who built their companies,
who live in their fancy homes
and drive their expensive cars.
The rich merely
benefited from the
working-class’s work.
If every one of the working-class quit,
who would build the cars?
bag the groceries?
ring up the groceries?
patch the car tires?
True,
it’d be difficult
for the poor to eat.
But with minimum wages
so low,
it’s no wonder
some people must choose
between food and healthcare,
housing and transportation,
life and mere survival.
What we need is an overhaul,
in a fair overhaul.
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.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2021
First thing in the morning,
bringing the garbage can
to the side of the road,
I feel the cool air of
the last cold front of the season.
It’d be the perfect weather
to throw open windows,
air out the house
before the on-slaw
of hot Florida summer.
But renting from a slumlord
makes that near impossible.
He owns maybe a third
of all the rentals in the county
and has a reputation
of not fixing things
unless forced to, legally.
The reputation is justified.
He lived in a three-story, multi-million dollar house
in a gated community
for years,
bought off the backs of
working-class renters in
over-priced,
under-maintained
homes and apartments
just this side of being condemned.
Our neighborhood
has the same service vehicles
as the rich do,
except here,
the service trucks –
cable TV truck,
Joe’s Plumbing,
Best County Electric –
head out in the AM.
for their daily work,
and return at night
for a working man’s
and woman’s dinner
of burgers,
hot dogs
and mac and cheese.
While the rich
only see these trucks
and their drivers
for repairs,
have burgers and dogs cooked on a grill
in the backyards
during summer.
Garbage day
is frequently
scavenger day.
This is when several vehicles
whose owners are always
half-a-step
ahead of the garbage trucks,
cruise through the neighborhood
looking for
large metal items –
washers,
dryers,
old bathtubs –
to cart off to recycle
for cash,
old discarded furniture –
“Oh, look, the Jonesess bought
a newer couch” –
to sell at yard sales,
and other such finds.
My kids grew up
calling the discarded furniture
“early American curbside.”
I cringed when I’d see the furniture,
especially on my way out of the neighborhood
on my way to work;
since my ex- would sometimes
cart the stuff home.
“Look, honey, a new couch!
Chair!”
I hated this,
and also refused
his attempts to bring home
sed mattresses.
Some of the stuff
is salvageable:
a fresh coat of paint,
a little cleaning,
and it sells for
a few extra bucks.
If the same items
were in antique shops,
the rich might pay
even more.
A neighbor once told me
of his uncle,
a man who’d made a small fortune.
“He always said
that the poor just don’t working
hard enough,
which is why we’re poor.”
I think of those I know –
working-class poor,
with their multiple part-time
minimum wage jobs
piece-mealed together
with over-lapping shifts
feeling lucky when we get
50, 60 hours a week
(with no over-time pay on
those multiple jobs)
and think,
“How does one call it a life
when you can hardly afford to live?”
It wasn’t the rich
who built this country,
who built their companies,
who live in their fancy homes
and drive their expensive cars.
The rich merely
benefited from the
working-class’s work.
If every one of the working-class quit,
who would build the cars?
bag the groceries?
ring up the groceries?
patch the car tires?
True,
it’d be difficult
for the poor to eat.
But with minimum wages
so low,
it’s no wonder
some people must choose
between food and healthcare,
housing and transportation,
life and mere survival.
What we need is an overhaul,
in a fair overhaul.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2026
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.
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.
Monday, April 13, 2026
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.
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.
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