THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005



"He died," you say.

The words echo impotently,

as strange and empty

as though you had told me

it rained one day in 1852.

I hear you, I understand,

but somehow, it does not seem real.

Last week, when I stopped by

you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,

and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.

I heard him upstairs,

occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,

or coming down hard when he stood up,

thumping and shuffling around above us.

The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,

he had come in from his office-cubicle,

and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,

offered to bring me back one.

I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,

and thanked him, anyway.

And now, "He died Monday."

Just over 24 hours since I heard him.

Never made it to the procedure to make him better

(but maybe not well),

which, had Wednesday come,

he might have been too weak for.

The past two days,

I have looked at the ceramic porcupine

you gave me from the shop,

as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.

This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at

the overcast sky, promising rain,

and noticed birds huddle on the power line

like so many musical notes.

I counted to see how many birds there were

in this melody.

Oooonnneee,

(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)

two, three,

(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;

I share the Christian belief of

one birth,

one life,

one death,

one afterlife per person)

four, five, six,

(I almost feel, though,

that I can sense your spirit

with these notes

shivering against the impending rain)

seven,

eight,

nine, ten,

(you had a great record collection in

your store -

Big Band,

jazz,

everything)

eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

fifteen,

on the top line,

numbers sixteen and seventeen

one line lower,

and three more -

eighteen, nineteen and twenty -

on a third line at a right angle.

Suddenly,

as if on a quiet count from

a Big Band Beat,

they fly,

bringing your spirit soaring with them.



I wanted to repost this in honor of Dick.

This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.

Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.

Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.

This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1990



Turn loose my heart.

Your love attempts to wrap itself around me

like a vine,

choking my heart and emotions

in its stranglehold.

I have no use for your love.

At least not now,

and probably not ever.

I've been hurt too often

by those claiming to be different,

who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities

committed by those who came before,

all the while planning their next moves,

variations of those same crimes

trying to mask the stench

rising like the fog of their deceit.

And so,

turn loose my heart.

Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love

before I die from an emotional coronary.



Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?

From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.

TRIBUTE

TRIBUTE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



You're gone.

Almost three months,

and still missed as much as

if it were yesterday.

The children play;

I long so much to tell you

how they fare.

My youngest

has quit asking

to see you,

his surrogate grandma.

How quickly a little one forgets,

puts into subconscious,

no longer talking of "Dor-dor."

You used to laugh when he called you that.

Now he's filled with other people,

Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.

You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.

I read something yesterday;

it reminded me of you.

I can picture you reading it,

and telling me,

"And then, he always said..."

the way you'd told a story

a hundred times before.

Some stories you'd tell often;

I'd never let on I'd heard it before,

or at least, heard it that way.

I'll miss you,

and forever curse the

disease that

took you.



I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.

This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.

THE WALK

THE WALK

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



We went for a walk

at his insistence.

I hesitated;

his shoes still damp.

(Amazing how many puddles

have magic magnets

that draw little feet to them.)



I carried him to the corner stop sign,

all forty-plus wiggly pounds.

We tested the breeze.

Nothing happening, we headed back.

"Let me down," was the demand.

"Me run."

So, down he went,

and,

pell-mell,

all his might,

ran to the edge of our yard.

Then, mincey-run-steps on the

stones on the driveway,

and finally, full-tilt ahead

to the sidewalk

in front of the house.

"I beat 'ou!" he sings screechily,

happily hopping,

hands clapping.



We go inside to play.



From my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

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.

CIRCLES

CIRCLES

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



There’s something funny,

ironic almost,

the thought of another Democratic convention

in Chicago.

This

on the heels

(by two years)

of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.

Funny how one generation’s defining moments

have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.

I watch,

amused,

as my son makes plans

first to attend a concert,

and then a counter-convention,

thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.

He and his friends have definite plans

of what to accomplish:

Feed the poor and homeless,

help heal the hurt.

They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”

Maybe,

just maybe,

I will.



This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

LIFE

LIFE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1970



What is Life?

It is the time

when man can take

the world's strife

and struggles

and call them "Mine"

and solve them,

or act indifferent

and die within

himself.



This was written decades ago, and understandably is fairly simplistic (I won't bother saying how old I was at the time!), but still rings true.

This is part of my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.

ARTISTIC TIME

ARTISTIC TIME

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



No matter what anyone says,

men have it easier being artists than women -

especially those with outside work.

Men work,

come home,

take up pen and paper,

whatever their talent dictates.

Women,

on the other hand,

work,

come home,

deal with the housework,

the laundry,

the children,

the cleaning up after the pets,

dealing with the whims of their men,

their men’s needs,

(screw their own needs),

fix dinner,

do the dishes,

screw their men,

then,

if we are very lucky,

we may be able to fit in

a couple of minutes of

writing,

painting,

creating

between

cleaning the bathroom

and sleep.

What is amazing

is not that we can create well,

but that we have time to create. Period.



While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

Ybor Afternoon

YBOR AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 1995



Note: Doing a replay of an earlier post.



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.

THE JOURNEY

THE JOURNEY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



It seems funny,

in a strange funky way,

seeing you head out the door

- again -

to go traveling.

You,

dependent on me for so long,

have developed a restless streak,

taken care of by the constant movement of your van.

You come by your nature honestly,

Viking blood on one side,

Blackfoot on the other,

restless spirits on both sides.

(My side coming to mind

with many souls

braving the seas

to find peace, adventure and a common middle ground.)

As those who went before you,

you search out what is real

to give meaning to life’s journey.

And so,

while the path you blaze may not be mine,

I wish you well,

peace,

while enjoying the highlights you care to share,

trying not to worry about what you censor,

even as I censor from those who went before me.



This was written for my oldest son, who seemed to have an adventurous side. This is in my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

BEACH, AT SUNSET

BEACH, AT SUNSET

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,

I pull myself away

to totally “veg-out” at the beach;

as time

(or fate)

would have it,

I arrive before sunset,

but just barely.

Slowly,

steadily,

the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.

I keep a watchful eye on it

as I walk towards the water’s edge;

once there,

with sandals in hand,

I wade in, ankle deep,

and, following the shoreline,

watch as the sun edges

closer

toward the horizon.

Nearby,

several screaming sea gulls

swoop and dive,

chasing each other around

before settling

on the beach.

A pelican,

large and awkward,

dives for a fish;

at the last second,

it folds up,

looking as though shot,

then with delicate swiftness,

it snatches a fish,

eats and leaves.

It is then that the sun

slowly

sinks

into the Gulf,

looking as though it, too, has been eaten,

consumed by the water.

The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange

as the water becomes a steely gray.

Slowly,

I wander away,

refreshed.



This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

RAINY NIGHT

RAINY NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Rainy night.

I’d planned to stay home,

sealed against the cold drenching.

As luck would have it,

an old friend changed the night

with his call,

steering me into the downpour.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs someone to listen,

a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.

Traveling

to pick him up,

I wonder if he wants so much to go out

as to have someone who cares,

knowing someone will brave the rain.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs a hero,

a warm friendly face.

On the way there,

I tense as the car tries to slide.

The road is slick

and doesn’t give much traction.

Up ahead,

a light turns red,

sending long fingers of light

reflecting toward me.

I slow up,

trying not to skid,

begin to lose, then steadily stop.

Rivers of rain

snake down my windshield

as the wipers swoosh back and forth.

This is a long light,

prone to give new meaning to the term

“light year.”

He’s given that to me, our private joke.

As I wait,

I look around.

Lights reflecting everywhere:

red and green stoplights,

neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,

apartment and store windows

all bouncing off the pavements,

shimmering,

swimming in the puddles

and wet.

Light change,

I ease forward.

The car slides,

then catches as I ease off.

A block,

then another,

a third,

and then,

on the fourth (and two lights later)

is the brownstone that surrounds him.

The third floor is his;

high enough for a view,

but not too high.

This evening,

we’ll sit in the window,

watch the view,

talk,

and maybe more.

We decide I’ll stay the night;

no sense going home

in the driving rain.

In the morning,

I head home before work.

The dry daylight

is a different world.



Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

Peace/Love Rap

Peace/Love Rap

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2014

They’re all sons-of-bitches,

or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is

the better term for those who hate

and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.

The politicians and too many preachers

act like they’re the only teachers

worthy to be listened to and for us to follow

when all along, their souls are hollow,

left without love that they were brought up with,

so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.

Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,

they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.

You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,

‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,

nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.

There’s people who need, people in pain,

and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.

Get out of yourself and learn the same

love and peace that the great ones taught us,

who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.

They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,

Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.

And if you forget and just give token speech

and tell us the good life is out of reach

and that only those with money can live a good life,

then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife

when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting

when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.

We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:

to control our destinies, be safe all nights,

to learn as much as we possibly can

and have acceptance for our fellow man.

And remember, too, that women are the same;

we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.

Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,

unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’

for comfort in bed and for your meals

if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,

how we think and how we are are all the same,

so get over that tired misogyny game.

Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;

God made us the same, whether you choose

to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,

doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler

that you really want that love and peace that frees us,

from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.

So if you’re gonna talk the talk,

get real and show you can walk the walk.

Learn peace. Learn love.

Learn peace. Learn love.

Live peace. Live love.

Live peace. Live love.

Teach peace. Teach love.

Be peace. Be love.

The end.



From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.

SUMMER NIGHT

SUMMER NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The heat makes skin sticky;

we are sweet cakes

of sweat and powder

by mid-day.

In bed,

you turn towards me;

your quiet, gritty arm

drapes across me

in sleep.

You moan,

chasing away some night vision.

We walked this evening,

watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.

The lights came on in the windows,

people singing their night songs:

"Go to sleep, my little ones;

Go to sleep, the day is done."

We bought some coffee and chili dogs

from the corner vender,

anxious to close up shop

for the night.

Crickets serenaded us home.

Soon,

fall will arrive,

and with it,

change.

The babe within me sighs,

and stretches.

Soon,

he will share our lives.

I savor our last alone summer.



Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

EVEN IN DESOLATION

EVEN IN DESOLATION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Even in desolation,

I know there’s life.

In the dust bowl of my emotions,

where all my tears have burned

the flowering vegetation off

and made a mockery of joy,

is the whoosh of wind

blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing

in the dusty

gritty storm.

My entire being feels picked clean

like the skeletal remains of

a buffalo left to die in the desert;

the sensation is wholly complete,

leaving me completely disconnected.

My withered spirit craves

water,

food,

colors of the spectrum.

And yet,

even in desolation,

I know that there is life.



This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.

TRUTH

TRUTH

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Why do old refrigerators come

in a variety of colors?

That's fine for

little old ladies

with no family.

Any mother, though, knows this truth:

Buy the white one;

it costs less,

and,

besides,

with kids,

the front is always covered with pictures,

made from finger paints,

crayons,

and markers.

Why pay more for an avocado green

you'll ever see?



Written after looking at a refrigerator covered with kids' art. From Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Note: While I posted this a little more than two weeks ago, I figured it's sort-of timely.

Also, Today is election day. If you're legally allowed to vote and haven't already done so - by absentee ballot or early voting - get out and Vote like your life depends on it!



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.

RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP

RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



Sitting here,

on a stool,

in a coffee shop,

watching the rain

snaking down the window,

pouring down,

smacking hard the road,

I feel disconnected,

vaguely alone,

while utterly attuned with all of life.

The dream-like state I’m zoned into

is like an old movie

black-and-white

Casablanca, maybe,

or something of that caliber.

Inside the shop is cocoon warm,

fogging the windows

slightly

which,

along with the rain

slithering down the windows,

makes the passing world appear surreal,

in a wavy

watery way.

A woman attempting to cross the street

carries packages

and a large umbrella;

it resembles a large flower:

ochre and gold in the center,

orange petals radiating to keep one dry,

while the bright green handle

is anchored to her hand.

People,

scurrying up and down the sidewalks

and across the streets,

are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb

over everyday clothes,

while long black, brown and grey trench coats

protect business suits.

A small child pulls loose from a parental hand

long enough to stomp and kick

splashingly

in a puddle.

Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,

mains and alleys,

avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,

trying not to

slip

sloshingly

skid and

slide.

The various shades of grey

are like wet velvet

and water colors dripping off the pages,

streaks sliding down the glass,

dark around the edges,

lighter, soft and warm near the centers.

Slowly,

as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon

deepens into twilight,

bright and deep neon lights flicker

on

off

and finally

solidly

on,

their reflections dancing,

shimmering,

waving,

in the puddles,

pools

and wetness,

sensuous reds,

emerald greens,

passionate purples,

royal blues.

Cars haltingly

stop

and

startingly

inch

then

surge

along the roads,

headlights and taillights leaving long reflections

ahead and behind.

I lean towards the window

by the booth I sit at,

blow a puff of air,

fogging a patchy circle,

quickly drawing a flower

before it fades;

then,

leaning back,

I take a long

warm

drink of steamy cappuccino.

It’s amazing how cocooned

you can feel

on a rainy colorful wet day like this.



I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

DELIGHTS

DELIGHTS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1984



There's something enduring,

deliciously comforting,

about a well-written poem;

one you can read on a wet,

soppy, sloppy gray day,

taking us out of ourselves.

My mother

used to encourage me,

at age eleven,

to try my hand at poems;

"You can use imagery, words;

describing birds waving

while they fly south for the winter."

I laughed,

mocking her.

What did she know?

I wanted to write stories, books.

I never got past the first chapter.

But a poem! A well-written poem

is the fine wine in the soda aisle,

the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,

a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.

It ages well,

comforts,

relaxes

alone

or taken with

a cup of hot tea

while curled up on a favorite couch

on a rainy day.



My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.

This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

STORM

STORM

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



It's growing dark outside.

I wander out;

the clouds are rolling in,

slowly churning,

climbing

over each other.

The air has a certain feel,

expectant,

ready to charge,

held in suspended motion.

Somewhere,

someone has recently mowed their space;

the scent lightly perfumes the air.

Splat.

The first rain drop hits right on my nose.

I wait, watching the tentative drops splatter on the sidewalk

in front of the house.

Slowly,

I wander back inside,

curl on a chair in the darkening room

and watch as the light-and-water show begins.



Summer tends to be the rainy season in Florida, with the Tampa Bay being called the Lightning Capital of the U.S. This was written after one such storm.

This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

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, though her posts have almost disappeared. As with Maryann, I wonder how Karen is doing.

This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.

Politics

Politics

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016



I like my morning coffee light

with a sweet roll on the side.

I'd take my whisky sour

but I never want to hide.

There's way too much duplicity

to let the b.s. slide,

Especially with the trash-talkers

trying to take us for a ride.



The first four lines were written a while back, while the remainder was written within the last week. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.



Note: Please check out my Kickstarter campaign, which is in its final week. It's an all-or-nothing deal - meaning if the campaign doesn't reach its goal, none of the money is sent along. This is to help fund a documentary on homelessness, following 2 - 3 people as they struggle to get off the street. Backing starts at $10.

HOP, SKIP AND JUMP

HOP, SKIP AND JUMP

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Running fast and feeling free,

skip and hop, this child of three.

Trampolining on the bed

(hope he doesn't hit his head!).

Full of fun, full of joy,

full of giggles is my boy.

Wind blown hair back in the breeze,

no more blue left on jeans' knees.

I think he'll take a nap today.

(I'm tired out from all his play!)



Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.

This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.