Running

RUNNING

By Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 2007



Every morning, I run.

I don’t want to.

I want to.

Ambivalence is part of the run.

I accept that.



But first, priorities.



Start the coffee pot.

Turn on the TV.

Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann talking to me. I miss Katie.

Get the newspaper from the driveway.

Put the neighbor’s paper on his porch.

Go back inside.



What’s Al saying? Snow in Denver?

Perfect excuse for not running.

Except there’s no snow falling in Florida.



I find my running shorts, t-shirt. Put them on.

Socks from the dresser.

Back in the kitchen where I fix a cuppa joe.



Sit down at the table.

Matt’s talking to somebody.

Who? Gotta find out.

Coffee and Today.

Put on my socks. No holes in these ones. Yet.

Put on my shoes. Should have another couple of months with this pair.

Sip some coffee.

Tie one shoe.

Sip more coffee.

Tie other shoe.

Sip even more coffee.



Another weather report. Still snow in Denver.

Still none here.

Al, Al, Al. You sure know how to ruin a cup of coffee.



Grab a bottle of water.

Find my running cap.

Take the front door key.



Open. The. Door.



Lock the door.



Shut the door. With me outside.



Head for the sidewalk, already tired.



Why is it I’m always more alert after my run?



During my second semester at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, I had two classes with the same professor, one of which was titled "Narration and Description". One of our assignments was to write a short poem dealing with the body in action. This was in early 2007, less than a year since Katie Couric had left The Today Show. My better-half and I were disappointed when Couric left, but life goes on.

I'd been a runner for a while when I wrote this. And while I've slowed down quite a bit, I still love getting out to walk or run in the morning. Or, rather, I love how I feel when I get back from running. Getting out the front door, however, can occasionally be a challenge!

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

The Whisper

THE WHISPER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I am loud.

I love vibrant colors -

Pillarbox red, midnight blue,

emerald green, splashy yellow,

in-your-face orange,

and sounds so colorful,

they make your heart dance

like a whirling kite in a

high wind,

bobbing,

dipping -

flutes, wind, laughter.

The down side

is loving rainy days,

where the only color

is gray,

with the neon signs

reflecting off the

wet pavement,

and the wind howls

as it drives the downpour,

gusting across the road,

slapping legs and back.

I am loud,

and love extremes,

usually the intense,

boisterous ones.

And when I met the

man I love,

how did he call to me?

He whispered.



This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.

SUMMER DAY

SUMMER DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Walkin',

talkin',

fast paced boppin'.

Runnin',

funnin',

lyin' 'round sunnin'.

Hoppin',

boppin',

sandals cloppin'.

Skippin',

trippin',

ice cream drippin'.

Summer

songs

all day long.



This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.

This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

Christmas, 2004

Christmas, 2004

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004

'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,

Could have been December, certainly not May.

The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey

on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.



I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.

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.

WINTER

WINTER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



Winter has unofficially arrived.

The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.

Still,

here outside my window,

is the first

unsullied

virgin snow.

Here and there,

little specks of mica and sparkles glisten

on the cold, white velvet.

A flash of color on the edge of the woods;

the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,

swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.

I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.



Later, I trek outside,

watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.

I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;

his voice carries and echoes slightly.

A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,

as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,

it held tight in its death grip.

The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.



Later, I sit before my large picture window,

fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,

knowing that,

when winter has gone on too long

(longer than it should,

even for the children),

the packed snow will crunch as we walk;

that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off

with its deafening roar,

scaring birds into flight;

the trees will creak and groan under its weight.

But, for the moment,

I will relish the warmth within,

reflecting on the glittering beauty without.



Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

Politics (X 2)

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 Another Day in Paradise at GoFundMe. 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, with goodies for donations.

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

I WILL NOT BE SILENCED

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I will not be silenced.

You can try to quiet me

in any number of ways,

gently reasoning

through which I hear the

undercurrents of threats

(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”

to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,

people get angry.” You retort,

“Bitch.”),

followed by blatant threats

and strong-arm tactics.

But -

I will not be silenced.

Close my mouth,

my actions will scream.

Shut my eyes;

my soul will see.

Plug my ears;

my heart will hear.

You can not quiet me.

Worse men have tried.

Only justice will tame my shouts;

only peace will calm my rantings;

only true love will settle me

without trying to master.

Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.

But, even a whisper is a sound,

so,

I will not be silenced.

Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”



From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.

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.



A repeat of October 9th's post. 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.

Where's the Sense, Lord?

Where's the Sense, Lord?

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1988



Where's the sense, Lord?

The news is on:

Tornadoes have devastated a town,

killing adults, old people, children, babies.

An avalanche in Colorado has buried a section of road,

leaving people wondering if their cars are to be their tombs.

And then, a child, 12, missing since Friday

when she got off the school bus.

It's Monday now.

The police suspect foul play.

Where's the sense, Lord?



This was a group of poem/prayers written while I was trying to finish up at St. Petersburg (Florida) College during the mid- to late- 1980s. Most of the poem/prayers were written in the main campus's cafeteria over cups of coffee.

There was several TVs around the divided cafeteria, frequently with the news on. This was written after seeing several depressing news stories.

This is from the Prayers from an Average Person of Poetry Unassigned, currently looking for a publishing home.

Walking Early December Florida Morning

Walking Early December Florida Morning

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2013



Walking, early December Florida morning,

coolness trying to descend from northern climes,

I had wanted to still be running.

Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.



Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades

as a country road,

dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.

A chain-link fence separates the house's property

from the dirt road in front,

the woods next to it on either side.

The road continues past the woods.

One can only go the full length –

a total of four blocks –

if on foot or horseback,

as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.



This early December Florida morning,

a small flock of birds –

six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –

stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.

A gated townhouse community is beyond.

Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.

As I walk, the flock of birds moves.

Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.

White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.

Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,

walking, spreading apart to let me through.

One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.

He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,

like an aging denison

in a bathing suit in Boca,

skinny legs sticking out,

dusky rose feet and backwards knees,

carrying a plump white-clad body,

topped with a funny bathing cap.

The denison would call back home,

New York, probably,

saying on crackling long-distance lines

to an equally aging sister,

“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”

The sister, mink-coated denison,

or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,

will say,

“Maybe next year, honey.

No, really, I don't mind the cold.”



The wood stork denison passes,

reconnects with the flock

just as the flock takes flight.



This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.

REBEL

Finally, I'm back online! It only took several calls, including one that lasted almost 35 minutes (shortly after noon) and one that lasted 55 minutes! Ouch! But now that we're back in business...

I'm replaying one of my earlier poems today.

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.”



One of my sons took a class at the local technical school years ago, after graduating from high school. One of his instructors had a Viet Nam MIA/POW bumper sticker which said, "We will not sit down; we will not shut up." Something about the sentiment struck me as a positive way to stand up to any wrong-doing. Hence, this poem. I'd wanted to get something about the MIA/POW issue into the poem, but I really couldn't get it to mesh. Hopefully, I'll be able to get another poem going about that.

This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

Internet problems, please stand by...

I'm having temporary internet problems, but should be back online around Dec. 15. Thanks for understanding! See you soon...

YBOR AFTERNOON (Replay)

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.



Since it's now December, and this was written during December, with Christmas on the near-horizon.

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.

GRANDMOTHER

GRANDMOTHER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Grandma,

you've gradually aged

without seeming to.

Seventy-six,

but where has

the time gone?

Pictures

of you, holding a baby.

Mom.

Another picture of you,

years later,

another baby.

Great-grandson.

Same love,

but from a distance.

You've seen so much,

loved so much,

passed love on.

You'll always be remembered;

the memories are sweet.



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

Morning Walk, Misty Day

Morning Walk, Misty Day

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2014



Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,

beginning of the new year,

the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.

There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies

and there's a slight chill to the air.

Any other day, I'd think cold,

but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,

it really isn't bad cold.

Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,

long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,

turquoise shoes getting muddy

on the damp dirt path.

Somewhere nearby is a

rhythmic thump-thump-thump

of heavy equipment.

Finally spot city trucks,

working in the mist to

spruce up the park –

horse trails,

little league baseball fields,

life in a small town.

Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,

all various shades of brown,

held up by green grass,

capped by grey skies.

Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,

horses outside in the fields,

breakfasting on hay and water

in the mist

while the two women who work the stable,

one, the owner, the other, a friend,

muck out stalls,

dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile

to be carted off later,

then replacing it with fresh woodchips,

putting fresh oats and water in each stall

before bringing the horses, now wet,

back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.

A radio in the tack room plays a country station;

Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist

like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.

To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,

looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.

The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.



Just before crossing the wet street,

I hit the large button that switches on

the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.

The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,

though lightly, mistily so.

In one of the townhouses that backs against

the drainage ditch next to the road

the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree

show through the partially open curtains.First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.

Who am I to say what's right,

what's wrong

in other people's lives?

Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.

A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,

temporarily making a flash of color.

Finally,

I turn back,

pass the twinkling Christmas lights,

hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,

see the barn, horses being brought inside,

the country DJ saying rain, all day,

hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,

before unlocking the front door,

seeing two sleeping cats

and grab a cup of coffee.



Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.

FALL AFTERNOON

FALL AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Fall afternoon.

The season's change snuck up on us

during the night,

catching us only

partially

unawares.

"Temperatures should dip tonight,"

the weatherman said

at eleven

last night.

Summer's heat is gone.

We knew it couldn't last;

the sweltering air was getting old,

anyway.

Soon,

we'll be eating stew

and lots of spaghetti,

putting away the

outdoor grill

for another year.

We go for a walk after dinner,

savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,

making our faces pink

as we smell

the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.

Soon,

the leaves will

go into their magic show,

turning red,

orange,

yellow,

before

falling,

brown,

dead,

to be

raked into piles.

We'll put large potatoes

and corn,

wrapped in foil,

near the bottom of the piles,

and then add a little of our own colors

(red,

orange,

yellow),

dancing into the afternoon air,

warming us (in our sweaters)

as it burns the leaves

and makes the potatoes and corn

into something

almost too good to enjoy.

Except we enjoy it,

wolfing down the food.

(Even the children eat the skins -

the icky skins

they usually leave.)

Ah, the fall,

the smells of the smoke,

the foods,

the leaves rotting after the rains,

the settling of the earth,

the settling in of everything;

the sounds of crunching leaves,

the laughs of trick-or-treat,

the settling house;

the feel of the cooling air,

the rough wool sweaters

and cotton flannel shirts.

The sun

finally

sets

(early)

amid the colors,

and we are ready to relax

inside,

preparing for the days ahead.

This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.