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. 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.

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 twice. But since it's Inauguration Day (for an already unpopular person)...

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.

Surreality

SURREALITY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a surreal afternoon,

the lights on the bridge remind me

of strings of pearls,

glistening,

glowing

against the grey velvet sky.

There are few cars ahead of me,

spaced apart,

their taillights like sparking rubies,

following the sensuous curve of the bridge.

Glancing when I can to my right,

the distant headlights on the north bridge

spanning the bay

are like diamonds,

glittering on their moving strands.

The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,

pointing the car into the soft sunset;

the clouds have parted just enough to turn

pale pink

and

peach,

soft as worn flannel,

drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.

Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,

the liquid colors turn,

becoming pale yellow,

pencil-sketched clouds

turning to charcoal.

The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,

then slowly,

gently

lets me drop back to earth.

Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,

swirling skies and all.



I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.

This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

I Wonder

I WONDER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



If I were to suddenly disappear,

I wonder if anyone would wonder

where I was,

or if I was okay;

if anyone would ask,

“What is she up to these days?”

Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,

and,

if so,

would they really care for an answer,

or would it be a rhetorical question,

similar in consequence and concern as

“Some weather, huh?”

And so,

quietly I begin to cut ties,

sure it doesn’t matter

much

to anyone.

Except,

maybe,

to me.



We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2017



I'd been a runner for years

until the remnants of an old injury

side-tracked with with pain.

It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,

more like the pounding-on-pavement

that aggravated it.

But there it was:

my bike,

taking up space

and calling to me.

Ride, it called.

So I did.



The first day of the second half of the year

fell on a Saturday.

Running clothes on

(still a runner),

I peddle down the driveway

and head for my running-route, cross-country.

The nearby stables,

smelling of horses,

sweet hay,

and manure,

went by quicker than I'm used to,

while the smells and sounds

fill the air.

Several horses whinny,

and a radio fills in the void

between chatter

as two women clean the stable,

another grooms a horse.

Keith Urban finishes a song,

and Dolly Parton begins

as I ride out of earshot.

Across the three-lane avenue –

one lane in either direction,

separated by a turn lane –

I continue cross-country.

There's a spot

just past a moved-in house on the left,

a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,

just past where the woods begin,

that I can feel loved-ones.

That may seem strange,

but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,

a place reminiscent of the woods

my grandmother and I passed by several times,

a place that seemed to spark

Grandma's imagination.

“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.

And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.

I've since begun thinking of others,

dead and gone,

but not forgotten

by any stretch,

as I pass by.



Back on the three-lane avenue,

I pass the front of the town houses

with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs

in yellow,

pink,

and red

along the sidewalk.

One of the townhouses

sports a couple of neon signs

on the porch facing the sidewalk,

an older couple sitting under the signs

while drinking coffee

and talking.



I continue on my ride,

lost in my thoughts,

waiting for the time

I can run,

but enjoying the scenery

all the same.



Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.

FINI

FINI

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



On a rainy night,

when driving is treacherous,

and the wind howls,

making it impossible to warm up and ward off the chill,

he calls.

Our relationship,

if ever the was one

(of all of a week)

is over.

Fini,

as they say.

He has decided

I am much too difficult.

I laugh –

quietly, to myself,

since it hurts.

The reasons he lists for leaving

are

the reasons he listed for first calling:

I’m a difficult free-spirit,

laughing during a crying-jag.

I seldom misrepresent myself;

this becomes a turn-on-and-off.

I try to warn people right away –

this is how I am,

outrageous,

boisterous,

but prone to meditative silences –

so that I can quickly cut away

the dead weight that might leave

with no interest

on my time unwisely invested.

And yet,

with a single call,

I feel the cold hand grip my heart,

its icy fingers sending chills throughout my being.

He has decided to take his leave

at the most inopportune time,

just when I need his arms around me,

his hand caressing my hair,

a warm blanket of kiss on my forehead,

cheeks,

lower,

his love warming me,

his…

But he calls to let me know it’s over.

I’ve been through this enough to know

not to plead;

in the end,

it will make no difference.

And so,

I let him go,

knowing that,

even as I numb myself

against the cold pain,

someone

someday

may be brave and strong enough to stay.



Most of us, at one time or another, have had a relationship that we thought might be the one but that shortly implodes. No matter how long or short that relationship was, it can be painful. But in the end, when the right person comes along, and sticks around, it can be so much sweeter.

This comes from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.



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 Working Class Poems.

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.

Oh, Those Cretin Sons-of-Bitches

Oh, Those Cretin Sons-of-Bitches

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016

Oh, those cretin sons-of-bitches,

I’m not sure which is which

when it comes right down to the politics,

too many in power are ‘way too sick.

They think of themselves and forget the people’s needs

while they’re taking all the riches to fill their greed.

Sometimes I feel that we need peaceful revolution

to bring about an empathetic solution.

If you’ve never been broke or worked a real job in your life,

you’ll never understand the minimum wage strife

or what it’s like to work twenty hours a day,

trying to support yourself with very little pay.

And the kids are always crying ‘cause they hardly ever see you

and you’re always ‘way too tired to even try to be true

to the dreams you once had ‘way back when you were young,

and now you’re wishing that you were strong

enough to go to DC and kick some butt

so we can all just get a cut

of that American Dream we’ve been wanting a piece of

‘cause no matter what, what push comes to shove,

those politicians don’t give a damn,

and the rhetoric ‘bout values is nothing but a sham.

So we need a revolution where we all stand a chance

to have a solution, to have more than a glance

at a piece of the pie and afford a life

instead of having to live in constant strife.

Nothing like being in a mood about class injustice. This is from my growing collection titled Working Class Poems, still evolving.

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 later on. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.

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.

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.

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.

Rejection

REJECTION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The day I dyed my hair blue,

I was asked “why?” more than once.

Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”

Of course, it’s much more complex,

but what it boils down to is this:

Rejection.

Being way different is hard enough,

the biggest fear being that

No One Will Like You.

However,

give someone something they can latch onto:

Dye your hair blue,

wear combat boots with your dress,

and people can immediately give you a reason

you can laugh at.

It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,

it’s the fact that you have blue hair.

At least this way,

you can always pretend

“When the dye wears off,

then they’ll accept me.”

It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways

then things you can’t change.



This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.

"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."

At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.

"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.

Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...

This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2017



I'd been a runner for years

until the remnants of an old injury

side-tracked with with pain.

It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,

more like the pounding-on-pavement

that aggravated it.

But there it was:

my bike,

taking up space

and calling to me.

Ride, it called.

So I did.



The first day of the second half of the year

fell on a Saturday.

Running clothes on

(still a runner),

I peddle down the driveway

and head for my running-route, cross-country.

The nearby stables,

smelling of horses,

sweet hay,

and manure,

went by quicker than I'm used to,

while the smells and sounds

fill the air.

Several horses whinny,

and a radio fills in the void

between chatter

as two women clean the stable,

another grooms a horse.

Keith Urban finishes a song,

and Dolly Parton begins

as I ride out of earshot.

Across the three-lane avenue –

one lane in either direction,

separated by a turn lane –

I continue cross-country.

There's a spot

just past a moved-in house on the left,

a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,

just past where the woods begin,

that I can feel loved-ones.

That may seem strange,

but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,

a place reminiscent of the woods

my grandmother and I passed by several times,

a place that seemed to spark

Grandma's imagination.

“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.

And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.

I've since begun thinking of others,

dead and gone,

but not forgotten

by any stretch,

as I pass by.



Back on the three-lane avenue,

I pass the front of the town houses

with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs

in yellow,

pink,

and red

along the sidewalk.

One of the townhouses

sports a couple of neon signs

on the porch facing the sidewalk,

an older couple sitting under the signs

while drinking coffee

and talking.



I continue on my ride,

lost in my thoughts,

waiting for the time

I can run,

but enjoying the scenery

all the same.



Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Grey, dreary day, first week in January,

I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.

Ten more minutes, and I can get it.

Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one

before getting another loan.

A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.

Paul Simon is singing Graceland,

Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.

“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.

An old woman,

crippled up from life,

eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.

The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.

“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,

as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation

would give the statement a life of its own,

thus making it more than she can bear.

Several more people wander in,

needing money,

needing more until their next pay day.

Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.

I turn and lean against the window where the teller,

who is helping the old woman,

will help me in – now – five minutes.

I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall

and part of another.

It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.

If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –

snow would be imminent.

The teller glances at me.

“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.

His voice stands out in the Florida winter,

telling of snow days and shoveling snow

neither of us no longer need to do.



There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,

when I would never have to come in here again.

Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.

And the it wasn't.



“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me

as the old woman shuffles off.



*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon



There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.

This was first posted on October 20, 2016.

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.

Paul

PAUL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



The time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart

or feeling left inside.

I hide

my fears,

knowing depression here

will be misread by those

whose side

did I

come to see. Though I chose

to see my next of kin,

and I

did fly

to be with them, time when

I should be overjoyed,

I sink

within

myself. Beautiful boy,

red hair, blue eyes, smile pure

a glance,

per chance,

his dad's fair looks, for sure,

mom's temperament, both love,

I see

these three

beautiful ones betrothed.

Soul mates, like us, they need

to be

able

to see our love, stable.

Yet, time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart.

And when, at last, I'm home,

I say

I'll stay,

to share love – not alone.

This was written while visiting family, while my better-half stayed home. This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Painted Words.

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.

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Surprise me.

Not that you haven’t already.

The day we met,

I unintentionally stepped on feet;

you set me straight.

I expected an explosive barrage of rage;

it was not to be.

I kept my distance,

not knowing what to expect.

Imagine my surprise

when friendship developed.

We’d meet,

our paths crossing,

and always,

always

you offered your friendship,

yourself,

nothing less.

Times, too many to count,

that you picked up the pieces

of my life,

my heart,

and never once asked in return,

can not be ignored

or forgotten.

There came a time

when I thought someone else would do;

I saw you less as I tried

to make it work.

When he left,

shattering my heart into so many pieces,

you were there,

soothing wounds I swore would never heal.

Imagine my surprise.

It seems amazing that

the one who was “only” a friend,

the one who I never meant to hurt

and did

may very well be

the one who could make me the happiest,

there all the time.

Imagine my surprise.



If we're lucky, we all run into people who surprise us in a good way.

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

Thinking Time

THINKING TIME

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016



There are two best times for thinking:

Going for a walk,

and riding the bus.

Both activities make other distractions difficult.



Some of my best thinking,

idea-wise,

have come from both.



I have a path I love to walk.

It goes cross-country,

down dirt roads,

through woods,

past houses,

town homes,

stables full of horses,

parks and little league fields.



Once, walking down the dirt road,

past a moved-in house on acres of land,

just at the start of woods on one side,

a drainage ditch and stable on the other,

I had the feeling of my grandmother,

long gone,

as though waiting for me.

Over the years,

it has felt that others

gone, but not forgotten,

have joined her,

to where I almost feel them saying,

Here she comes, here she comes,

She's coming

as I head out.

I've thought of these family members

long gone,

but not forgotten.

Mom has recently joined this group.

During her memorial,

months after her death,

I couldn't help but think that

my sister and I are the

last two in our birth family.

As the elder,

I can remember when a little easier than she can.

And yet,

at the memorial,

I realize that our uncle,

Mom's only brother

(she had no sisters)

is the last one left from his birth family.

He has no one to remember when with,

at least in the same way Mom could.



Also on walks,

I've thought of the people who live in the town houses

I pass:

an old couple whose daughter

(I'm guessing)

fixes their dinner

around the time for my evening walk;

the couple with the baby in a stroller

and two small dogs

whose antics make the baby

laugh and clap;

the couple who leaves their Christmas tree

up through mid-January

every year.



Bus rides give way to

another kind of thinking.

You get to see people,

wonder about their lives.



One time, coming home from school

in downtown St. Pete,

Matt met me at Williams Park.

He knew I'd take one of two buses,

both disembarking riders

and departing on the same side of the park.

He waited, and when I saw him,

we got on the same bus –

the 52 –

together.

We watched the others on the bus,

from the bus,

pointed people out to each other.

At Central Plaza terminal,

we gasped, then laughed

at one man,

sitting and talking to a woman.

He was wearing gray slippers,

tie-dyed socks,

a purple bathrobe with gold sparkles,

and topped by a red beret,

set at a jaunty angle

atop his head.

The woman,

about his age – late middle aged –

was nondescript next to him.

I want to write them into a story,

I tell Matt,

as he laughs and rolls his eyes.



We all have times when our mind naturally drifts and starts wandering back in time, into the future, or kicking around the present. This poem is about that. I've run and/or walked for years, as well as riding buses; both are great for thinking.

This is part of a growing group of poems tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.

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.

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.

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.

NIGHT SONGS

NIGHT SONGS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Night always comes as a surprise;

after a long day and lingering twilight,

the sun suddenly,

in a matter of seconds,

is eaten by the large fish beyond the

ridge of hills.

(My mother used to come to tuck me in,

playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.

Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,

where she'd hold the blanket, and,

with a sharp flicking hand motion,

snap the blanket into the air,

up,

up,

up,

until gravity would call the blanket down

onto my slight frame.

It usually fell across my face

(I knew it would!);

I'd shriek my delight

and ask for it again.)

Now night falls like that,

blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,

guiding us into our seas of sleep.



I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

DRESS UPS

DRESS UPS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



She's dressing up in fancy clothes -

satins, silks, and ancient lace,

high heeled shoes with skinny legs,

lipstick on a pouty face.

This child-like game of dressing up -

"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -

will turn to laughs in later years

(in photos shown to friendly boys).

But now, my little girl and I,

("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)

we're sitting down to lemonade.

(We're pretending that it's tea.)



Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.

Oh, Those Cretin Sons-of-Bitches

Oh, Those Cretin Sons-of-Bitches

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016

Oh, those cretin sons-of-bitches,

I’m not sure which is which

when it comes right down to the politics,

too many in power are ‘way too sick.

They think of themselves and forget the people’s needs

while they’re taking all the riches to fill their greed.

Sometimes I feel that we need peaceful revolution

to bring about an empathetic solution.

If you’ve never been broke or worked a real job in your life,

you’ll never understand the minimum wage strife

or what it’s like to work twenty hours a day,

trying to support yourself with very little pay.

And the kids are always crying ‘cause they hardly ever see you

and you’re always ‘way too tired to even try to be true

to the dreams you once had ‘way back when you were young,

and now you’re wishing that you were strong

enough to go to DC and kick some butt

so we can all just get a cut

of that American Dream we’ve been wanting a piece of

‘cause no matter what, what push comes to shove,

those politicians don’t give a damn,

and the rhetoric ‘bout values is nothing but a sham.

So we need a revolution where we all stand a chance

to have a solution, to have more than a glance

at a piece of the pie and afford a life

instead of having to live in constant strife.

Nothing like being in a mood about class injustice. This is from my growing collection titled Working Class Poems, still evolving.

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

Note: I've posted this several times on this blog already, but after yesterday's vote on Trump's health care package, I feel the need to post this again.



“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The Revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

people without jobs who want to work

who need to work

who strive to work

who’ve given up trying to work

within a system that strives to keep them down

while saying “no more safety net”

while letting children go hungry

while giving themselves humungous raises

and building more bombs and guns

to keep the underclass under them

but

The Revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

the child who cries herself to sleep after a day

of abuse and neglect

while the child lovingly corrected cries

after being removed from home

and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,

who questions what he sees,

who questions the system,

who questions the questions,

who questions why,

and when and where and what and who

but

The revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses

don’t buy into what their

children and grandchildren will breath,

drink or eat in the years to come,

who feel that money is

more important than air,

more important that water,

more important than the future,

more important than anything else

including the fact that

The Revolution will not revolve around you.

Instead,

it revolves around those brave enough

to take on the system,

who strive to prove that justice for some

should be justice for all

and help to make that possible;

around those who see a need and try to

honestly and with courage

and passion

and compassion

try to solve it,

around those who see those

whom life has dealt harshly with

and who still struggle to stand up and fight

and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,

around those who see the hunger

and strive to feed;

who see the abuse

and try to end it;

who see the hurt

and try to heal it;

and then, only then,

if you have the courage

to instigate this revolution,

then and only then will

the revolution involve and revolve around you.



This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.

SURREALITY

SURREALITY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a surreal afternoon,

the lights on the bridge remind me

of strings of pearls,

glistening,

glowing

against the grey velvet sky.

There are few cars ahead of me,

spaced apart,

their taillights like sparking rubies,

following the sensuous curve of the bridge.

Glancing when I can to my right,

the distant headlights on the north bridge

spanning the bay

are like diamonds,

glittering on their moving strands.

The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,

pointing the car into the soft sunset;

the clouds have parted just enough to turn

pale pink

and

peach,

soft as worn flannel,

drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.

Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,

the liquid colors turn,

becoming pale yellow,

pencil-sketched clouds

turning to charcoal.

The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,

then slowly,

gently

lets me drop back to earth.

Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,

swirling skies and all.



I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.

This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

Maryann

MARYANN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2000



I



High school friends,

we were always just a little different

from the crowd.

You were too straight-laced and shy,

hiding in your Catholic girl-school uniform,

not sure if you should

be a nun (too shy for boys, and your love of God)

or go to college to be a librarian

(at least you loved books, too),

me, loud and outrageous,

trapped in an identical uniform,

complaining we had to remain "uniformed"

on "do-your-own-thing" day

(stating, "Right – do your own thing,

but do it my way",

to which you laughed the loudest and

longest).

An unlikely pair, we were,

but locked together in friendship

brought first together by mutual,

if opposite,

"differences" from the crowd.



II



I'm driving home,

watching an incredible sunrise,

while trying to catch up with your bus

before I'm stuck getting off the

"correct" interstate exit,

the last one before the bridge.

I see the bus rounding the

long

sloping curve up ahead,

try to catch up,

but can't –

here's the exit –

you're gone.

You called two weeks ago.

"Is it still okay to visit?"

"Yes, yes," I cry, "please come."

Eighteen years is too, too long to be apart

from friends.

We wrote faithfully for several years –

you telling of college life

(library life suited you),

me telling of various men,

here today,

gone tomorrow,

then marriage to a man

who never quite understood

women's friendship,

a connection from the past

of those "who knew us when",

especially when we were so different.

I loved your quiet,

a calm balm for my spirit,

you loved my outrageousness,

saying it "kickstarted" your laughter.

You flew down,

arriving at our little

nickel-and-dime airport

rather than opting for the bigger one

in the next town.

A pleasant week,

the only problem being when my

car died for two days;

we spent time shuttling

back and forth

by cab

to "rescue" my car

with cash.

Thursday,

we drive into town

for your bus ticket

so you can afford Disney World

before flying back home.

The sights and sounds of the city

delight and excite us;

we are 5 years old

and 105

simultaneously,

talking fast

of "what ifs"

and "remember whens".

Friday,

I'm up at four,

take a fast shower,

then pick you up by 4:30

to take you to the bus terminal

by five.

We sit in silence,

occasionally

commenting on

how short the trip was

how good to see each other,

we mustn't let eighteen years pass by

without a visit.

Then, bus call,

you're on,

and I zap across the street for gas

so I can caravan with you

to my exit.

Darned bus, though,

pulls out while

I'm inside paying

and it takes until my exit

to even pull close.

The sunrise is beautiful.

Did you notice?



III



You visit again.

The two years since your last one went fast.

This time, you chose the big airport.

My car having died,

you're stuck taking a cab here.

This becomes our joke;

car dead? Maryann's on her way for a visit.

You state this happened

while visiting your sister in Missouri, too.

You rent a car for the week,

and let me use it to find a job

after having safely deposited you

at a local tourist park

I couldn't afford but

insisted you see,

since I knew you'd enjoy it.

You did,

your childlike excitement evident

when I picked you up later that day.

We enjoyed the stay.

The last day, we thought maybe

that stress was getting to me,

having to explain for the zillionth time

to the other half

of a dying marriage

about women

and friendship,

and having company.

You take a cab back to Tampa International,

and I take the rental back to

the smaller one,

then catch a ride home.

The next morning,

I call you for two reasons:

how was the flight home,

and the headache wasn't stress –

I'm sick as a dog.

But thank goodness the trip was nice.



IV



Time flies.

We write with news of our mutual lives.

Your brother got a new kidney.

My other half got a new love.

Your brother died.

So did my marriage.

You obtained new books for the library.

I obtained the courage to go back to school.

Then, no word for months.

Finally, I reach you by phone,

after trying for months.

You've been hospitalized,

your brother's death taking tolls

in more ways than just his own.

I talk you through,

encouraging you to take a

small step at a time.

"You will recover," I promise.

"I did."

Things got better, for a while.

Then, nothing.

I've heard no replies to my letters,

no answer on the phone

for over six months.

I'm worried for you.

I hope you're okay.



This was written sometime between the late 1990s-2002 and is part of a book of poetry titled Poetry, Unassigned currently looking for a publisher.

The poem is about my high school friend, Maryann. We'd both felt like out-casts while going to an all-girls Catholic high school in the northeast corner of Connecticut - although during our sophomore year, boys were allowed in. Maryann and I kept in touch for years, writing faithfully, occasionally calling, and then with Maryann - who was still single - visiting a couple of times.

Slowly, the letters stopped, and while I tried writing, there was a gap of several years with no word from her. Finally, I received one letter around 2000 - 2002, which was sadly disjointed in places; I could tell she'd been depressed while writing it. A Christmas or two later, the card I sent was returned, with the postal stamp stating, "Undeliverable; no forwarding address." I still miss hearing from Maryann, and hope that all is well.

A photo of Maryann is on my photography blog, A Year (Or More) Of Photos, taken during one of her trips here. Maryann

MIDNIGHT MAGIC

MIDNIGHT MAGIC

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1990



Magic must have visited last night.

Standing on the porch at ten,

I felt the light,

fall rain.

The air had cooled -

"Only from the rain,"

we had agreed.

We went to bed.



Just before midnight,

the children stirred.

"It's cold, Mama."

We covered them,

then stood,

huddled together by the kitchen window,

and watched

as the rain

turned white

and fluffy.



Back in our bed,

we watched the

eerie blanket fall.

The oak

outside our window

became a powdered beauty.



By one,

the snow had stopped.

The wind came,

blew with all its might,

and pushed the slight

powder onto the ground.

It was bitter,

the wind,

and froze everything

with its icy stare.



By morning,

our oak had

become glass-like in its appearance.



Magic had arrived.



A brief description on the seasons changing. This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.

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.

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a four hour trip,

the gray sky opens up

and delivers the deluge it has been promising

all afternoon.

Wouldn't be so bad

if it hadn't started

shortly before crossing the bridge.

It's not the driving that depresses me

so much as all the gray:

the steel girders,

the pavement,

the choppy gray water beneath even that,

as well as the sky with its varying shades of gray.

Even the profusion of white, gray and beige cars

lend to the somber mood.

The only color around me

is the electric blue car ahead of me,

seeming garishly out of place.

Finally reaching land,

I search out my gray exit

with its darker gray and black trees.

Finding it amidst the rain,

I turn, then,

slowly heading home.



This was written during a time when I had family in another part of Florida. Once a week, I'd take time off for a visit, then head home. One dreary winter afternoon, the skies opened up, letting loose the rains it had been promising most of the day.

This is part of my book titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

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.

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.

Temporarily off-line

Hi, readers! In case you've been wondering what's up, I'm having computer issues (again). I should be up and running by Friday. Here's hoping! See you then...

Rejection

REJECTION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The day I dyed my hair blue,

I was asked “why?” more than once.

Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”

Of course, it’s much more complex,

but what it boils down to is this:

Rejection.

Being way different is hard enough,

the biggest fear being that

No One Will Like You.

However,

give someone something they can latch onto:

Dye your hair blue,

wear combat boots with your dress,

and people can immediately give you a reason

you can laugh at.

It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,

it’s the fact that you have blue hair.

At least this way,

you can always pretend

“When the dye wears off,

then they’ll accept me.”

It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways

then things you can’t change.



This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.

"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."

At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.

"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.

Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...

This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.