FIRST BORN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1975
Baby's breath,
gentle,
as a wispy summer breeze,
touching the green grass.
You,
lying there,
asleep,
barely three days old.
Coming home today,
you cried through your
first big adventure.
Brown hair,
thinner than an old lady's,
short,
fine,
softer and more delicate
than anything imaginable.
Last week,
your daddy helped
a little boy
he never saw before
fly a kite.
That night,
he could hardly wait
to have a four-year-old.
But now,
gazing at you,
he,
as I,
is content to watch,
and wait,
and love you
for yourself.
Anyone who has ever had kids can probably relate. This is part of a collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Peace/Love Rap
Peace/Love Rap
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
They’re all sons-of-bitches,
or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is
the better term for those who hate
and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.
The politicians and too many preachers
act like they’re the only teachers
worthy to be listened to and for us to follow
when all along, their souls are hollow,
left without love that they were brought up with,
so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.
Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,
they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.
You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,
‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,
nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.
There’s people who need, people in pain,
and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.
Get out of yourself and learn the same
love and peace that the great ones taught us,
who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.
They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,
Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.
And if you forget and just give token speech
and tell us the good life is out of reach
and that only those with money can live a good life,
then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife
when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting
when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.
We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:
to control our destinies, be safe all nights,
to learn as much as we possibly can
and have acceptance for our fellow man.
And remember, too, that women are the same;
we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.
Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,
unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’
for comfort in bed and for your meals
if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,
how we think and how we are are all the same,
so get over that tired misogyny game.
Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;
God made us the same, whether you choose
to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,
doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler
that you really want that love and peace that frees us,
from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.
So if you’re gonna talk the talk,
get real and show you can walk the walk.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Live peace. Live love.
Live peace. Live love.
Teach peace. Teach love.
Be peace. Be love.
The end.
From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
They’re all sons-of-bitches,
or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is
the better term for those who hate
and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.
The politicians and too many preachers
act like they’re the only teachers
worthy to be listened to and for us to follow
when all along, their souls are hollow,
left without love that they were brought up with,
so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.
Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,
they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.
You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,
‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,
nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.
There’s people who need, people in pain,
and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.
Get out of yourself and learn the same
love and peace that the great ones taught us,
who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.
They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,
Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.
And if you forget and just give token speech
and tell us the good life is out of reach
and that only those with money can live a good life,
then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife
when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting
when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.
We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:
to control our destinies, be safe all nights,
to learn as much as we possibly can
and have acceptance for our fellow man.
And remember, too, that women are the same;
we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.
Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,
unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’
for comfort in bed and for your meals
if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,
how we think and how we are are all the same,
so get over that tired misogyny game.
Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;
God made us the same, whether you choose
to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,
doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler
that you really want that love and peace that frees us,
from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.
So if you’re gonna talk the talk,
get real and show you can walk the walk.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Live peace. Live love.
Live peace. Live love.
Teach peace. Teach love.
Be peace. Be love.
The end.
From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
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.
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.
Friday, January 27, 2017
Words Unspoken
WORDS UNSPOKEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”
Note: This should be the last time I post this poem here, at least for quite a while. But I felt that it was important to post it today.
“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.
“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.
Friday, January 20, 2017
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
THE FLOWER
THE FLOWER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1970s
I picked a flower today.
It was in a field of tall, green grass.
I had been laying there,
watching the clouds take shape,
and,
upon getting up to leave,
there it was!
In a scattered group of yellow daffodils
and wild red roses
was a single white flower -
bigger,
more beautiful than the rest.
And now,
inside,
it is only
a pretty flower
in an otherwise
bare room.
Written during the 1970s. Sometimes, it's best just to leave beauty where it's found.
This is part of my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1970s
I picked a flower today.
It was in a field of tall, green grass.
I had been laying there,
watching the clouds take shape,
and,
upon getting up to leave,
there it was!
In a scattered group of yellow daffodils
and wild red roses
was a single white flower -
bigger,
more beautiful than the rest.
And now,
inside,
it is only
a pretty flower
in an otherwise
bare room.
Written during the 1970s. Sometimes, it's best just to leave beauty where it's found.
This is part of my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.
Friday, January 13, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
TURN LOOSE MY HEART
TURN LOOSE MY HEART
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Turn loose my heart.
Your love attempts to wrap itself around me
like a vine,
choking my heart and emotions
in its stranglehold.
I have no use for your love.
At least not now,
and probably not ever.
I've been hurt too often
by those claiming to be different,
who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities
committed by those who came before,
all the while planning their next moves,
variations of those same crimes
trying to mask the stench
rising like the fog of their deceit.
And so,
turn loose my heart.
Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love
before I die from an emotional coronary.
Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?
From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Turn loose my heart.
Your love attempts to wrap itself around me
like a vine,
choking my heart and emotions
in its stranglehold.
I have no use for your love.
At least not now,
and probably not ever.
I've been hurt too often
by those claiming to be different,
who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities
committed by those who came before,
all the while planning their next moves,
variations of those same crimes
trying to mask the stench
rising like the fog of their deceit.
And so,
turn loose my heart.
Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love
before I die from an emotional coronary.
Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?
From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
PASSION AND A GOOD MAN
PASSION AND A GOOD MAN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I want Passion and a good man.
Yes, I know that seems
a contradiction in terms,
but that is what I want.
And yet,
when I think of Passion,
I think of colorful men -
in blue jeans and flannel,
who clean up nicely,
dressing up in Armani suits,
or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,
but still colorful in their passion,
men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,
who have no fear of
tender candle-lit dinners on the beach
under the stars,
the waves crashing nearby,
followed by a night of
exhausting
exhilarating passion.
And yet,
these are the same ones
who seem destined to walk in the morning,
heading out the door,
no questions or explanations.
Flip side
are the good men,
the ones with the eager smiles
and have-to-please-you attitudes,
who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub
would be their pleasure,
and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,
their boyish smiles
and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.
A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,
keeping her safe,
without leaving her in the morning.
But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.
If I ever find him...
This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I want Passion and a good man.
Yes, I know that seems
a contradiction in terms,
but that is what I want.
And yet,
when I think of Passion,
I think of colorful men -
in blue jeans and flannel,
who clean up nicely,
dressing up in Armani suits,
or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,
but still colorful in their passion,
men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,
who have no fear of
tender candle-lit dinners on the beach
under the stars,
the waves crashing nearby,
followed by a night of
exhausting
exhilarating passion.
And yet,
these are the same ones
who seem destined to walk in the morning,
heading out the door,
no questions or explanations.
Flip side
are the good men,
the ones with the eager smiles
and have-to-please-you attitudes,
who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub
would be their pleasure,
and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,
their boyish smiles
and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.
A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,
keeping her safe,
without leaving her in the morning.
But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.
If I ever find him...
This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.
Sunday, January 8, 2017
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.
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.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
SUMMER
SUMMER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Summer.
The days are ablaze with life;
heat shimmering off the sidewalks,
slithering up the outside walls
of the buildings,
giving people a funny, wavy look from
the distance,
as though they dance
while,
really,
they walk.
Children,
out of school,
screeching
happily
through the streets,
down the sidewalks,
careening around the corners,
playing tag,
hide-and-seek,
red rover.
Shouts –
"I'll get Johnny;
meet us for baseball"
fill the air.
Mothers and fathers
taking children
to the zoo,
the park,
wherever,
while the other parent works,
studies,
is otherwise disengaged,
or, maybe, just not there.
Evenings come later, this time of year,
giving rise to more time
for outdoor play,
cookouts,
lazing around.
No hurry to do things before
turning on the lights.
Life is a carnival,
a blast,
easier to move
(no heavy clothes
to weigh one down).
As evening arrives,
people wander home;
maybe a late dinner,
or,
dinner over,
sit outside
in the grass,
on the porch,
wherever,
talking out plans,
futures,
loves,
what-have-you.
Dreams
simply have to drift
from consciousness
into sleep,
as crickets serenade one to sleep,
and stars cover the land
as a giant blanket.
Summer,
everyone can be a child.
Most of us have a favorite season, and each season seems to have its own feel, little nuances that make it different from the other seasons.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Summer.
The days are ablaze with life;
heat shimmering off the sidewalks,
slithering up the outside walls
of the buildings,
giving people a funny, wavy look from
the distance,
as though they dance
while,
really,
they walk.
Children,
out of school,
screeching
happily
through the streets,
down the sidewalks,
careening around the corners,
playing tag,
hide-and-seek,
red rover.
Shouts –
"I'll get Johnny;
meet us for baseball"
fill the air.
Mothers and fathers
taking children
to the zoo,
the park,
wherever,
while the other parent works,
studies,
is otherwise disengaged,
or, maybe, just not there.
Evenings come later, this time of year,
giving rise to more time
for outdoor play,
cookouts,
lazing around.
No hurry to do things before
turning on the lights.
Life is a carnival,
a blast,
easier to move
(no heavy clothes
to weigh one down).
As evening arrives,
people wander home;
maybe a late dinner,
or,
dinner over,
sit outside
in the grass,
on the porch,
wherever,
talking out plans,
futures,
loves,
what-have-you.
Dreams
simply have to drift
from consciousness
into sleep,
as crickets serenade one to sleep,
and stars cover the land
as a giant blanket.
Summer,
everyone can be a child.
Most of us have a favorite season, and each season seems to have its own feel, little nuances that make it different from the other seasons.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Life, It Seems
LIFE, IT SEEMS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
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
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
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, January 2, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, January 1, 2017
In Absentia, for Mom
In Absentia
for Mom
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
I used to write for my mother.
It was something that connected us,
first as Mother/daughter,
later as writers,
then as...
well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.
Relationships can be confusing, complicated.
As a child, I knew writing was important.
It was something Mom did.
As a 1950s mom,
when women weren't supposed to work
if they were married to a middle-class man
she found her Bachelor's in English
from St. Lawrence University where she met my father
to be a luxury:
Enough to make her think
while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.
Even as I write that, I wonder:
Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,
or did she,
like so many other women of her generation and class,
wish for more, but do what was expected?
I can still see Mom at her desk,
tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,
typing out stories on her manual typewriter,
building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.
While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,
I'd type out short stories, too.
They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,
barely covering a page of type.
Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,
having a child typing away,
using these resources,
I now realize was an act of love.
Later, after my parents' divorce,
I mourned not seeing my father more,
relating more to him than Mom.
But I still wrote.
After moving out on my own,
I'd show Mom my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
We were never as close as Dad and I were.
“Why can't you be more like your sister?”
was a common reframe.
My sister, the good one.
But even that's not fair,
to either of us.
Mom and I spoke less,
until she moved.
Slowly, I started sending her my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
Slowly, it came.
“This one's good,” she'd say
after reading my latest offering.
After Dad's death,
mourned by step-mom,
me,
and mom,
Mom and I spoke more.
I sent her more writings,
trying for at least once a week.
Every day,
I'd go for a walk,
then write a poem about what I saw.
These I'd send her
sometime during the week.
“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.
I loved the praise,
and kept the writing coming.
It gave me a reason to keep writing
while trying for my first sale.
Mom passed in November,
almost two years ago.
No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.
I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”
My uncle,
Mom's older (only) brother,
knows that better than I.
And now I write.
For Mom.
In absentia.
I picture her reading over my shoulder.
Hi, Mom.
(August 19, 2016)
Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from. This is from my growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
for Mom
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
I used to write for my mother.
It was something that connected us,
first as Mother/daughter,
later as writers,
then as...
well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.
Relationships can be confusing, complicated.
As a child, I knew writing was important.
It was something Mom did.
As a 1950s mom,
when women weren't supposed to work
if they were married to a middle-class man
she found her Bachelor's in English
from St. Lawrence University where she met my father
to be a luxury:
Enough to make her think
while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.
Even as I write that, I wonder:
Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,
or did she,
like so many other women of her generation and class,
wish for more, but do what was expected?
I can still see Mom at her desk,
tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,
typing out stories on her manual typewriter,
building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.
While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,
I'd type out short stories, too.
They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,
barely covering a page of type.
Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,
having a child typing away,
using these resources,
I now realize was an act of love.
Later, after my parents' divorce,
I mourned not seeing my father more,
relating more to him than Mom.
But I still wrote.
After moving out on my own,
I'd show Mom my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
We were never as close as Dad and I were.
“Why can't you be more like your sister?”
was a common reframe.
My sister, the good one.
But even that's not fair,
to either of us.
Mom and I spoke less,
until she moved.
Slowly, I started sending her my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
Slowly, it came.
“This one's good,” she'd say
after reading my latest offering.
After Dad's death,
mourned by step-mom,
me,
and mom,
Mom and I spoke more.
I sent her more writings,
trying for at least once a week.
Every day,
I'd go for a walk,
then write a poem about what I saw.
These I'd send her
sometime during the week.
“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.
I loved the praise,
and kept the writing coming.
It gave me a reason to keep writing
while trying for my first sale.
Mom passed in November,
almost two years ago.
No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.
I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”
My uncle,
Mom's older (only) brother,
knows that better than I.
And now I write.
For Mom.
In absentia.
I picture her reading over my shoulder.
Hi, Mom.
(August 19, 2016)
Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from. This is from my growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
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