Trail, Early Evening
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Evening walks are the counter-point to those in the early morning.
Mornings feel fresh;
the day's heat hasn't made the air
too oppressive,
except in August.
But evening walks are better for unwinding,
decompressing from the day.
I follow my usual path,
heading south to the end of the street
then head cross-country.
Going through the park's back entrance,
the sounds and sights of little league games explode nearby.
Cheers, shouts,
the loud tink! tink! of ball on aluminum bats resounds
from adjacent diamonds.
On the other side of the ditch,
the stable's owner exits the bad, heading for the pastures.
Horses standing by gates
stomp and whinny,
toss heads
as they wait their turn to head inside.
I get to the avenue as a car passes,
slows,
then turns into the townhouse community.
On the dirt path,
ditch now on the right,
townhouses beyond,
the light is different.
Sun's rays dappling trees' leaves
between townhouses and ditch.
A light is on in the dining/living room
of one of the townhouses,
one of the few with the blinds open
during the day.
An old couple,
white haired heads touching,
sitting at their dinner table,
watching game shows.
A middle-aged woman –
their daughter, maybe? –
brings their plates,
kisses the top of their heads,
then,
grabbing a mug,
sits beside them.
I head farther down the dirt road.
A woman,
sitting on the porch swing of the fenced-in house on the left,
looks up and waves.
Farther still,
past the house,
the woods' shadows deepen.
On the right,
beyond the ditch,
the community's back wall
separates townhouses from another stable.
A man is exercising a horse.
I haven't seen him riding
for more than a year,
since he finished taking
Saturday morning riding lessons.
Another horse stands in a grazing area
between exercise area and barn.
It looks over,
whinnies,
goes back to grazing.
I turn back,
past woods,
fenced-in yard,
woman still readying on the porch,
past townhouses,
where the older couple and their daughter
laugh over something,
the happy sound wafting through the air.
Cross the street,
now on the same side of the ditch as the stable,
opposite the park.
The owner,
her sister,
and several others
are bringing horses in,
feeding them,
talking over the low sound of a radio,
playing a country-western tune.
There is a path near my house that I frequently use for my walks/runs/bike rides. This poem was written on 4/16/14 after an evening walk that inspired this.
There's a very definite difference in the feel of an evening walk or run compared to doing the same in the morning, as many people will attest to. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Christmas, 2004
Christmas, 2004
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2004
'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,
Could have been December, certainly not May.
The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey
on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.
I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2004
'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,
Could have been December, certainly not May.
The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey
on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.
I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Circles
CIRCLES
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Raucous Cawing
RAUCOUS CAWING
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The raucous cawing of sea gulls
as they dive and swoop through the cold air
resounds, rebounds off the walls of nearby stores,
half-echoing.
The sounds bouncing back
are covered half the time by the
continuous cries of the gulls
as they chase one another
away from scraps of food
left for various reasons
on the ground.
The air is crisp, cold,
and carries the sound
unmuffled,
so that it feels as
crackly as small shards of icicles,
broken off and crunched.
The grey and white birds
screech and scream
over the dredges of someone’s leftovers,
picking,
plucking,
swooping down to
grab small pieces of breakfast
while the sun glints and glitters
off nearby panes of glass,
from which sound bounces,
tossing back the raucous cawing of the gulls.
I wrote this while watching sea gulls diving around a dumpster in a parking log. It's part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The raucous cawing of sea gulls
as they dive and swoop through the cold air
resounds, rebounds off the walls of nearby stores,
half-echoing.
The sounds bouncing back
are covered half the time by the
continuous cries of the gulls
as they chase one another
away from scraps of food
left for various reasons
on the ground.
The air is crisp, cold,
and carries the sound
unmuffled,
so that it feels as
crackly as small shards of icicles,
broken off and crunched.
The grey and white birds
screech and scream
over the dredges of someone’s leftovers,
picking,
plucking,
swooping down to
grab small pieces of breakfast
while the sun glints and glitters
off nearby panes of glass,
from which sound bounces,
tossing back the raucous cawing of the gulls.
I wrote this while watching sea gulls diving around a dumpster in a parking log. It's part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, February 11, 2017
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.
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.
Friday, February 10, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)