HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Friday, March 24, 2017
Delights
DELIGHTS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1984
There's something enduring,
deliciously comforting,
about a well-written poem;
one you can read on a wet,
soppy, sloppy gray day,
taking us out of ourselves.
My mother
used to encourage me,
at age eleven,
to try my hand at poems;
"You can use imagery, words;
describing birds waving
while they fly south for the winter."
I laughed,
mocking her.
What did she know?
I wanted to write stories, books.
I never got past the first chapter.
But a poem! A well-written poem
is the fine wine in the soda aisle,
the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,
a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.
It ages well,
comforts,
relaxes
alone
or taken with
a cup of hot tea
while curled up on a favorite couch
on a rainy day.
My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.
This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1984
There's something enduring,
deliciously comforting,
about a well-written poem;
one you can read on a wet,
soppy, sloppy gray day,
taking us out of ourselves.
My mother
used to encourage me,
at age eleven,
to try my hand at poems;
"You can use imagery, words;
describing birds waving
while they fly south for the winter."
I laughed,
mocking her.
What did she know?
I wanted to write stories, books.
I never got past the first chapter.
But a poem! A well-written poem
is the fine wine in the soda aisle,
the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,
a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.
It ages well,
comforts,
relaxes
alone
or taken with
a cup of hot tea
while curled up on a favorite couch
on a rainy day.
My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.
This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
Temporarily off-line
Hi, readers! In case you've been wondering what's up, I'm having computer issues (again). I should be up and running by Friday. Here's hoping! See you then...
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Rejection
REJECTION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The day I dyed my hair blue,
I was asked “why?” more than once.
Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”
Of course, it’s much more complex,
but what it boils down to is this:
Rejection.
Being way different is hard enough,
the biggest fear being that
No One Will Like You.
However,
give someone something they can latch onto:
Dye your hair blue,
wear combat boots with your dress,
and people can immediately give you a reason
you can laugh at.
It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,
it’s the fact that you have blue hair.
At least this way,
you can always pretend
“When the dye wears off,
then they’ll accept me.”
It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways
then things you can’t change.
This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.
"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."
At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.
"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.
Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...
This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The day I dyed my hair blue,
I was asked “why?” more than once.
Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”
Of course, it’s much more complex,
but what it boils down to is this:
Rejection.
Being way different is hard enough,
the biggest fear being that
No One Will Like You.
However,
give someone something they can latch onto:
Dye your hair blue,
wear combat boots with your dress,
and people can immediately give you a reason
you can laugh at.
It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,
it’s the fact that you have blue hair.
At least this way,
you can always pretend
“When the dye wears off,
then they’ll accept me.”
It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways
then things you can’t change.
This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.
"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."
At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.
"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.
Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...
This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
RAINY NIGHT
RAINY NIGHT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Rainy night.
I’d planned to stay home,
sealed against the cold drenching.
As luck would have it,
an old friend changed the night
with his call,
steering me into the downpour.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs someone to listen,
a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.
Traveling
to pick him up,
I wonder if he wants so much to go out
as to have someone who cares,
knowing someone will brave the rain.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs a hero,
a warm friendly face.
On the way there,
I tense as the car tries to slide.
The road is slick
and doesn’t give much traction.
Up ahead,
a light turns red,
sending long fingers of light
reflecting toward me.
I slow up,
trying not to skid,
begin to lose, then steadily stop.
Rivers of rain
snake down my windshield
as the wipers swoosh back and forth.
This is a long light,
prone to give new meaning to the term
“light year.”
He’s given that to me, our private joke.
As I wait,
I look around.
Lights reflecting everywhere:
red and green stoplights,
neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,
apartment and store windows
all bouncing off the pavements,
shimmering,
swimming in the puddles
and wet.
Light change,
I ease forward.
The car slides,
then catches as I ease off.
A block,
then another,
a third,
and then,
on the fourth (and two lights later)
is the brownstone that surrounds him.
The third floor is his;
high enough for a view,
but not too high.
This evening,
we’ll sit in the window,
watch the view,
talk,
and maybe more.
We decide I’ll stay the night;
no sense going home
in the driving rain.
In the morning,
I head home before work.
The dry daylight
is a different world.
Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Rainy night.
I’d planned to stay home,
sealed against the cold drenching.
As luck would have it,
an old friend changed the night
with his call,
steering me into the downpour.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs someone to listen,
a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.
Traveling
to pick him up,
I wonder if he wants so much to go out
as to have someone who cares,
knowing someone will brave the rain.
Everyone,
it seems,
needs a hero,
a warm friendly face.
On the way there,
I tense as the car tries to slide.
The road is slick
and doesn’t give much traction.
Up ahead,
a light turns red,
sending long fingers of light
reflecting toward me.
I slow up,
trying not to skid,
begin to lose, then steadily stop.
Rivers of rain
snake down my windshield
as the wipers swoosh back and forth.
This is a long light,
prone to give new meaning to the term
“light year.”
He’s given that to me, our private joke.
As I wait,
I look around.
Lights reflecting everywhere:
red and green stoplights,
neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,
apartment and store windows
all bouncing off the pavements,
shimmering,
swimming in the puddles
and wet.
Light change,
I ease forward.
The car slides,
then catches as I ease off.
A block,
then another,
a third,
and then,
on the fourth (and two lights later)
is the brownstone that surrounds him.
The third floor is his;
high enough for a view,
but not too high.
This evening,
we’ll sit in the window,
watch the view,
talk,
and maybe more.
We decide I’ll stay the night;
no sense going home
in the driving rain.
In the morning,
I head home before work.
The dry daylight
is a different world.
Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
GIRL AT ELEVEN
GIRL AT ELEVEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1987
Jelly-shoes and painted toes,
frizzled hair and freckled nose,
giggles fast and talk sure-fire,
arms and legs that never tire;
runs and skips and leaps galore;
hope it's summer ever more.
Hey, it's great to be eleven;
summer fun's as good as heaven.
This was written during the summer of 1987 and is part of my book Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Anyone who has watched a child play, especially outside during the summer, knows how energetic play can be. That is was this poem celebrates.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1987
Jelly-shoes and painted toes,
frizzled hair and freckled nose,
giggles fast and talk sure-fire,
arms and legs that never tire;
runs and skips and leaps galore;
hope it's summer ever more.
Hey, it's great to be eleven;
summer fun's as good as heaven.
This was written during the summer of 1987 and is part of my book Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Anyone who has watched a child play, especially outside during the summer, knows how energetic play can be. That is was this poem celebrates.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Laundrymat
LAUNDRYMAT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
Thursday, March 2, 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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