SURREALITY

SURREALITY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a surreal afternoon,

the lights on the bridge remind me

of strings of pearls,

glistening,

glowing

against the grey velvet sky.

There are few cars ahead of me,

spaced apart,

their taillights like sparking rubies,

following the sensuous curve of the bridge.

Glancing when I can to my right,

the distant headlights on the north bridge

spanning the bay

are like diamonds,

glittering on their moving strands.

The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,

pointing the car into the soft sunset;

the clouds have parted just enough to turn

pale pink

and

peach,

soft as worn flannel,

drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.

Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,

the liquid colors turn,

becoming pale yellow,

pencil-sketched clouds

turning to charcoal.

The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,

then slowly,

gently

lets me drop back to earth.

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

swirling skies and all.



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

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

Maryann

MARYANN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2000



I



High school friends,

we were always just a little different

from the crowd.

You were too straight-laced and shy,

hiding in your Catholic girl-school uniform,

not sure if you should

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

or go to college to be a librarian

(at least you loved books, too),

me, loud and outrageous,

trapped in an identical uniform,

complaining we had to remain "uniformed"

on "do-your-own-thing" day

(stating, "Right – do your own thing,

but do it my way",

to which you laughed the loudest and

longest).

An unlikely pair, we were,

but locked together in friendship

brought first together by mutual,

if opposite,

"differences" from the crowd.



II



I'm driving home,

watching an incredible sunrise,

while trying to catch up with your bus

before I'm stuck getting off the

"correct" interstate exit,

the last one before the bridge.

I see the bus rounding the

long

sloping curve up ahead,

try to catch up,

but can't –

here's the exit –

you're gone.

You called two weeks ago.

"Is it still okay to visit?"

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

Eighteen years is too, too long to be apart

from friends.

We wrote faithfully for several years –

you telling of college life

(library life suited you),

me telling of various men,

here today,

gone tomorrow,

then marriage to a man

who never quite understood

women's friendship,

a connection from the past

of those "who knew us when",

especially when we were so different.

I loved your quiet,

a calm balm for my spirit,

you loved my outrageousness,

saying it "kickstarted" your laughter.

You flew down,

arriving at our little

nickel-and-dime airport

rather than opting for the bigger one

in the next town.

A pleasant week,

the only problem being when my

car died for two days;

we spent time shuttling

back and forth

by cab

to "rescue" my car

with cash.

Thursday,

we drive into town

for your bus ticket

so you can afford Disney World

before flying back home.

The sights and sounds of the city

delight and excite us;

we are 5 years old

and 105

simultaneously,

talking fast

of "what ifs"

and "remember whens".

Friday,

I'm up at four,

take a fast shower,

then pick you up by 4:30

to take you to the bus terminal

by five.

We sit in silence,

occasionally

commenting on

how short the trip was

how good to see each other,

we mustn't let eighteen years pass by

without a visit.

Then, bus call,

you're on,

and I zap across the street for gas

so I can caravan with you

to my exit.

Darned bus, though,

pulls out while

I'm inside paying

and it takes until my exit

to even pull close.

The sunrise is beautiful.

Did you notice?



III



You visit again.

The two years since your last one went fast.

This time, you chose the big airport.

My car having died,

you're stuck taking a cab here.

This becomes our joke;

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

You state this happened

while visiting your sister in Missouri, too.

You rent a car for the week,

and let me use it to find a job

after having safely deposited you

at a local tourist park

I couldn't afford but

insisted you see,

since I knew you'd enjoy it.

You did,

your childlike excitement evident

when I picked you up later that day.

We enjoyed the stay.

The last day, we thought maybe

that stress was getting to me,

having to explain for the zillionth time

to the other half

of a dying marriage

about women

and friendship,

and having company.

You take a cab back to Tampa International,

and I take the rental back to

the smaller one,

then catch a ride home.

The next morning,

I call you for two reasons:

how was the flight home,

and the headache wasn't stress –

I'm sick as a dog.

But thank goodness the trip was nice.



IV



Time flies.

We write with news of our mutual lives.

Your brother got a new kidney.

My other half got a new love.

Your brother died.

So did my marriage.

You obtained new books for the library.

I obtained the courage to go back to school.

Then, no word for months.

Finally, I reach you by phone,

after trying for months.

You've been hospitalized,

your brother's death taking tolls

in more ways than just his own.

I talk you through,

encouraging you to take a

small step at a time.

"You will recover," I promise.

"I did."

Things got better, for a while.

Then, nothing.

I've heard no replies to my letters,

no answer on the phone

for over six months.

I'm worried for you.

I hope you're okay.



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

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

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

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

MIDNIGHT MAGIC

MIDNIGHT MAGIC

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1990



Magic must have visited last night.

Standing on the porch at ten,

I felt the light,

fall rain.

The air had cooled -

"Only from the rain,"

we had agreed.

We went to bed.



Just before midnight,

the children stirred.

"It's cold, Mama."

We covered them,

then stood,

huddled together by the kitchen window,

and watched

as the rain

turned white

and fluffy.



Back in our bed,

we watched the

eerie blanket fall.

The oak

outside our window

became a powdered beauty.



By one,

the snow had stopped.

The wind came,

blew with all its might,

and pushed the slight

powder onto the ground.

It was bitter,

the wind,

and froze everything

with its icy stare.



By morning,

our oak had

become glass-like in its appearance.



Magic had arrived.



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

Morning Walk, Misty Day

Morning Walk, Misty Day

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2014



Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,

beginning of the new year,

the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.

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

and there's a slight chill to the air.

Any other day, I'd think cold,

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

it really isn't bad cold.

Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,

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

turquoise shoes getting muddy

on the damp dirt path.

Somewhere nearby is a

rhythmic thump-thump-thump

of heavy equipment.

Finally spot city trucks,

working in the mist to

spruce up the park –

horse trails,

little league baseball fields,

life in a small town.

Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,

all various shades of brown,

held up by green grass,

capped by grey skies.

Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,

horses outside in the fields,

breakfasting on hay and water

in the mist

while the two women who work the stable,

one, the owner, the other, a friend,

muck out stalls,

dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile

to be carted off later,

then replacing it with fresh woodchips,

putting fresh oats and water in each stall

before bringing the horses, now wet,

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

A radio in the tack room plays a country station;

Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist

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

To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,

looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.

The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.



Just before crossing the wet street,

I hit the large button that switches on

the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.

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

though lightly, mistily so.

In one of the townhouses that backs against

the drainage ditch next to the road

the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree

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

Who am I to say what's right,

what's wrong

in other people's lives?

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

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

temporarily making a flash of color.

Finally,

I turn back,

pass the twinkling Christmas lights,

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

see the barn, horses being brought inside,

the country DJ saying rain, all day,

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

before unlocking the front door,

seeing two sleeping cats

and grab a cup of coffee.



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

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a four hour trip,

the gray sky opens up

and delivers the deluge it has been promising

all afternoon.

Wouldn't be so bad

if it hadn't started

shortly before crossing the bridge.

It's not the driving that depresses me

so much as all the gray:

the steel girders,

the pavement,

the choppy gray water beneath even that,

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

Even the profusion of white, gray and beige cars

lend to the somber mood.

The only color around me

is the electric blue car ahead of me,

seeming garishly out of place.

Finally reaching land,

I search out my gray exit

with its darker gray and black trees.

Finding it amidst the rain,

I turn, then,

slowly heading home.



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

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

TRIBUTE

TRIBUTE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



You're gone.

Almost three months,

and still missed as much as

if it were yesterday.

The children play;

I long so much to tell you

how they fare.

My youngest

has quit asking

to see you,

his surrogate grandma.

How quickly a little one forgets,

puts into subconscious,

no longer talking of "Dor-dor."

You used to laugh when he called you that.

Now he's filled with other people,

Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.

You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.

I read something yesterday;

it reminded me of you.

I can picture you reading it,

and telling me,

"And then, he always said..."

the way you'd told a story

a hundred times before.

Some stories you'd tell often;

I'd never let on I'd heard it before,

or at least, heard it that way.

I'll miss you,

and forever curse the

disease that

took you.



I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.

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