BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2017



I'd been a runner for years

until the remnants of an old injury

side-tracked with with pain.

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

more like the pounding-on-pavement

that aggravated it.

But there it was:

my bike,

taking up space

and calling to me.

Ride, it called.

So I did.



The first day of the second half of the year

fell on a Saturday.

Running clothes on

(still a runner),

I peddle down the driveway

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

The nearby stables,

smelling of horses,

sweet hay,

and manure,

went by quicker than I'm used to,

while the smells and sounds

fill the air.

Several horses whinny,

and a radio fills in the void

between chatter

as two women clean the stable,

another grooms a horse.

Keith Urban finishes a song,

and Dolly Parton begins

as I ride out of earshot.

Across the three-lane avenue –

one lane in either direction,

separated by a turn lane –

I continue cross-country.

There's a spot

just past a moved-in house on the left,

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

just past where the woods begin,

that I can feel loved-ones.

That may seem strange,

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

a place reminiscent of the woods

my grandmother and I passed by several times,

a place that seemed to spark

Grandma's imagination.

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

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

I've since begun thinking of others,

dead and gone,

but not forgotten

by any stretch,

as I pass by.



Back on the three-lane avenue,

I pass the front of the town houses

with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs

in yellow,

pink,

and red

along the sidewalk.

One of the townhouses

sports a couple of neon signs

on the porch facing the sidewalk,

an older couple sitting under the signs

while drinking coffee

and talking.



I continue on my ride,

lost in my thoughts,

waiting for the time

I can run,

but enjoying the scenery

all the same.



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

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Grey, dreary day, first week in January,

I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.

Ten more minutes, and I can get it.

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

before getting another loan.

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

Paul Simon is singing Graceland,

Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.

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

An old woman,

crippled up from life,

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

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

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

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

would give the statement a life of its own,

thus making it more than she can bear.

Several more people wander in,

needing money,

needing more until their next pay day.

Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.

I turn and lean against the window where the teller,

who is helping the old woman,

will help me in – now – five minutes.

I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall

and part of another.

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

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

snow would be imminent.

The teller glances at me.

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

His voice stands out in the Florida winter,

telling of snow days and shoveling snow

neither of us no longer need to do.



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

when I would never have to come in here again.

Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.

And the it wasn't.



“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me

as the old woman shuffles off.



*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon



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

This was first posted on October 20, 2016.

Blues Days

BLUES DAYS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



What kind of day do I like?

The kind where the weather has the blues:

the wet blues,

slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy blues,

the white cold flurry blues,

grey-sky-overhead blues,

where the colors have a chance to

scream out and soar,

and you get to sit around the

nice, warm, well-lit-house,

snuggled into your warm flannel shirt

and your dry jeans

and warm, dry, fuzzy socks,

your hands wrapped around

a nice hot cup of tea,

warm homemade cookies on a plate

or maybe a toasty, chewy muffin,

brimming with raisins and cranberries,

a lemony scent from

who knows where,

as you listen to a car going by

in the slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy rain,

its wipers going

slick-slick-slick,

back and forth in cadenced rhythm with the rain,

tires singing s-w-o-o-o-o-s-s-h-h with the road.

Hardly any traffic

on the cold wet grey roads

on a cold wet grey day.

Those who do venture out bundle up against the cold.

I feel sorry for them

and exhilarated for them:

Sorry,

since they brave the cold and wet,

the colors muted and laced with grey wet;

Exhilarated,

since they see neon lights

and other colors

dance off the road,

running in strange water-colored art,

then heading home to a place with light and dry.

White wet comes later—and earlier—in the year,

dancing,

swirling

down,

caught in a whirling updraft

before drifting down.

Grey winter skies whispered in cold breathy tones,

"Scarf, hat, mittens!

Boots, coat!"

Trudging home at the end of the day,

slip-sliding down sidewalks

and crossing streets to leap grey encrusted snow,

carrying grocery bags and attaché cases

before

getting home

to warm houses and apartments to

dream away to sunny days.



A repeat of October 9th's post. Written during the 1990s, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher. I'd written it after being out and about on a chilly, rainy wintery afternoon.

Paul

PAUL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



The time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart

or feeling left inside.

I hide

my fears,

knowing depression here

will be misread by those

whose side

did I

come to see. Though I chose

to see my next of kin,

and I

did fly

to be with them, time when

I should be overjoyed,

I sink

within

myself. Beautiful boy,

red hair, blue eyes, smile pure

a glance,

per chance,

his dad's fair looks, for sure,

mom's temperament, both love,

I see

these three

beautiful ones betrothed.

Soul mates, like us, they need

to be

able

to see our love, stable.

Yet, time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart.

And when, at last, I'm home,

I say

I'll stay,

to share love – not alone.

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

Walking Early December Florida Morning

Walking Early December Florida Morning

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2013



Walking, early December Florida morning,

coolness trying to descend from northern climes,

I had wanted to still be running.

Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.



Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades

as a country road,

dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.

A chain-link fence separates the house's property

from the dirt road in front,

the woods next to it on either side.

The road continues past the woods.

One can only go the full length –

a total of four blocks –

if on foot or horseback,

as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.



This early December Florida morning,

a small flock of birds –

six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –

stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.

A gated townhouse community is beyond.

Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.

As I walk, the flock of birds moves.

Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.

White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.

Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,

walking, spreading apart to let me through.

One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.

He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,

like an aging denison

in a bathing suit in Boca,

skinny legs sticking out,

dusky rose feet and backwards knees,

carrying a plump white-clad body,

topped with a funny bathing cap.

The denison would call back home,

New York, probably,

saying on crackling long-distance lines

to an equally aging sister,

“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”

The sister, mink-coated denison,

or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,

will say,

“Maybe next year, honey.

No, really, I don't mind the cold.”



The wood stork denison passes,

reconnects with the flock

just as the flock takes flight.



This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.