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.
Monday, September 11, 2017
Sunday, September 10, 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.
Monday, September 4, 2017
Ybor Afternoon
YBOR AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1995
Ybor -
even the name evokes memories.
On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,
the air so heavy,
you can almost see the water droplets
suspended in air
in a heavy shrouded mist,
I drive there.
My son and his wife, my friends, live there.
He has called;
“We’re ready when you are.”
I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”
The drive is not long
over battleship grey, shimmering water —
on a dreary day,
the only real color being
the head and tail lights,
the bright red car ahead of me,
the electric blue one next to me.
In half an hour, I’m there,
knocking on the door.
The house appears
deserted,
but in actuality
houses three or more in the dim decay.
The door opens slowly,
then wide.
“You’re here!” she exclaims.
She had no way of knowing I was on my way;
besides no lights,
there is no phone.
There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING
from a house nearby,
blaring reggae music,
as if the noise could shake some color
into the area,
the rain away.
We talk in hushed and raucous tones,
depending on the swinging mood,
then head out to meet up with him.
Turning the corner to the main drag,
we are bombarded by cascading lights
draped across the street as archways,
waterfalling down light polls.
Even if it were not December,
it still looks like Christmas,
lights and hustling noise
bombarding the senses.
We cruise along,
looking at the brightly lit shops,
the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.
We find a parking space,
leave the warm car,
and brave the chill
where we wait
among friends
and crazy,
harmless
strangers
for him to show.
The sky darkens,
deepens,
closing softly as a velvet cape.
When finally he arrives,
we are ready for coffee;
the specialty shop,
close by,
a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,
has a brick wall inside,
café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.
It feels comfortable,
as though no strangers can arrive,
only friends.
We debate on coffee flavors
before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,
with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,
which we greedily consume
at a table by a window,
where we watch the parade of window shoppers
wander by.
Finally,
it is time to leave;
I drop them off at home,
feeling scared, depressed,
empty,
at leaving them in a cold,
unlit house.
And yet,
it is their first place,
their leaping-off point.
And so,
I turn the car toward the interstate,
see the line of tail lights heading into the
grey and grainy misty night
and head for home.
Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).
My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times, once while married. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
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