REBEL
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
“Sit down and shut up,”
he orders with a snarl.
I have been to hell and back,
seen things -
no, experienced them -
that no living being,
human or otherwise,
should know exists.
There are abuses which,
bad enough when done by unknown,
are a thousand times worse
when done in the name of love.
There are those who bully for what they want,
who fight without conscience against us all,
unless someone is brave enough to
STAND UP
and break the cycle.
Sooner
(or later)
the beaten spirit does one of two things:
either it breaks, withers and dies,
or becomes a strong warrior,
becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.
I have lived too much to go back.
Now, looking for new relationships,
I see through the gauzy,
glittery
starry-eyed good times,
and frequently see to the center,
the rigid unyielding core of a person.
I have to to survive.
And so,
I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,
stand tall, strong,
and,
looking him straight in his surprised eyes,
state in a loud,
clear,
strong voice,
“I will not sit down.
I will not shut up.”
I know I've posted this poem here twice. But since it's Inauguration Day (for an already unpopular person)...
One of my sons took a class at the local technical school years ago, after graduating from high school. One of his instructors had a Viet Nam MIA/POW bumper sticker which said, "We will not sit down; we will not shut up." Something about the sentiment struck me as a positive way to stand up to any wrong-doing. Hence, this poem. I'd wanted to get something about the MIA/POW issue into the poem, but I really couldn't get it to mesh. Hopefully, I'll be able to get another poem going about that.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Saturday, November 18, 2017
Friday, November 17, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
I Wonder
I WONDER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
If I were to suddenly disappear,
I wonder if anyone would wonder
where I was,
or if I was okay;
if anyone would ask,
“What is she up to these days?”
Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,
and,
if so,
would they really care for an answer,
or would it be a rhetorical question,
similar in consequence and concern as
“Some weather, huh?”
And so,
quietly I begin to cut ties,
sure it doesn’t matter
much
to anyone.
Except,
maybe,
to me.
We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
If I were to suddenly disappear,
I wonder if anyone would wonder
where I was,
or if I was okay;
if anyone would ask,
“What is she up to these days?”
Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,
and,
if so,
would they really care for an answer,
or would it be a rhetorical question,
similar in consequence and concern as
“Some weather, huh?”
And so,
quietly I begin to cut ties,
sure it doesn’t matter
much
to anyone.
Except,
maybe,
to me.
We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Eleven
ELEVEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Jason's at a funny age.
No little boy, but far from grown;
needing hugs, but daring not to admit to it.
Eleven is a rough age;
but then, all ages have their quirky little monsters.
Almost as tall as me,
he's still my baby,
and will be when he's fifty.
Will I know him then, and like who he's become?
Better yet, will he?
But now, at his awkward age,
he shows bravado, maturity one moment,
making me laugh, I'm proud;
the next minute flighty, fighty,
I'm so furious I could
drill for oil with my foot.
He'll outgrow this stage, and be no worse for wear.
His grandma still has battle scars
from my eleventh year
in numbers of gray hairs.
I'd never, ever wish eleven on anyone.
Is there ever an easy age when you're raising children? Maybe not. But thankfully, most of us have more good days than rough.
This comes from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
Artistic Time
ARTISTIC TIME
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
No matter what anyone says,
men have it easier being artists than women -
especially those with outside work.
Men work,
come home,
take up pen and paper,
whatever their talent dictates.
Women,
on the other hand,
work,
come home,
deal with the housework,
the laundry,
the children,
the cleaning up after the pets,
dealing with the whims of their men,
their men’s needs,
(screw their own needs),
fix dinner,
do the dishes,
screw their men,
then,
if we are very lucky,
we may be able to fit in
a couple of minutes of
writing,
painting,
creating
between
cleaning the bathroom
and sleep.
What is amazing
is not that we can create well,
but that we have time to create. Period.
While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
No matter what anyone says,
men have it easier being artists than women -
especially those with outside work.
Men work,
come home,
take up pen and paper,
whatever their talent dictates.
Women,
on the other hand,
work,
come home,
deal with the housework,
the laundry,
the children,
the cleaning up after the pets,
dealing with the whims of their men,
their men’s needs,
(screw their own needs),
fix dinner,
do the dishes,
screw their men,
then,
if we are very lucky,
we may be able to fit in
a couple of minutes of
writing,
painting,
creating
between
cleaning the bathroom
and sleep.
What is amazing
is not that we can create well,
but that we have time to create. Period.
While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
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