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. 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.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Friday, December 21, 2018
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, December 19, 2018
SUMMER NIGHT
SUMMER NIGHT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Summer.
The heat makes skin sticky;
we are sweet cakes
of sweat and powder
by mid-day.
In bed,
you turn towards me;
your quiet, gritty arm
drapes across me
in sleep.
You moan,
chasing away some night vision.
We walked this evening,
watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.
The lights came on in the windows,
people singing their night songs:
"Go to sleep, my little ones;
Go to sleep, the day is done."
We bought some coffee and chili dogs
from the corner vender,
anxious to close up shop
for the night.
Crickets serenaded us home.
Soon,
fall will arrive,
and with it,
change.
The babe within me sighs,
and stretches.
Soon,
he will share our lives.
I savor our last alone summer.
Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Summer.
The heat makes skin sticky;
we are sweet cakes
of sweat and powder
by mid-day.
In bed,
you turn towards me;
your quiet, gritty arm
drapes across me
in sleep.
You moan,
chasing away some night vision.
We walked this evening,
watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.
The lights came on in the windows,
people singing their night songs:
"Go to sleep, my little ones;
Go to sleep, the day is done."
We bought some coffee and chili dogs
from the corner vender,
anxious to close up shop
for the night.
Crickets serenaded us home.
Soon,
fall will arrive,
and with it,
change.
The babe within me sighs,
and stretches.
Soon,
he will share our lives.
I savor our last alone summer.
Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Monday, December 17, 2018
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.
Friday, December 14, 2018
RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP
RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Sitting here,
on a stool,
in a coffee shop,
watching the rain
snaking down the window,
pouring down,
smacking hard the road,
I feel disconnected,
vaguely alone,
while utterly attuned with all of life.
The dream-like state I’m zoned into
is like an old movie
black-and-white
Casablanca, maybe,
or something of that caliber.
Inside the shop is cocoon warm,
fogging the windows
slightly
which,
along with the rain
slithering down the windows,
makes the passing world appear surreal,
in a wavy
watery way.
A woman attempting to cross the street
carries packages
and a large umbrella;
it resembles a large flower:
ochre and gold in the center,
orange petals radiating to keep one dry,
while the bright green handle
is anchored to her hand.
People,
scurrying up and down the sidewalks
and across the streets,
are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb
over everyday clothes,
while long black, brown and grey trench coats
protect business suits.
A small child pulls loose from a parental hand
long enough to stomp and kick
splashingly
in a puddle.
Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,
mains and alleys,
avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,
trying not to
slip
sloshingly
skid and
slide.
The various shades of grey
are like wet velvet
and water colors dripping off the pages,
streaks sliding down the glass,
dark around the edges,
lighter, soft and warm near the centers.
Slowly,
as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon
deepens into twilight,
bright and deep neon lights flicker
on
off
and finally
solidly
on,
their reflections dancing,
shimmering,
waving,
in the puddles,
pools
and wetness,
sensuous reds,
emerald greens,
passionate purples,
royal blues.
Cars haltingly
stop
and
startingly
inch
then
surge
along the roads,
headlights and taillights leaving long reflections
ahead and behind.
I lean towards the window
by the booth I sit at,
blow a puff of air,
fogging a patchy circle,
quickly drawing a flower
before it fades;
then,
leaning back,
I take a long
warm
drink of steamy cappuccino.
It’s amazing how cocooned
you can feel
on a rainy colorful wet day like this.
I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Sitting here,
on a stool,
in a coffee shop,
watching the rain
snaking down the window,
pouring down,
smacking hard the road,
I feel disconnected,
vaguely alone,
while utterly attuned with all of life.
The dream-like state I’m zoned into
is like an old movie
black-and-white
Casablanca, maybe,
or something of that caliber.
Inside the shop is cocoon warm,
fogging the windows
slightly
which,
along with the rain
slithering down the windows,
makes the passing world appear surreal,
in a wavy
watery way.
A woman attempting to cross the street
carries packages
and a large umbrella;
it resembles a large flower:
ochre and gold in the center,
orange petals radiating to keep one dry,
while the bright green handle
is anchored to her hand.
People,
scurrying up and down the sidewalks
and across the streets,
are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb
over everyday clothes,
while long black, brown and grey trench coats
protect business suits.
A small child pulls loose from a parental hand
long enough to stomp and kick
splashingly
in a puddle.
Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,
mains and alleys,
avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,
trying not to
slip
sloshingly
skid and
slide.
The various shades of grey
are like wet velvet
and water colors dripping off the pages,
streaks sliding down the glass,
dark around the edges,
lighter, soft and warm near the centers.
Slowly,
as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon
deepens into twilight,
bright and deep neon lights flicker
on
off
and finally
solidly
on,
their reflections dancing,
shimmering,
waving,
in the puddles,
pools
and wetness,
sensuous reds,
emerald greens,
passionate purples,
royal blues.
Cars haltingly
stop
and
startingly
inch
then
surge
along the roads,
headlights and taillights leaving long reflections
ahead and behind.
I lean towards the window
by the booth I sit at,
blow a puff of air,
fogging a patchy circle,
quickly drawing a flower
before it fades;
then,
leaning back,
I take a long
warm
drink of steamy cappuccino.
It’s amazing how cocooned
you can feel
on a rainy colorful wet day like this.
I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
Thursday, December 13, 2018
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.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
Rebel
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 several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
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 several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.
This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
RAUCOUS CAWING
RAUCOUS CAWING
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The raucous cawing of sea gulls
as they dive and swoop through the cold air
resounds, rebounds off the walls of nearby stores,
half-echoing.
The sounds bouncing back
are covered half the time by the
continuous cries of the gulls
as they chase one another
away from scraps of food
left for various reasons
on the ground.
The air is crisp, cold,
and carries the sound
unmuffled,
so that it feels as
crackly as small shards of icicles,
broken off and crunched.
The grey and white birds
screech and scream
over the dredges of someone’s leftovers,
picking,
plucking,
swooping down to
grab small pieces of breakfast
while the sun glints and glitters
off nearby panes of glass,
from which sound bounces,
tossing back the raucous cawing of the gulls.
I wrote this while watching sea gulls diving around a dumpster in a parking log. It's part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The raucous cawing of sea gulls
as they dive and swoop through the cold air
resounds, rebounds off the walls of nearby stores,
half-echoing.
The sounds bouncing back
are covered half the time by the
continuous cries of the gulls
as they chase one another
away from scraps of food
left for various reasons
on the ground.
The air is crisp, cold,
and carries the sound
unmuffled,
so that it feels as
crackly as small shards of icicles,
broken off and crunched.
The grey and white birds
screech and scream
over the dredges of someone’s leftovers,
picking,
plucking,
swooping down to
grab small pieces of breakfast
while the sun glints and glitters
off nearby panes of glass,
from which sound bounces,
tossing back the raucous cawing of the gulls.
I wrote this while watching sea gulls diving around a dumpster in a parking log. It's part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Where's the Sense, Lord?
Where's the Sense, Lord?
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1988
Where's the sense, Lord?
The news is on:
Tornadoes have devastated a town,
killing adults, old people, children, babies.
An avalanche in Colorado has buried a section of road,
leaving people wondering if their cars are to be their tombs.
And then, a child, 12, missing since Friday
when she got off the school bus.
It's Monday now.
The police suspect foul play.
Where's the sense, Lord?
This was a group of poem/prayers written while I was trying to finish up at St. Petersburg (Florida) College during the mid- to late- 1980s. Most of the poem/prayers were written in the main campus's cafeteria over cups of coffee.
There was several TVs around the divided cafeteria, frequently with the news on. This was written after seeing several depressing news stories.
This is from the Prayers from an Average Person section of Poetry Unassigned, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1988
Where's the sense, Lord?
The news is on:
Tornadoes have devastated a town,
killing adults, old people, children, babies.
An avalanche in Colorado has buried a section of road,
leaving people wondering if their cars are to be their tombs.
And then, a child, 12, missing since Friday
when she got off the school bus.
It's Monday now.
The police suspect foul play.
Where's the sense, Lord?
This was a group of poem/prayers written while I was trying to finish up at St. Petersburg (Florida) College during the mid- to late- 1980s. Most of the poem/prayers were written in the main campus's cafeteria over cups of coffee.
There was several TVs around the divided cafeteria, frequently with the news on. This was written after seeing several depressing news stories.
This is from the Prayers from an Average Person section of Poetry Unassigned, currently looking for a publishing home.
Monday, October 1, 2018
“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”
“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
people without jobs who want to work
who need to work
who strive to work
who’ve given up trying to work
within a system that strives to keep them down
while saying “no more safety net”
while letting children go hungry
while giving themselves humungous raises
and building more bombs and guns
to keep the underclass under them
but
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
the child who cries herself to sleep after a day
of abuse and neglect
while the child lovingly corrected cries
after being removed from home
and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,
who questions what he sees,
who questions the system,
who questions the questions,
who questions why,
and when and where and what and who
but
The revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses
don’t buy into what their
children and grandchildren will breath,
drink or eat in the years to come,
who feel that money is
more important than air,
more important that water,
more important than the future,
more important than anything else
including the fact that
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
Instead,
it revolves around those brave enough
to take on the system,
who strive to prove that justice for some
should be justice for all
and help to make that possible;
around those who see a need and try to
honestly and with courage
and passion
and compassion
try to solve it,
around those who see those
whom life has dealt harshly with
and who still struggle to stand up and fight
and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,
around those who see the hunger
and strive to feed;
who see the abuse
and try to end it;
who see the hurt
and try to heal it;
and then, only then,
if you have the courage
to instigate this revolution,
then and only then will
the revolution involve and revolve around you.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
people without jobs who want to work
who need to work
who strive to work
who’ve given up trying to work
within a system that strives to keep them down
while saying “no more safety net”
while letting children go hungry
while giving themselves humungous raises
and building more bombs and guns
to keep the underclass under them
but
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
the child who cries herself to sleep after a day
of abuse and neglect
while the child lovingly corrected cries
after being removed from home
and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,
who questions what he sees,
who questions the system,
who questions the questions,
who questions why,
and when and where and what and who
but
The revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses
don’t buy into what their
children and grandchildren will breath,
drink or eat in the years to come,
who feel that money is
more important than air,
more important that water,
more important than the future,
more important than anything else
including the fact that
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
Instead,
it revolves around those brave enough
to take on the system,
who strive to prove that justice for some
should be justice for all
and help to make that possible;
around those who see a need and try to
honestly and with courage
and passion
and compassion
try to solve it,
around those who see those
whom life has dealt harshly with
and who still struggle to stand up and fight
and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,
around those who see the hunger
and strive to feed;
who see the abuse
and try to end it;
who see the hurt
and try to heal it;
and then, only then,
if you have the courage
to instigate this revolution,
then and only then will
the revolution involve and revolve around you.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.
Friday, September 28, 2018
WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW
WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2018
I
For years,
my ex and I lived for the weekends.
Unemployed for months,
living in the house next door
to his parents,
a house they'd inherited,
he'd finally found work,
bringing in a weekly paycheck –
pittance, though it was –
when combined with
food stamps and
no rent,
it paid the bills, if just barely.
Friday,
after work,
we'd gather the kids,
pile into the car,
and go to the nearest Albertson's,
a farther drive than
the Winn Dixie,
but newer and cleaner.
After the weekly shopping,
reminiscent of going to the A&P
as a child
with my parents on Fridays,
we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's
for dinner,
always a treat.
Burgers, fries and sodas,
a big deal for the kids,
and no cooking or clean up,
a big deal for me.
Every week,
we'd see the same families,
kids in tow,
having Friday fast food dinners,
feeling comfortable enough
for some conversations.
“How was your week?”
“Great, and yours?”
When one family's boys spent too much time
in the rest room,
Mom'd tell the youngest,
“Go tell your brothers
to quit homesteading
if they want to eat.”
We all laughed at that.
Now, years later,
if someone takes too long,
the family code is that
they're homesteading.
We'd watch the sky
across the street
darken in the winter,
stay light in the summer
as we ate.
Then, finished,
we'd tell the other two or three families
we'd see them
the next week.
Gradually,
kids grew, jobs and hours changed,
Albertsons built a new, closer store
that took us closer
to other fast food places.
I wonder about the homesteaders.
II
His parents split,
and the rental became
his mom's home.
She lived with us for a month or so;
you relegated her,
in her own house,
to the utility room.
Finally,
I told her to come inside.
You lost a job,
found another,
lost it,
found another.
In desperation,
I found and took a job
with a future,
and, after a contentious weekend,
moved us out of your mom's house.
She mourned,
wanting us back.
But six people in a 2-bedroom place
was rough.
The rent in the new place
took a third of our income,
then went up more.
I lost my job,
in part because
you were too proud to do
“women's work,”
laundry,
dishes,
cleaning
while I worked full time
and you stayed home,
watching TV and the kids.
A job
revolving around
physical work
required more than three hours of sleep a night,
and catching up on weekends.
You then took a job,
while I stayed home.
III
Three moves later,
you leave to find work out of state,
leaving me to care for four kids.
I find work
while going to school full time.
We move,
and you come back.
You promised to change,
and found a job
you loved
(security in a topless bar).
You spent weekends at
the flea market,
and took a job there,
working with a friend,
running errands while he ran the booth,
helping him sell radios and such.
The security job failed,
and the flea market was your main job,
paid $100 a week.
Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –
his first –
making almost as much
as you on weekends.
Finally, the stress of
work,
kids,
not enough money,
too much rent,
and other nonsense too its toll.
We had to move again.
IV
Every place we looked,
they'd rent to me,
even with four kids and a dog.
But you'd somehow jinx the deal.
Finally, you checked with a rental place.
“Sorry, you don't make enough,”
the man told you.
Our income was $20 a month shy
of 1/3 the rent,
which meant they wouldn't
rent to you.
The next day,
I took off from both jobs and school,
went to the rental agency
and fast-talked the same man
into handing me keys
to two houses.
“Take your pick,” he told me.
I picked one,
paid the rent and deposit,
and had us in the next day.
You lost,
found,
lost,
found
several dead-end jobs,
finally finding one you loved
only when I'd
asked you to leave.
With your own place to rent –
a cheap efficiency –
you made do.
I took a job driving cab,
took a few days off
when you died –
the job had no health insurance,
which meant you neglected your health –
then worked hard,
long,
12-hour days.
Met another driver
who knew how to treat a lady.
He'd nursed his late wife,
a waitress in several diners,
when her cancer showed up,
was cured,
then came back.
A man who'll care for
a dying wife
is a real man.
We married eight years after her death,
three years after my divorce,
and your death.
We both worked,
then had to quit
when our eyesight
started to fail.
I cared for him
as he'd cared for her
during his final years.
V
Working class life
is so much harder than
life for the rich.
The hours are long,
the pay is crap,
the rents are high,
the little bit of Obamacare
is being pulled away
by the obscenely rich,
making health care hard to come by.
It's the working poor's work
that has built up the rich,
built on our backs,
giving them their life
as they pull aways ours.
Someday –
probably soon –
the revolution will knock
the crap out of those rich who don't care.
Be forewarned.
This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2018
I
For years,
my ex and I lived for the weekends.
Unemployed for months,
living in the house next door
to his parents,
a house they'd inherited,
he'd finally found work,
bringing in a weekly paycheck –
pittance, though it was –
when combined with
food stamps and
no rent,
it paid the bills, if just barely.
Friday,
after work,
we'd gather the kids,
pile into the car,
and go to the nearest Albertson's,
a farther drive than
the Winn Dixie,
but newer and cleaner.
After the weekly shopping,
reminiscent of going to the A&P
as a child
with my parents on Fridays,
we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's
for dinner,
always a treat.
Burgers, fries and sodas,
a big deal for the kids,
and no cooking or clean up,
a big deal for me.
Every week,
we'd see the same families,
kids in tow,
having Friday fast food dinners,
feeling comfortable enough
for some conversations.
“How was your week?”
“Great, and yours?”
When one family's boys spent too much time
in the rest room,
Mom'd tell the youngest,
“Go tell your brothers
to quit homesteading
if they want to eat.”
We all laughed at that.
Now, years later,
if someone takes too long,
the family code is that
they're homesteading.
We'd watch the sky
across the street
darken in the winter,
stay light in the summer
as we ate.
Then, finished,
we'd tell the other two or three families
we'd see them
the next week.
Gradually,
kids grew, jobs and hours changed,
Albertsons built a new, closer store
that took us closer
to other fast food places.
I wonder about the homesteaders.
II
His parents split,
and the rental became
his mom's home.
She lived with us for a month or so;
you relegated her,
in her own house,
to the utility room.
Finally,
I told her to come inside.
You lost a job,
found another,
lost it,
found another.
In desperation,
I found and took a job
with a future,
and, after a contentious weekend,
moved us out of your mom's house.
She mourned,
wanting us back.
But six people in a 2-bedroom place
was rough.
The rent in the new place
took a third of our income,
then went up more.
I lost my job,
in part because
you were too proud to do
“women's work,”
laundry,
dishes,
cleaning
while I worked full time
and you stayed home,
watching TV and the kids.
A job
revolving around
physical work
required more than three hours of sleep a night,
and catching up on weekends.
You then took a job,
while I stayed home.
III
Three moves later,
you leave to find work out of state,
leaving me to care for four kids.
I find work
while going to school full time.
We move,
and you come back.
You promised to change,
and found a job
you loved
(security in a topless bar).
You spent weekends at
the flea market,
and took a job there,
working with a friend,
running errands while he ran the booth,
helping him sell radios and such.
The security job failed,
and the flea market was your main job,
paid $100 a week.
Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –
his first –
making almost as much
as you on weekends.
Finally, the stress of
work,
kids,
not enough money,
too much rent,
and other nonsense too its toll.
We had to move again.
IV
Every place we looked,
they'd rent to me,
even with four kids and a dog.
But you'd somehow jinx the deal.
Finally, you checked with a rental place.
“Sorry, you don't make enough,”
the man told you.
Our income was $20 a month shy
of 1/3 the rent,
which meant they wouldn't
rent to you.
The next day,
I took off from both jobs and school,
went to the rental agency
and fast-talked the same man
into handing me keys
to two houses.
“Take your pick,” he told me.
I picked one,
paid the rent and deposit,
and had us in the next day.
You lost,
found,
lost,
found
several dead-end jobs,
finally finding one you loved
only when I'd
asked you to leave.
With your own place to rent –
a cheap efficiency –
you made do.
I took a job driving cab,
took a few days off
when you died –
the job had no health insurance,
which meant you neglected your health –
then worked hard,
long,
12-hour days.
Met another driver
who knew how to treat a lady.
He'd nursed his late wife,
a waitress in several diners,
when her cancer showed up,
was cured,
then came back.
A man who'll care for
a dying wife
is a real man.
We married eight years after her death,
three years after my divorce,
and your death.
We both worked,
then had to quit
when our eyesight
started to fail.
I cared for him
as he'd cared for her
during his final years.
V
Working class life
is so much harder than
life for the rich.
The hours are long,
the pay is crap,
the rents are high,
the little bit of Obamacare
is being pulled away
by the obscenely rich,
making health care hard to come by.
It's the working poor's work
that has built up the rich,
built on our backs,
giving them their life
as they pull aways ours.
Someday –
probably soon –
the revolution will knock
the crap out of those rich who don't care.
Be forewarned.
This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.
Thursday, September 27, 2018
THE WHISPER
THE WHISPER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
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.
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.
Friday, September 7, 2018
TURN LOOSE MY HEART
TURN LOOSE MY HEART
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Turn loose my heart.
Your love attempts to wrap itself around me
like a vine,
choking my heart and emotions
in its stranglehold.
I have no use for your love.
At least not now,
and probably not ever.
I've been hurt too often
by those claiming to be different,
who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities
committed by those who came before,
all the while planning their next moves,
variations of those same crimes
trying to mask the stench
rising like the fog of their deceit.
And so,
turn loose my heart.
Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love
before I die from an emotional coronary.
Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?
From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1990
Turn loose my heart.
Your love attempts to wrap itself around me
like a vine,
choking my heart and emotions
in its stranglehold.
I have no use for your love.
At least not now,
and probably not ever.
I've been hurt too often
by those claiming to be different,
who "tsk-tsk" at atrocities
committed by those who came before,
all the while planning their next moves,
variations of those same crimes
trying to mask the stench
rising like the fog of their deceit.
And so,
turn loose my heart.
Let me chop away the vine of your alleged love
before I die from an emotional coronary.
Haven't we all felt this way, when someone who is too intense, needy, or just plain wrong reaches for us?
From my collection titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publisher.
Monday, August 27, 2018
PASSION AND A GOOD MAN
PASSION AND A GOOD MAN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I want Passion and a good man.
Yes, I know that seems
a contradiction in terms,
but that is what I want.
And yet,
when I think of Passion,
I think of colorful men -
in blue jeans and flannel,
who clean up nicely,
dressing up in Armani suits,
or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,
but still colorful in their passion,
men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,
who have no fear of
tender candle-lit dinners on the beach
under the stars,
the waves crashing nearby,
followed by a night of
exhausting
exhilarating passion.
And yet,
these are the same ones
who seem destined to walk in the morning,
heading out the door,
no questions or explanations.
Flip side
are the good men,
the ones with the eager smiles
and have-to-please-you attitudes,
who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub
would be their pleasure,
and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,
their boyish smiles
and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.
A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,
keeping her safe,
without leaving her in the morning.
But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.
If I ever find him...
This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I want Passion and a good man.
Yes, I know that seems
a contradiction in terms,
but that is what I want.
And yet,
when I think of Passion,
I think of colorful men -
in blue jeans and flannel,
who clean up nicely,
dressing up in Armani suits,
or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,
but still colorful in their passion,
men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,
who have no fear of
tender candle-lit dinners on the beach
under the stars,
the waves crashing nearby,
followed by a night of
exhausting
exhilarating passion.
And yet,
these are the same ones
who seem destined to walk in the morning,
heading out the door,
no questions or explanations.
Flip side
are the good men,
the ones with the eager smiles
and have-to-please-you attitudes,
who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub
would be their pleasure,
and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,
their boyish smiles
and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.
A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,
keeping her safe,
without leaving her in the morning.
But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.
If I ever find him...
This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.
Friday, August 24, 2018
Fini
FINI
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
On a rainy night,
when driving is treacherous,
and the wind howls,
making it impossible to warm up and ward off the chill,
he calls.
Our relationship,
if ever the was one
(of all of a week)
is over.
Fini,
as they say.
He has decided
I am much too difficult.
I laugh –
quietly, to myself,
since it hurts.
The reasons he lists for leaving
are
the reasons he listed for first calling:
I’m a difficult free-spirit,
laughing during a crying-jag.
I seldom misrepresent myself;
this becomes a turn-on-and-off.
I try to warn people right away –
this is how I am,
outrageous,
boisterous,
but prone to meditative silences –
so that I can quickly cut away
the dead weight that might leave
with no interest
on my time unwisely invested.
And yet,
with a single call,
I feel the cold hand grip my heart,
its icy fingers sending chills throughout my being.
He has decided to take his leave
at the most inopportune time,
just when I need his arms around me,
his hand caressing my hair,
a warm blanket of kiss on my forehead,
cheeks,
lower,
his love warming me,
his…
But he calls to let me know it’s over.
I’ve been through this enough to know
not to plead;
in the end,
it will make no difference.
And so,
I let him go,
knowing that,
even as I numb myself
against the cold pain,
someone
someday
may be brave and strong enough to stay.
Most of us, at one time or another, have had a relationship that we thought might be the one but that shortly implodes. No matter how long or short that relationship was, it can be painful. But in the end, when the right person comes along, and sticks around, it can be so much sweeter.
This comes from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
On a rainy night,
when driving is treacherous,
and the wind howls,
making it impossible to warm up and ward off the chill,
he calls.
Our relationship,
if ever the was one
(of all of a week)
is over.
Fini,
as they say.
He has decided
I am much too difficult.
I laugh –
quietly, to myself,
since it hurts.
The reasons he lists for leaving
are
the reasons he listed for first calling:
I’m a difficult free-spirit,
laughing during a crying-jag.
I seldom misrepresent myself;
this becomes a turn-on-and-off.
I try to warn people right away –
this is how I am,
outrageous,
boisterous,
but prone to meditative silences –
so that I can quickly cut away
the dead weight that might leave
with no interest
on my time unwisely invested.
And yet,
with a single call,
I feel the cold hand grip my heart,
its icy fingers sending chills throughout my being.
He has decided to take his leave
at the most inopportune time,
just when I need his arms around me,
his hand caressing my hair,
a warm blanket of kiss on my forehead,
cheeks,
lower,
his love warming me,
his…
But he calls to let me know it’s over.
I’ve been through this enough to know
not to plead;
in the end,
it will make no difference.
And so,
I let him go,
knowing that,
even as I numb myself
against the cold pain,
someone
someday
may be brave and strong enough to stay.
Most of us, at one time or another, have had a relationship that we thought might be the one but that shortly implodes. No matter how long or short that relationship was, it can be painful. But in the end, when the right person comes along, and sticks around, it can be so much sweeter.
This comes from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Fall Afternoon
FALL AFTERNOON
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Fall afternoon.
The season's change snuck up on us
during the night,
catching us only
partially
unawares.
"Temperatures should dip tonight,"
the weatherman said
at eleven
last night.
Summer's heat is gone.
We knew it couldn't last;
the sweltering air was getting old,
anyway.
Soon,
we'll be eating stew
and lots of spaghetti,
putting away the
outdoor grill
for another year.
We go for a walk after dinner,
savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,
making our faces pink
as we smell
the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.
Soon,
the leaves will
go into their magic show,
turning red,
orange,
yellow,
before
falling,
brown,
dead,
to be
raked into piles.
We'll put large potatoes
and corn,
wrapped in foil,
near the bottom of the piles,
and then add a little of our own colors
(red,
orange,
yellow),
dancing into the afternoon air,
warming us (in our sweaters)
as it burns the leaves
and makes the potatoes and corn
into something
almost too good to enjoy.
Except we enjoy it,
wolfing down the food.
(Even the children eat the skins -
the icky skins
they usually leave.)
Ah, the fall,
the smells of the smoke,
the foods,
the leaves rotting after the rains,
the settling of the earth,
the settling in of everything;
the sounds of crunching leaves,
the laughs of trick-or-treat,
the settling house;
the feel of the cooling air,
the rough wool sweaters
and cotton flannel shirts.
The sun
finally
sets
(early)
amid the colors,
and we are ready to relax
inside,
preparing for the days ahead.
This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, August 10, 2018
WINTER
WINTER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Friday, August 3, 2018
Truth
TRUTH
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Why do old refrigerators come
in a variety of colors?
That's fine for
little old ladies
with no family.
Any mother, though, knows this truth:
Buy the white one;
it costs less,
and,
besides,
with kids,
the front is always covered with pictures,
made from finger paints,
crayons,
and markers.
Why pay more for an avocado green
you'll ever see?
Written after looking at a refrigerator covered with kids' art. From Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Why do old refrigerators come
in a variety of colors?
That's fine for
little old ladies
with no family.
Any mother, though, knows this truth:
Buy the white one;
it costs less,
and,
besides,
with kids,
the front is always covered with pictures,
made from finger paints,
crayons,
and markers.
Why pay more for an avocado green
you'll ever see?
Written after looking at a refrigerator covered with kids' art. From Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
LIFE, IT SEEMS
LIFE, IT SEEMS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Life,
it seems,
is what happens to you while you’re
waiting for Something Good to happen.
While you’re waiting for
Dinner out with that Special Someone
in a five-star restaurant,
candles on the table,
the scent of roses in the air,
your best clothes on
(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),
you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,
and, as it cooks
you
clean the bathroom.
And Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you’re
waiting for something exciting to happen.
While you’re waiting for
the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,
giving you the greatest part in the best movie,
earning you Awards galore,
you throw another load of laundry into the washer,
then do the dishes.
And have you notice that
Life is what happens while you wait
for something of Great Importance to happen.
While you wait to discover the cure for:
AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,
thus ensuring a Nobel Prize
(which, of course, is secondary),
you put out the garbage
and mow the lawn.
Life,
it seems,
is what happens while you
wait for something wonderful to happen.
Unless,
of course,
you plan for it in advance.
Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
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.
Monday, July 30, 2018
EVEN IN DESOLATION
EVEN IN DESOLATION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Even in desolation,
I know there’s life.
In the dust bowl of my emotions,
where all my tears have burned
the flowering vegetation off
and made a mockery of joy,
is the whoosh of wind
blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing
in the dusty
gritty storm.
My entire being feels picked clean
like the skeletal remains of
a buffalo left to die in the desert;
the sensation is wholly complete,
leaving me completely disconnected.
My withered spirit craves
water,
food,
colors of the spectrum.
And yet,
even in desolation,
I know that there is life.
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, 1995
Even in desolation,
I know there’s life.
In the dust bowl of my emotions,
where all my tears have burned
the flowering vegetation off
and made a mockery of joy,
is the whoosh of wind
blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing
in the dusty
gritty storm.
My entire being feels picked clean
like the skeletal remains of
a buffalo left to die in the desert;
the sensation is wholly complete,
leaving me completely disconnected.
My withered spirit craves
water,
food,
colors of the spectrum.
And yet,
even in desolation,
I know that there is life.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, July 28, 2018
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.
Friday, July 27, 2018
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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
Christmas, 2004
Christmas, 2004
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2004
'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,
Could have been December, certainly not May.
The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey
on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.
I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2004
'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,
Could have been December, certainly not May.
The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey
on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.
I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.
Monday, July 23, 2018
Dress Ups
DRESS UPS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She's dressing up in fancy clothes -
satins, silks, and ancient lace,
high heeled shoes with skinny legs,
lipstick on a pouty face.
This child-like game of dressing up -
"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -
will turn to laughs in later years
(in photos shown to friendly boys).
But now, my little girl and I,
("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)
we're sitting down to lemonade.
(We're pretending that it's tea.)
Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, July 21, 2018
BEACH, AT SUNSET
BEACH, AT SUNSET
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,
I pull myself away
to totally “veg-out” at the beach;
as time
(or fate)
would have it,
I arrive before sunset,
but just barely.
Slowly,
steadily,
the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.
I keep a watchful eye on it
as I walk towards the water’s edge;
once there,
with sandals in hand,
I wade in, ankle deep,
and, following the shoreline,
watch as the sun edges
closer
toward the horizon.
Nearby,
several screaming sea gulls
swoop and dive,
chasing each other around
before settling
on the beach.
A pelican,
large and awkward,
dives for a fish;
at the last second,
it folds up,
looking as though shot,
then with delicate swiftness,
it snatches a fish,
eats and leaves.
It is then that the sun
slowly
sinks
into the Gulf,
looking as though it, too, has been eaten,
consumed by the water.
The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange
as the water becomes a steely gray.
Slowly,
I wander away,
refreshed.
This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,
I pull myself away
to totally “veg-out” at the beach;
as time
(or fate)
would have it,
I arrive before sunset,
but just barely.
Slowly,
steadily,
the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.
I keep a watchful eye on it
as I walk towards the water’s edge;
once there,
with sandals in hand,
I wade in, ankle deep,
and, following the shoreline,
watch as the sun edges
closer
toward the horizon.
Nearby,
several screaming sea gulls
swoop and dive,
chasing each other around
before settling
on the beach.
A pelican,
large and awkward,
dives for a fish;
at the last second,
it folds up,
looking as though shot,
then with delicate swiftness,
it snatches a fish,
eats and leaves.
It is then that the sun
slowly
sinks
into the Gulf,
looking as though it, too, has been eaten,
consumed by the water.
The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange
as the water becomes a steely gray.
Slowly,
I wander away,
refreshed.
This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, July 19, 2018
Circles
CIRCLES
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, July 12, 2018
NIGHT SONGS
NIGHT SONGS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
ELENA, 1985
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.
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.
Saturday, July 7, 2018
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.
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.
Friday, July 6, 2018
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, July 5, 2018
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.
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.
Monday, July 2, 2018
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.
Friday, June 29, 2018
WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW
WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2018
I
For years,
my ex and I lived for the weekends.
Unemployed for months,
living in the house next door
to his parents,
a house they'd inherited,
he'd finally found work,
bringing in a weekly paycheck –
pittance, though it was –
when combined with
food stamps and
no rent,
it paid the bills, if just barely.
Friday,
after work,
we'd gather the kids,
pile into the car,
and go to the nearest Albertson's,
a farther drive than
the Winn Dixie,
but newer and cleaner.
After the weekly shopping,
reminiscent of going to the A&P
as a child
with my parents on Fridays,
we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's
for dinner,
always a treat.
Burgers, fries and sodas,
a big deal for the kids,
and no cooking or clean up,
a big deal for me.
Every week,
we'd see the same families,
kids in tow,
having Friday fast food dinners,
feeling comfortable enough
for some conversations.
“How was your week?”
“Great, and yours?”
When one family's boys spent too much time
in the rest room,
Mom'd tell the youngest,
“Go tell your brothers
to quit homesteading
if they want to eat.”
We all laughed at that.
Now, years later,
if someone takes too long,
the family code is that
they're homesteading.
We'd watch the sky
across the street
darken in the winter,
stay light in the summer
as we ate.
Then, finished,
we'd tell the other two or three families
we'd see them
the next week.
Gradually,
kids grew, jobs and hours changed,
Albertsons built a new, closer store
that took us closer
to other fast food places.
I wonder about the homesteaders.
II
His parents split,
and the rental became
his mom's home.
She lived with us for a month or so;
you relegated her,
in her own house,
to the utility room.
Finally,
I told her to come inside.
You lost a job,
found another,
lost it,
found another.
In desperation,
I found and took a job
with a future,
and, after a contentious weekend,
moved us out of your mom's house.
She mourned,
wanting us back.
But six people in a 2-bedroom place
was rough.
The rent in the new place
took a third of our income,
then went up more.
I lost my job,
in part because
you were too proud to do
“women's work,”
laundry,
dishes,
cleaning
while I worked full time
and you stayed home,
watching TV and the kids.
A job
revolving around
physical work
required more than three hours of sleep a night,
and catching up on weekends.
You then took a job,
while I stayed home.
III
Three moves later,
you leave to find work out of state,
leaving me to care for four kids.
I find work
while going to school full time.
We move,
and you come back.
You promised to change,
and found a job
you loved
(security in a topless bar).
You spent weekends at
the flea market,
and took a job there,
working with a friend,
running errands while he ran the booth,
helping him sell radios and such.
The security job failed,
and the flea market was your main job,
paid $100 a week.
Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –
his first –
making almost as much
as you on weekends.
Finally, the stress of
work,
kids,
not enough money,
too much rent,
and other nonsense too its toll.
We had to move again.
IV
Every place we looked,
they'd rent to me,
even with four kids and a dog.
But you'd somehow jinx the deal.
Finally, you checked with a rental place.
“Sorry, you don't make enough,”
the man told you.
Our income was $20 a month shy
of 1/3 the rent,
which meant they wouldn't
rent to you.
The next day,
I took off from both jobs and school,
went to the rental agency
and fast-talked the same man
into handing me keys
to two houses.
“Take your pick,” he told me.
I picked one,
paid the rent and deposit,
and had us in the next day.
You lost,
found,
lost,
found
several dead-end jobs,
finally finding one you loved
only when I'd
asked you to leave.
With your own place to rent –
a cheap efficiency –
you made do.
I took a job driving cab,
took a few days off
when you died –
the job had no health insurance,
which meant you neglected your health –
then worked hard,
long,
12-hour days.
Met another driver
who knew how to treat a lady.
He'd nursed his late wife,
a waitress in several diners,
when her cancer showed up,
was cured,
then came back.
A man who'll care for
a dying wife
is a real man.
We married eight years after her death,
three years after my divorce,
and your death.
We both worked,
then had to quit
when our eyesight
started to fail.
I cared for him
as he'd cared for her
during his final years.
V
Working class life
is so much harder than
life for the rich.
The hours are long,
the pay is crap,
the rents are high,
the little bit of Obamacare
is being pulled away
by the obscenely rich,
making health care hard to come by.
It's the working poor's work
that has built up the rich,
built on our backs,
giving them their life
as they pull aways ours.
Someday –
probably soon –
the revolution will knock
the crap out of those rich who don't care.
Be forewarned.
This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2018
I
For years,
my ex and I lived for the weekends.
Unemployed for months,
living in the house next door
to his parents,
a house they'd inherited,
he'd finally found work,
bringing in a weekly paycheck –
pittance, though it was –
when combined with
food stamps and
no rent,
it paid the bills, if just barely.
Friday,
after work,
we'd gather the kids,
pile into the car,
and go to the nearest Albertson's,
a farther drive than
the Winn Dixie,
but newer and cleaner.
After the weekly shopping,
reminiscent of going to the A&P
as a child
with my parents on Fridays,
we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's
for dinner,
always a treat.
Burgers, fries and sodas,
a big deal for the kids,
and no cooking or clean up,
a big deal for me.
Every week,
we'd see the same families,
kids in tow,
having Friday fast food dinners,
feeling comfortable enough
for some conversations.
“How was your week?”
“Great, and yours?”
When one family's boys spent too much time
in the rest room,
Mom'd tell the youngest,
“Go tell your brothers
to quit homesteading
if they want to eat.”
We all laughed at that.
Now, years later,
if someone takes too long,
the family code is that
they're homesteading.
We'd watch the sky
across the street
darken in the winter,
stay light in the summer
as we ate.
Then, finished,
we'd tell the other two or three families
we'd see them
the next week.
Gradually,
kids grew, jobs and hours changed,
Albertsons built a new, closer store
that took us closer
to other fast food places.
I wonder about the homesteaders.
II
His parents split,
and the rental became
his mom's home.
She lived with us for a month or so;
you relegated her,
in her own house,
to the utility room.
Finally,
I told her to come inside.
You lost a job,
found another,
lost it,
found another.
In desperation,
I found and took a job
with a future,
and, after a contentious weekend,
moved us out of your mom's house.
She mourned,
wanting us back.
But six people in a 2-bedroom place
was rough.
The rent in the new place
took a third of our income,
then went up more.
I lost my job,
in part because
you were too proud to do
“women's work,”
laundry,
dishes,
cleaning
while I worked full time
and you stayed home,
watching TV and the kids.
A job
revolving around
physical work
required more than three hours of sleep a night,
and catching up on weekends.
You then took a job,
while I stayed home.
III
Three moves later,
you leave to find work out of state,
leaving me to care for four kids.
I find work
while going to school full time.
We move,
and you come back.
You promised to change,
and found a job
you loved
(security in a topless bar).
You spent weekends at
the flea market,
and took a job there,
working with a friend,
running errands while he ran the booth,
helping him sell radios and such.
The security job failed,
and the flea market was your main job,
paid $100 a week.
Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –
his first –
making almost as much
as you on weekends.
Finally, the stress of
work,
kids,
not enough money,
too much rent,
and other nonsense too its toll.
We had to move again.
IV
Every place we looked,
they'd rent to me,
even with four kids and a dog.
But you'd somehow jinx the deal.
Finally, you checked with a rental place.
“Sorry, you don't make enough,”
the man told you.
Our income was $20 a month shy
of 1/3 the rent,
which meant they wouldn't
rent to you.
The next day,
I took off from both jobs and school,
went to the rental agency
and fast-talked the same man
into handing me keys
to two houses.
“Take your pick,” he told me.
I picked one,
paid the rent and deposit,
and had us in the next day.
You lost,
found,
lost,
found
several dead-end jobs,
finally finding one you loved
only when I'd
asked you to leave.
With your own place to rent –
a cheap efficiency –
you made do.
I took a job driving cab,
took a few days off
when you died –
the job had no health insurance,
which meant you neglected your health –
then worked hard,
long,
12-hour days.
Met another driver
who knew how to treat a lady.
He'd nursed his late wife,
a waitress in several diners,
when her cancer showed up,
was cured,
then came back.
A man who'll care for
a dying wife
is a real man.
We married eight years after her death,
three years after my divorce,
and your death.
We both worked,
then had to quit
when our eyesight
started to fail.
I cared for him
as he'd cared for her
during his final years.
V
Working class life
is so much harder than
life for the rich.
The hours are long,
the pay is crap,
the rents are high,
the little bit of Obamacare
is being pulled away
by the obscenely rich,
making health care hard to come by.
It's the working poor's work
that has built up the rich,
built on our backs,
giving them their life
as they pull aways ours.
Someday –
probably soon –
the revolution will knock
the crap out of those rich who don't care.
Be forewarned.
This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Trail, Early Evening
Trail, Early Evening
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Evening walks are the counter-point to those in the early morning.
Mornings feel fresh;
the day's heat hasn't made the air
too oppressive,
except in August.
But evening walks are better for unwinding,
decompressing from the day.
I follow my usual path,
heading south to the end of the street
then head cross-country.
Going through the park's back entrance,
the sounds and sights of little league games explode nearby.
Cheers, shouts,
the loud tink! tink! of ball on aluminum bats resounds
from adjacent diamonds.
On the other side of the ditch,
the stable's owner exits the bad, heading for the pastures.
Horses standing by gates
stomp and whinny,
toss heads
as they wait their turn to head inside.
I get to the avenue as a car passes,
slows,
then turns into the townhouse community.
On the dirt path,
ditch now on the right,
townhouses beyond,
the light is different.
Sun's rays dappling trees' leaves
between townhouses and ditch.
A light is on in the dining/living room
of one of the townhouses,
one of the few with the blinds open
during the day.
An old couple,
white haired heads touching,
sitting at their dinner table,
watching game shows.
A middle-aged woman –
their daughter, maybe? –
brings their plates,
kisses the top of their heads,
then,
grabbing a mug,
sits beside them.
I head farther down the dirt road.
A woman,
sitting on the porch swing of the fenced-in house on the left,
looks up and waves.
Farther still,
past the house,
the woods' shadows deepen.
On the right,
beyond the ditch,
the community's back wall
separates townhouses from another stable.
A man is exercising a horse.
I haven't seen him riding
for more than a year,
since he finished taking
Saturday morning riding lessons.
Another horse stands in a grazing area
between exercise area and barn.
It looks over,
whinnies,
goes back to grazing.
I turn back,
past woods,
fenced-in yard,
woman still readying on the porch,
past townhouses,
where the older couple and their daughter
laugh over something,
the happy sound wafting through the air.
Cross the street,
now on the same side of the ditch as the stable,
opposite the park.
The owner,
her sister,
and several others
are bringing horses in,
feeding them,
talking over the low sound of a radio,
playing a country-western tune.
There is a path near my house that I frequently use for my walks/runs/bike rides. This poem was written on 4/16/14 after an evening walk that inspired this.
There's a very definite difference in the feel of an evening walk or run compared to doing the same in the morning, as many people will attest to. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Evening walks are the counter-point to those in the early morning.
Mornings feel fresh;
the day's heat hasn't made the air
too oppressive,
except in August.
But evening walks are better for unwinding,
decompressing from the day.
I follow my usual path,
heading south to the end of the street
then head cross-country.
Going through the park's back entrance,
the sounds and sights of little league games explode nearby.
Cheers, shouts,
the loud tink! tink! of ball on aluminum bats resounds
from adjacent diamonds.
On the other side of the ditch,
the stable's owner exits the bad, heading for the pastures.
Horses standing by gates
stomp and whinny,
toss heads
as they wait their turn to head inside.
I get to the avenue as a car passes,
slows,
then turns into the townhouse community.
On the dirt path,
ditch now on the right,
townhouses beyond,
the light is different.
Sun's rays dappling trees' leaves
between townhouses and ditch.
A light is on in the dining/living room
of one of the townhouses,
one of the few with the blinds open
during the day.
An old couple,
white haired heads touching,
sitting at their dinner table,
watching game shows.
A middle-aged woman –
their daughter, maybe? –
brings their plates,
kisses the top of their heads,
then,
grabbing a mug,
sits beside them.
I head farther down the dirt road.
A woman,
sitting on the porch swing of the fenced-in house on the left,
looks up and waves.
Farther still,
past the house,
the woods' shadows deepen.
On the right,
beyond the ditch,
the community's back wall
separates townhouses from another stable.
A man is exercising a horse.
I haven't seen him riding
for more than a year,
since he finished taking
Saturday morning riding lessons.
Another horse stands in a grazing area
between exercise area and barn.
It looks over,
whinnies,
goes back to grazing.
I turn back,
past woods,
fenced-in yard,
woman still readying on the porch,
past townhouses,
where the older couple and their daughter
laugh over something,
the happy sound wafting through the air.
Cross the street,
now on the same side of the ditch as the stable,
opposite the park.
The owner,
her sister,
and several others
are bringing horses in,
feeding them,
talking over the low sound of a radio,
playing a country-western tune.
There is a path near my house that I frequently use for my walks/runs/bike rides. This poem was written on 4/16/14 after an evening walk that inspired this.
There's a very definite difference in the feel of an evening walk or run compared to doing the same in the morning, as many people will attest to. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
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. 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. 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.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
WORDS UNSPOKEN
WORDS UNSPOKEN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Grandma spoke a lot.
"Marie is doing better today."
"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,
static crackling and snapping,
"Was she ill?"
"Just a cold."
Grandma spent the springs with us.
By then, the snow was old.
"I need a change."
Which meant, "I'd love to see you."
She'd buy the kids clothes,
giving them out,
watching the smiles.
"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!
Baseball mitts!" Whatever the
occasion said.
"It's only money," she'd reply,
eyes sparkling.
The look said love.
As relations drifted,
shifted,
changed,
she alone said,
"If you love him, stay.
But if you love him better apart,
go.
It's up to you. Alone."
Meaning, "I'll love you either way."
The last spring,
the last week,
she said,
"You'll love being alone again.
You'll love having your own space;
to see me go."
This after a tense afternoon,
us dancing back and forth,
stomach in knots.
"You'll be glad to be home,"
I replied.
"Trips are nice; so's home."
She smiled;
I did, too.
Air cleared,
we came to a loving,
uneasy,
funny tender
truce.
December,
she began talking trips.
"March'll be here soon," she stated,
the line dancing with distance.
"So will you," I replied.
"How's Marie?"
"Better today."
"See you soon."
"Definitely. In March."
"March."
The phone clicked off and,
for a moment,
I listened to the
thin, faraway sound
on the line.
March came,
along with the mail.
"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"
said the note inside the box.
Her wedding ring -
initials inside, a date.
"She always spoke of you with love."
Marie had signed the note.
Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
Friday, June 22, 2018
"The Revolution Will Not Revolve Around You"
“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
people without jobs who want to work
who need to work
who strive to work
who’ve given up trying to work
within a system that strives to keep them down
while saying “no more safety net”
while letting children go hungry
while giving themselves humungous raises
and building more bombs and guns
to keep the underclass under them
but
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
the child who cries herself to sleep after a day
of abuse and neglect
while the child lovingly corrected cries
after being removed from home
and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,
who questions what he sees,
who questions the system,
who questions the questions,
who questions why,
and when and where and what and who
but
The revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses
don’t buy into what their
children and grandchildren will breath,
drink or eat in the years to come,
who feel that money is
more important than air,
more important that water,
more important than the future,
more important than anything else
including the fact that
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
Instead,
it revolves around those brave enough
to take on the system,
who strive to prove that justice for some
should be justice for all
and help to make that possible;
around those who see a need and try to
honestly and with courage
and passion
and compassion
try to solve it,
around those who see those
whom life has dealt harshly with
and who still struggle to stand up and fight
and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,
around those who see the hunger
and strive to feed;
who see the abuse
and try to end it;
who see the hurt
and try to heal it;
and then, only then,
if you have the courage
to instigate this revolution,
then and only then will
the revolution involve and revolve around you.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
people without jobs who want to work
who need to work
who strive to work
who’ve given up trying to work
within a system that strives to keep them down
while saying “no more safety net”
while letting children go hungry
while giving themselves humungous raises
and building more bombs and guns
to keep the underclass under them
but
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
the child who cries herself to sleep after a day
of abuse and neglect
while the child lovingly corrected cries
after being removed from home
and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,
who questions what he sees,
who questions the system,
who questions the questions,
who questions why,
and when and where and what and who
but
The revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses
don’t buy into what their
children and grandchildren will breath,
drink or eat in the years to come,
who feel that money is
more important than air,
more important that water,
more important than the future,
more important than anything else
including the fact that
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
Instead,
it revolves around those brave enough
to take on the system,
who strive to prove that justice for some
should be justice for all
and help to make that possible;
around those who see a need and try to
honestly and with courage
and passion
and compassion
try to solve it,
around those who see those
whom life has dealt harshly with
and who still struggle to stand up and fight
and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,
around those who see the hunger
and strive to feed;
who see the abuse
and try to end it;
who see the hurt
and try to heal it;
and then, only then,
if you have the courage
to instigate this revolution,
then and only then will
the revolution involve and revolve around you.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, June 21, 2018
RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP
RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Sitting here,
on a stool,
in a coffee shop,
watching the rain
snaking down the window,
pouring down,
smacking hard the road,
I feel disconnected,
vaguely alone,
while utterly attuned with all of life.
The dream-like state I’m zoned into
is like an old movie
black-and-white
Casablanca, maybe,
or something of that caliber.
Inside the shop is cocoon warm,
fogging the windows
slightly
which,
along with the rain
slithering down the windows,
makes the passing world appear surreal,
in a wavy
watery way.
A woman attempting to cross the street
carries packages
and a large umbrella;
it resembles a large flower:
ochre and gold in the center,
orange petals radiating to keep one dry,
while the bright green handle
is anchored to her hand.
People,
scurrying up and down the sidewalks
and across the streets,
are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb
over everyday clothes,
while long black, brown and grey trench coats
protect business suits.
A small child pulls loose from a parental hand
long enough to stomp and kick
splashingly
in a puddle.
Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,
mains and alleys,
avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,
trying not to
slip
sloshingly
skid and
slide.
The various shades of grey
are like wet velvet
and water colors dripping off the pages,
streaks sliding down the glass,
dark around the edges,
lighter, soft and warm near the centers.
Slowly,
as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon
deepens into twilight,
bright and deep neon lights flicker
on
off
and finally
solidly
on,
their reflections dancing,
shimmering,
waving,
in the puddles,
pools
and wetness,
sensuous reds,
emerald greens,
passionate purples,
royal blues.
Cars haltingly
stop
and
startingly
inch
then
surge
along the roads,
headlights and taillights leaving long reflections
ahead and behind.
I lean towards the window
by the booth I sit at,
blow a puff of air,
fogging a patchy circle,
quickly drawing a flower
before it fades;
then,
leaning back,
I take a long
warm
drink of steamy cappuccino.
It’s amazing how cocooned
you can feel
on a rainy colorful wet day like this.
I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Sitting here,
on a stool,
in a coffee shop,
watching the rain
snaking down the window,
pouring down,
smacking hard the road,
I feel disconnected,
vaguely alone,
while utterly attuned with all of life.
The dream-like state I’m zoned into
is like an old movie
black-and-white
Casablanca, maybe,
or something of that caliber.
Inside the shop is cocoon warm,
fogging the windows
slightly
which,
along with the rain
slithering down the windows,
makes the passing world appear surreal,
in a wavy
watery way.
A woman attempting to cross the street
carries packages
and a large umbrella;
it resembles a large flower:
ochre and gold in the center,
orange petals radiating to keep one dry,
while the bright green handle
is anchored to her hand.
People,
scurrying up and down the sidewalks
and across the streets,
are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb
over everyday clothes,
while long black, brown and grey trench coats
protect business suits.
A small child pulls loose from a parental hand
long enough to stomp and kick
splashingly
in a puddle.
Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,
mains and alleys,
avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,
trying not to
slip
sloshingly
skid and
slide.
The various shades of grey
are like wet velvet
and water colors dripping off the pages,
streaks sliding down the glass,
dark around the edges,
lighter, soft and warm near the centers.
Slowly,
as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon
deepens into twilight,
bright and deep neon lights flicker
on
off
and finally
solidly
on,
their reflections dancing,
shimmering,
waving,
in the puddles,
pools
and wetness,
sensuous reds,
emerald greens,
passionate purples,
royal blues.
Cars haltingly
stop
and
startingly
inch
then
surge
along the roads,
headlights and taillights leaving long reflections
ahead and behind.
I lean towards the window
by the booth I sit at,
blow a puff of air,
fogging a patchy circle,
quickly drawing a flower
before it fades;
then,
leaning back,
I take a long
warm
drink of steamy cappuccino.
It’s amazing how cocooned
you can feel
on a rainy colorful wet day like this.
I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.
Thursday, May 24, 2018
The Whisper
THE WHISPER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I am loud.
I love vibrant colors -
Pillarbox red, midnight blue,
emerald green, splashy yellow,
in-your-face orange,
and sounds so colorful,
they make your heart dance
like a whirling kite in a
high wind,
bobbing,
dipping -
flutes, wind, laughter.
The down side
is loving rainy days,
where the only color
is gray,
with the neon signs
reflecting off the
wet pavement,
and the wind howls
as it drives the downpour,
gusting across the road,
slapping legs and back.
I am loud,
and love extremes,
usually the intense,
boisterous ones.
And when I met the
man I love,
how did he call to me?
He whispered.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
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, May 21, 2018
Peace/Love Rap
Peace/Love Rap
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
They’re all sons-of-bitches,
or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is
the better term for those who hate
and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.
The politicians and too many preachers
act like they’re the only teachers
worthy to be listened to and for us to follow
when all along, their souls are hollow,
left without love that they were brought up with,
so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.
Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,
they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.
You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,
‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,
nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.
There’s people who need, people in pain,
and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.
Get out of yourself and learn the same
love and peace that the great ones taught us,
who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.
They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,
Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.
And if you forget and just give token speech
and tell us the good life is out of reach
and that only those with money can live a good life,
then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife
when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting
when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.
We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:
to control our destinies, be safe all nights,
to learn as much as we possibly can
and have acceptance for our fellow man.
And remember, too, that women are the same;
we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.
Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,
unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’
for comfort in bed and for your meals
if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,
how we think and how we are are all the same,
so get over that tired misogyny game.
Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;
God made us the same, whether you choose
to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,
doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler
that you really want that love and peace that frees us,
from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.
So if you’re gonna talk the talk,
get real and show you can walk the walk.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Live peace. Live love.
Live peace. Live love.
Teach peace. Teach love.
Be peace. Be love.
The end.
From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
They’re all sons-of-bitches,
or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is
the better term for those who hate
and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.
The politicians and too many preachers
act like they’re the only teachers
worthy to be listened to and for us to follow
when all along, their souls are hollow,
left without love that they were brought up with,
so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.
Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,
they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.
You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,
‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,
nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.
There’s people who need, people in pain,
and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.
Get out of yourself and learn the same
love and peace that the great ones taught us,
who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.
They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,
Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.
And if you forget and just give token speech
and tell us the good life is out of reach
and that only those with money can live a good life,
then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife
when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting
when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.
We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:
to control our destinies, be safe all nights,
to learn as much as we possibly can
and have acceptance for our fellow man.
And remember, too, that women are the same;
we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.
Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,
unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’
for comfort in bed and for your meals
if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,
how we think and how we are are all the same,
so get over that tired misogyny game.
Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;
God made us the same, whether you choose
to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,
doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler
that you really want that love and peace that frees us,
from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.
So if you’re gonna talk the talk,
get real and show you can walk the walk.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Live peace. Live love.
Live peace. Live love.
Teach peace. Teach love.
Be peace. Be love.
The end.
From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
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