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.
Tuesday, January 30, 2018
Monday, January 22, 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.
Saturday, January 20, 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.
Friday, January 19, 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.
Wednesday, January 17, 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.
Monday, January 15, 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.
Sunday, January 14, 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, January 12, 2018
I WILL NOT BE SILENCED
I WILL NOT BE SILENCED
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I will not be silenced.
You can try to quiet me
in any number of ways,
gently reasoning
through which I hear the
undercurrents of threats
(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”
to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,
people get angry.” You retort,
“Bitch.”),
followed by blatant threats
and strong-arm tactics.
But -
I will not be silenced.
Close my mouth,
my actions will scream.
Shut my eyes;
my soul will see.
Plug my ears;
my heart will hear.
You can not quiet me.
Worse men have tried.
Only justice will tame my shouts;
only peace will calm my rantings;
only true love will settle me
without trying to master.
Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.
But, even a whisper is a sound,
so,
I will not be silenced.
Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”
From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I will not be silenced.
You can try to quiet me
in any number of ways,
gently reasoning
through which I hear the
undercurrents of threats
(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”
to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,
people get angry.” You retort,
“Bitch.”),
followed by blatant threats
and strong-arm tactics.
But -
I will not be silenced.
Close my mouth,
my actions will scream.
Shut my eyes;
my soul will see.
Plug my ears;
my heart will hear.
You can not quiet me.
Worse men have tried.
Only justice will tame my shouts;
only peace will calm my rantings;
only true love will settle me
without trying to master.
Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.
But, even a whisper is a sound,
so,
I will not be silenced.
Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”
From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, January 11, 2018
In Absentia
In Absentia
for Mom
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
I used to write for my mother.
It was something that connected us,
first as Mother/daughter,
later as writers,
then as...
well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.
Relationships can be confusing, complicated.
As a child, I knew writing was important.
It was something Mom did.
As a 1950s mom,
when women weren't supposed to work
if they were married to a middle-class man
she found her Bachelor's in English
from St. Lawrence University where she met my father
to be a luxury:
Enough to make her think
while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.
Even as I write that, I wonder:
Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,
or did she,
like so many other women of her generation and class,
wish for more, but do what was expected?
I can still see Mom at her desk,
tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,
typing out stories on her manual typewriter,
building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.
While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,
I'd type out short stories, too.
They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,
barely covering a page of type.
Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,
having a child typing away,
using these resources,
I now realize was an act of love.
Later, after my parents' divorce,
I mourned not seeing my father more,
relating more to him than Mom.
But I still wrote.
After moving out on my own,
I'd show Mom my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
We were never as close as Dad and I were.
“Why can't you be more like your sister?”
was a common reframe.
My sister, the good one.
But even that's not fair,
to either of us.
Mom and I spoke less,
until she moved.
Slowly, I started sending her my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
Slowly, it came.
“This one's good,” she'd say
after reading my latest offering.
After Dad's death,
mourned by step-mom,
me,
and mom,
Mom and I spoke more.
I sent her more writings,
trying for at least once a week.
Every day,
I'd go for a walk,
then write a poem about what I saw.
These I'd send her
sometime during the week.
“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.
I loved the praise,
and kept the writing coming.
It gave me a reason to keep writing
while trying for my first sale.
Mom passed in November,
almost two years ago.
No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.
I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”
My uncle,
Mom's older (only) brother,
knows that better than I.
And now I write.
For Mom.
In absentia.
I picture her reading over my shoulder.
Hi, Mom.
(August 19, 2016)
Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from.
for Mom
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
I used to write for my mother.
It was something that connected us,
first as Mother/daughter,
later as writers,
then as...
well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.
Relationships can be confusing, complicated.
As a child, I knew writing was important.
It was something Mom did.
As a 1950s mom,
when women weren't supposed to work
if they were married to a middle-class man
she found her Bachelor's in English
from St. Lawrence University where she met my father
to be a luxury:
Enough to make her think
while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.
Even as I write that, I wonder:
Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,
or did she,
like so many other women of her generation and class,
wish for more, but do what was expected?
I can still see Mom at her desk,
tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,
typing out stories on her manual typewriter,
building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.
While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,
I'd type out short stories, too.
They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,
barely covering a page of type.
Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,
having a child typing away,
using these resources,
I now realize was an act of love.
Later, after my parents' divorce,
I mourned not seeing my father more,
relating more to him than Mom.
But I still wrote.
After moving out on my own,
I'd show Mom my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
We were never as close as Dad and I were.
“Why can't you be more like your sister?”
was a common reframe.
My sister, the good one.
But even that's not fair,
to either of us.
Mom and I spoke less,
until she moved.
Slowly, I started sending her my stories,
my poetry,
hoping for her approval.
Slowly, it came.
“This one's good,” she'd say
after reading my latest offering.
After Dad's death,
mourned by step-mom,
me,
and mom,
Mom and I spoke more.
I sent her more writings,
trying for at least once a week.
Every day,
I'd go for a walk,
then write a poem about what I saw.
These I'd send her
sometime during the week.
“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.
I loved the praise,
and kept the writing coming.
It gave me a reason to keep writing
while trying for my first sale.
Mom passed in November,
almost two years ago.
No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.
I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”
My uncle,
Mom's older (only) brother,
knows that better than I.
And now I write.
For Mom.
In absentia.
I picture her reading over my shoulder.
Hi, Mom.
(August 19, 2016)
Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from.
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