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.

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.

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.

Paul

PAUL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



The time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart

or feeling left inside.

I hide

my fears,

knowing depression here

will be misread by those

whose side

did I

come to see. Though I chose

to see my next of kin,

and I

did fly

to be with them, time when

I should be overjoyed,

I sink

within

myself. Beautiful boy,

red hair, blue eyes, smile pure

a glance,

per chance,

his dad's fair looks, for sure,

mom's temperament, both love,

I see

these three

beautiful ones betrothed.

Soul mates, like us, they need

to be

able

to see our love, stable.

Yet, time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart.

And when, at last, I'm home,

I say

I'll stay,

to share love – not alone.

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

Politics

Politics

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016



I like my morning coffee light

with a sweet roll on the side.

I'd take my whisky sour

but I never want to hide.

There's way too much duplicity

to let the b.s. slide,

Especially with the trash-talkers

trying to take us for a ride.



The first four lines were written a while back, while the remainder was written within later on. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.

THE MOVE OF A FRIEND

THE MOVE OF A FRIEND

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1987



Today, a friend of mine

is moving out of state.

We've both known for months about today,

the date marked on two calendars.

I've known her most of the four years she's been here.

We met during a critical time in our lives:

she was back in school, a mother of two,

I, newly separated, in a new house, with double the kids.

Fate had us go to the same park

for a Labor Day picnic.

Friends immediately,

fast, though maybe not too fierce.

We started out together,

once a week.

Then, somehow, it slowed

as other necessary commitments arose.

Once every six months,

we'd bump into each other

or call,

and catch up

as though our last contact was yesterday.

Yesterday,

we went out for an ice cream,

a needed break from packing for her,

a final time together for us both.

It felt a little funny;

I learned a lot from her,

picked up on her cues for the dance.

I hoped she learned, too, from me,

from my subtleties.

I felt betrayed, somehow, by her leaving.

She was the first friend I picked out

without a husband/parent overhead.

This morning,

I stand on my back porch, a cup of tea in hand.

This porch, house, I moved into a week after I met her.

A lot has happened.

We've talked of children -

we both had ones with major medicals,

so knew the nuances,

the doctors and problems,

pain in a shared way.

She gave me permission to go to school

with her example,

then moved on to a job she loved

that had nothing to do

with her unfinished schooling.

I watch the new grass coming up,

the delicate diamond glitter of dew on the new green.

I'll miss her,

betrayed or not.

Maybe now I'll have permission to move, too.



This was written shortly after a friend moved out of state. We exchanged letters for a year or two after her move, then slowly lost touch as our lives took over. Years later, we found each other again on Facebook, though her posts have almost disappeared. As with Maryann, I wonder how Karen is doing.

This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.