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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.