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.
Friday, January 25, 2019
Thursday, January 24, 2019
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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Friday, January 18, 2019
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.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
MARYANN
MARYANN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2000
I
High school friends,
we were always just a little different
from the crowd.
You were too straight-laced and shy,
hiding in your Catholic girl-school uniform,
not sure if you should
be a nun (too shy for boys, and your love of God)
or go to college to be a librarian
(at least you loved books, too),
me, loud and outrageous,
trapped in an identical uniform,
complaining we had to remain "uniformed"
on "do-your-own-thing" day
(stating, "Right – do your own thing,
but do it my way",
to which you laughed the loudest and
longest).
An unlikely pair, we were,
but locked together in friendship
brought first together by mutual,
if opposite,
"differences" from the crowd.
II
I'm driving home,
watching an incredible sunrise,
while trying to catch up with your bus
before I'm stuck getting off the
"correct" interstate exit,
the last one before the bridge.
I see the bus rounding the
long
sloping curve up ahead,
try to catch up,
but can't –
here's the exit –
you're gone.
You called two weeks ago.
"Is it still okay to visit?"
"Yes, yes," I cry, "please come."
Eighteen years is too, too long to be apart
from friends.
We wrote faithfully for several years –
you telling of college life
(library life suited you),
me telling of various men,
here today,
gone tomorrow,
then marriage to a man
who never quite understood
women's friendship,
a connection from the past
of those "who knew us when",
especially when we were so different.
I loved your quiet,
a calm balm for my spirit,
you loved my outrageousness,
saying it "kickstarted" your laughter.
You flew down,
arriving at our little
nickel-and-dime airport
rather than opting for the bigger one
in the next town.
A pleasant week,
the only problem being when my
car died for two days;
we spent time shuttling
back and forth
by cab
to "rescue" my car
with cash.
Thursday,
we drive into town
for your bus ticket
so you can afford Disney World
before flying back home.
The sights and sounds of the city
delight and excite us;
we are 5 years old
and 105
simultaneously,
talking fast
of "what ifs"
and "remember whens".
Friday,
I'm up at four,
take a fast shower,
then pick you up by 4:30
to take you to the bus terminal
by five.
We sit in silence,
occasionally
commenting on
how short the trip was
how good to see each other,
we mustn't let eighteen years pass by
without a visit.
Then, bus call,
you're on,
and I zap across the street for gas
so I can caravan with you
to my exit.
Darned bus, though,
pulls out while
I'm inside paying
and it takes until my exit
to even pull close.
The sunrise is beautiful.
Did you notice?
III
You visit again.
The two years since your last one went fast.
This time, you chose the big airport.
My car having died,
you're stuck taking a cab here.
This becomes our joke;
car dead? Maryann's on her way for a visit.
You state this happened
while visiting your sister in Missouri, too.
You rent a car for the week,
and let me use it to find a job
after having safely deposited you
at a local tourist park
I couldn't afford but
insisted you see,
since I knew you'd enjoy it.
You did,
your childlike excitement evident
when I picked you up later that day.
We enjoyed the stay.
The last day, we thought maybe
that stress was getting to me,
having to explain for the zillionth time
to the other half
of a dying marriage
about women
and friendship,
and having company.
You take a cab back to Tampa International,
and I take the rental back to
the smaller one,
then catch a ride home.
The next morning,
I call you for two reasons:
how was the flight home,
and the headache wasn't stress –
I'm sick as a dog.
But thank goodness the trip was nice.
IV
Time flies.
We write with news of our mutual lives.
Your brother got a new kidney.
My other half got a new love.
Your brother died.
So did my marriage.
You obtained new books for the library.
I obtained the courage to go back to school.
Then, no word for months.
Finally, I reach you by phone,
after trying for months.
You've been hospitalized,
your brother's death taking tolls
in more ways than just his own.
I talk you through,
encouraging you to take a
small step at a time.
"You will recover," I promise.
"I did."
Things got better, for a while.
Then, nothing.
I've heard no replies to my letters,
no answer on the phone
for over six months.
I'm worried for you.
I hope you're okay.
This was written sometime between the late 1990s-2002 and is part of a book of poetry titled Poetry, Unassigned currently looking for a publisher.
The poem is about my high school friend, Maryann. We'd both felt like out-casts while going to an all-girls Catholic high school in the northeast corner of Connecticut - although during our sophomore year, boys were allowed in. Maryann and I kept in touch for years, writing faithfully, occasionally calling, and then with Maryann - who was still single - visiting a couple of times.
Slowly, the letters stopped, and while I tried writing, there was a gap of several years with no word from her. Finally, I received one letter around 2000 - 2002, which was sadly disjointed in places; I could tell she'd been depressed while writing it. A Christmas or two later, the card I sent was returned, with the postal stamp stating, "Undeliverable; no forwarding address." I still miss hearing from Maryann, and hope that all is well.
A photo of Maryann is on my photography blog, A Year (Or More) Of Photos, taken during one of her trips here. Maryann
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2000
I
High school friends,
we were always just a little different
from the crowd.
You were too straight-laced and shy,
hiding in your Catholic girl-school uniform,
not sure if you should
be a nun (too shy for boys, and your love of God)
or go to college to be a librarian
(at least you loved books, too),
me, loud and outrageous,
trapped in an identical uniform,
complaining we had to remain "uniformed"
on "do-your-own-thing" day
(stating, "Right – do your own thing,
but do it my way",
to which you laughed the loudest and
longest).
An unlikely pair, we were,
but locked together in friendship
brought first together by mutual,
if opposite,
"differences" from the crowd.
II
I'm driving home,
watching an incredible sunrise,
while trying to catch up with your bus
before I'm stuck getting off the
"correct" interstate exit,
the last one before the bridge.
I see the bus rounding the
long
sloping curve up ahead,
try to catch up,
but can't –
here's the exit –
you're gone.
You called two weeks ago.
"Is it still okay to visit?"
"Yes, yes," I cry, "please come."
Eighteen years is too, too long to be apart
from friends.
We wrote faithfully for several years –
you telling of college life
(library life suited you),
me telling of various men,
here today,
gone tomorrow,
then marriage to a man
who never quite understood
women's friendship,
a connection from the past
of those "who knew us when",
especially when we were so different.
I loved your quiet,
a calm balm for my spirit,
you loved my outrageousness,
saying it "kickstarted" your laughter.
You flew down,
arriving at our little
nickel-and-dime airport
rather than opting for the bigger one
in the next town.
A pleasant week,
the only problem being when my
car died for two days;
we spent time shuttling
back and forth
by cab
to "rescue" my car
with cash.
Thursday,
we drive into town
for your bus ticket
so you can afford Disney World
before flying back home.
The sights and sounds of the city
delight and excite us;
we are 5 years old
and 105
simultaneously,
talking fast
of "what ifs"
and "remember whens".
Friday,
I'm up at four,
take a fast shower,
then pick you up by 4:30
to take you to the bus terminal
by five.
We sit in silence,
occasionally
commenting on
how short the trip was
how good to see each other,
we mustn't let eighteen years pass by
without a visit.
Then, bus call,
you're on,
and I zap across the street for gas
so I can caravan with you
to my exit.
Darned bus, though,
pulls out while
I'm inside paying
and it takes until my exit
to even pull close.
The sunrise is beautiful.
Did you notice?
III
You visit again.
The two years since your last one went fast.
This time, you chose the big airport.
My car having died,
you're stuck taking a cab here.
This becomes our joke;
car dead? Maryann's on her way for a visit.
You state this happened
while visiting your sister in Missouri, too.
You rent a car for the week,
and let me use it to find a job
after having safely deposited you
at a local tourist park
I couldn't afford but
insisted you see,
since I knew you'd enjoy it.
You did,
your childlike excitement evident
when I picked you up later that day.
We enjoyed the stay.
The last day, we thought maybe
that stress was getting to me,
having to explain for the zillionth time
to the other half
of a dying marriage
about women
and friendship,
and having company.
You take a cab back to Tampa International,
and I take the rental back to
the smaller one,
then catch a ride home.
The next morning,
I call you for two reasons:
how was the flight home,
and the headache wasn't stress –
I'm sick as a dog.
But thank goodness the trip was nice.
IV
Time flies.
We write with news of our mutual lives.
Your brother got a new kidney.
My other half got a new love.
Your brother died.
So did my marriage.
You obtained new books for the library.
I obtained the courage to go back to school.
Then, no word for months.
Finally, I reach you by phone,
after trying for months.
You've been hospitalized,
your brother's death taking tolls
in more ways than just his own.
I talk you through,
encouraging you to take a
small step at a time.
"You will recover," I promise.
"I did."
Things got better, for a while.
Then, nothing.
I've heard no replies to my letters,
no answer on the phone
for over six months.
I'm worried for you.
I hope you're okay.
This was written sometime between the late 1990s-2002 and is part of a book of poetry titled Poetry, Unassigned currently looking for a publisher.
The poem is about my high school friend, Maryann. We'd both felt like out-casts while going to an all-girls Catholic high school in the northeast corner of Connecticut - although during our sophomore year, boys were allowed in. Maryann and I kept in touch for years, writing faithfully, occasionally calling, and then with Maryann - who was still single - visiting a couple of times.
Slowly, the letters stopped, and while I tried writing, there was a gap of several years with no word from her. Finally, I received one letter around 2000 - 2002, which was sadly disjointed in places; I could tell she'd been depressed while writing it. A Christmas or two later, the card I sent was returned, with the postal stamp stating, "Undeliverable; no forwarding address." I still miss hearing from Maryann, and hope that all is well.
A photo of Maryann is on my photography blog, A Year (Or More) Of Photos, taken during one of her trips here. Maryann
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Walking Early December Florida Morning
Walking Early December Florida Morning
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2013
Walking, early December Florida morning,
coolness trying to descend from northern climes,
I had wanted to still be running.
Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.
Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades
as a country road,
dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.
A chain-link fence separates the house's property
from the dirt road in front,
the woods next to it on either side.
The road continues past the woods.
One can only go the full length –
a total of four blocks –
if on foot or horseback,
as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.
This early December Florida morning,
a small flock of birds –
six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –
stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.
A gated townhouse community is beyond.
Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.
As I walk, the flock of birds moves.
Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.
White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.
Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,
walking, spreading apart to let me through.
One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.
He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,
like an aging denison
in a bathing suit in Boca,
skinny legs sticking out,
dusky rose feet and backwards knees,
carrying a plump white-clad body,
topped with a funny bathing cap.
The denison would call back home,
New York, probably,
saying on crackling long-distance lines
to an equally aging sister,
“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”
The sister, mink-coated denison,
or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,
will say,
“Maybe next year, honey.
No, really, I don't mind the cold.”
The wood stork denison passes,
reconnects with the flock
just as the flock takes flight.
This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2013
Walking, early December Florida morning,
coolness trying to descend from northern climes,
I had wanted to still be running.
Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.
Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades
as a country road,
dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.
A chain-link fence separates the house's property
from the dirt road in front,
the woods next to it on either side.
The road continues past the woods.
One can only go the full length –
a total of four blocks –
if on foot or horseback,
as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.
This early December Florida morning,
a small flock of birds –
six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –
stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.
A gated townhouse community is beyond.
Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.
As I walk, the flock of birds moves.
Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.
White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.
Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,
walking, spreading apart to let me through.
One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.
He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,
like an aging denison
in a bathing suit in Boca,
skinny legs sticking out,
dusky rose feet and backwards knees,
carrying a plump white-clad body,
topped with a funny bathing cap.
The denison would call back home,
New York, probably,
saying on crackling long-distance lines
to an equally aging sister,
“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”
The sister, mink-coated denison,
or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,
will say,
“Maybe next year, honey.
No, really, I don't mind the cold.”
The wood stork denison passes,
reconnects with the flock
just as the flock takes flight.
This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
Monday, January 14, 2019
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.
Thursday, January 3, 2019
At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day
At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Grey, dreary day, first week in January,
I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.
Ten more minutes, and I can get it.
Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one
before getting another loan.
A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.
Paul Simon is singing Graceland,
Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.
“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.
An old woman,
crippled up from life,
eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.
The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.
“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,
as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation
would give the statement a life of its own,
thus making it more than she can bear.
Several more people wander in,
needing money,
needing more until their next pay day.
Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.
I turn and lean against the window where the teller,
who is helping the old woman,
will help me in – now – five minutes.
I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall
and part of another.
It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.
If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –
snow would be imminent.
The teller glances at me.
“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.
His voice stands out in the Florida winter,
telling of snow days and shoveling snow
neither of us no longer need to do.
There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,
when I would never have to come in here again.
Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.
And the it wasn't.
“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me
as the old woman shuffles off.
*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon
There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
This was first posted on October 20, 2016.
by Robin Shwedo
©Robin Shwedo, 2014
Grey, dreary day, first week in January,
I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.
Ten more minutes, and I can get it.
Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one
before getting another loan.
A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.
Paul Simon is singing Graceland,
Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.
“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.
An old woman,
crippled up from life,
eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.
The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.
“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,
as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation
would give the statement a life of its own,
thus making it more than she can bear.
Several more people wander in,
needing money,
needing more until their next pay day.
Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.
I turn and lean against the window where the teller,
who is helping the old woman,
will help me in – now – five minutes.
I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall
and part of another.
It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.
If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –
snow would be imminent.
The teller glances at me.
“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.
His voice stands out in the Florida winter,
telling of snow days and shoveling snow
neither of us no longer need to do.
There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,
when I would never have to come in here again.
Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.
And the it wasn't.
“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me
as the old woman shuffles off.
*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon
There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
This was first posted on October 20, 2016.
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