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.
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Thursday, March 14, 2019
LAUNDRYMAT
LAUNDRYMAT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1994
Amazing how much life you can find
in mundane places.
The brutal death
of a washer and dryer -
stupid pieces of machinery -
suddenly necessitates going out to do
an almost intimate act.
God forbid the shower dies!
But,
clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,
and I'm out of the house with my beloved.
We've traded one outing with another,
been reduced to
watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers
instead of artsy movies,
bags of chips and canned sodas over
popcorn and Milk-Duds.
I stand,
leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,
watching the towels and jeans,
t-shirts and sheets
tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.
Looking beyond,
the glass reflects different scenes,
people framed in metal circles.
What a strange way to watch someone.
After a while,
it's obvious how folks live;
we give ourselves away
in a hundred different ways:
two children playing quietly together,
two others wrestling around,
parents watching,
talking,
etc.
After a while,
nuances emerge.
"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."
It's Sunday night;
school and work tomorrow,
tonight,
whatever.
One machine done;
the others needed
an extra quarter.
Sitting,
I leaf through months old magazines;
"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";
"Cool salads for hot evenings."
It's late November;
Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here
sometime around Easter.
Finally,
it's finished;
I bundle up the clothes
in plastic garbage bags
and leave for my pseudo-real life.
Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.
This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.
Monday, March 11, 2019
SUMMER DAY
SUMMER DAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, March 7, 2019
GIFT
GIFT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
There's a breeze outside.
I know,
because my wind chimes
are dancing.
They were a
Christmas present
from a friend who
finds me hard to shop for.
He's right, of course.
I'm, at times,
a fragmented,
puzzling person,
who likes a
little
of a lot of things,
but not quite enough
to spend a lot
on one particular thing.
But there are the chimes.
They dance and twirl,
singing musically
their tinkling,
swirling song.
First,
we hung them out back.
But no one heard their
delicate music there.
In front was nice,
until,
on a very windy day,
they nearly
beaned the mailman.
So now,
they sing outside the
kitchen window,
where I spend my time
and hear them
enough to really
enjoy their sound.
This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
There's a breeze outside.
I know,
because my wind chimes
are dancing.
They were a
Christmas present
from a friend who
finds me hard to shop for.
He's right, of course.
I'm, at times,
a fragmented,
puzzling person,
who likes a
little
of a lot of things,
but not quite enough
to spend a lot
on one particular thing.
But there are the chimes.
They dance and twirl,
singing musically
their tinkling,
swirling song.
First,
we hung them out back.
But no one heard their
delicate music there.
In front was nice,
until,
on a very windy day,
they nearly
beaned the mailman.
So now,
they sing outside the
kitchen window,
where I spend my time
and hear them
enough to really
enjoy their sound.
This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
Wednesday, March 6, 2019
In Absentia, For Mom
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.
While I've posted this before, today would have been my mother's birthday.
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.
While I've posted this before, today would have been my mother's birthday.
Friday, March 1, 2019
SEPARATION
SEPARATION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1983
We're separated,
you and I;
split up,
as it were,
no longer a couple,
not quite a whole person,
either.
More like a half-person,
missing parts
(our hearts),
emotional amputees.
The night we decided,
we spent hours
talking,
hashing,
rolling onto our sides
in bed,
trying to ignore the other,
our innards too knotted to sleep.
Exhaustion reached us
shortly before the alarm clock went off.
The next day, we sorted,
shifted,
through fifteen years
of marriage.
You
got the
plates your mother gave us,
the chairs,
and a large pile of books.
I,
on the other hand,
got
my grandma's china,
the silverware,
and the kids.
We'll survive, somehow,
remain friends.
I just wish we could have stayed more.
Is there anything harder than breaking up with someone we were once very close to, with a shared history? This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1983
We're separated,
you and I;
split up,
as it were,
no longer a couple,
not quite a whole person,
either.
More like a half-person,
missing parts
(our hearts),
emotional amputees.
The night we decided,
we spent hours
talking,
hashing,
rolling onto our sides
in bed,
trying to ignore the other,
our innards too knotted to sleep.
Exhaustion reached us
shortly before the alarm clock went off.
The next day, we sorted,
shifted,
through fifteen years
of marriage.
You
got the
plates your mother gave us,
the chairs,
and a large pile of books.
I,
on the other hand,
got
my grandma's china,
the silverware,
and the kids.
We'll survive, somehow,
remain friends.
I just wish we could have stayed more.
Is there anything harder than breaking up with someone we were once very close to, with a shared history? This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
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