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.

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

“THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU”

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995





The Revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

people without jobs who want to work

who need to work

who strive to work

who’ve given up trying to work

within a system that strives to keep them down

while saying “no more safety net”

while letting children go hungry

while giving themselves humungous raises

and building more bombs and guns

to keep the underclass under them

but

The Revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

the child who cries herself to sleep after a day

of abuse and neglect

while the child lovingly corrected cries

after being removed from home

and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,

who questions what he sees,

who questions the system,

who questions the questions,

who questions why,

and when and where and what and who

but

The revolution will not revolve around you.

It revolves around

those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses

don’t buy into what their

children and grandchildren will breath,

drink or eat in the years to come,

who feel that money is

more important than air,

more important that water,

more important than the future,

more important than anything else

including the fact that

The Revolution will not revolve around you.

Instead,

it revolves around those brave enough

to take on the system,

who strive to prove that justice for some

should be justice for all

and help to make that possible;

around those who see a need and try to

honestly and with courage

and passion

and compassion

try to solve it,

around those who see those

whom life has dealt harshly with

and who still struggle to stand up and fight

and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,

around those who see the hunger

and strive to feed;

who see the abuse

and try to end it;

who see the hurt

and try to heal it;

and then, only then,

if you have the courage

to instigate this revolution,

then and only then will

the revolution involve and revolve around you.



This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.

REBEL

REBEL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



“Sit down and shut up,”

he orders with a snarl.



I have been to hell and back,

seen things -

no, experienced them -

that no living being,

human or otherwise,

should know exists.

There are abuses which,

bad enough when done by unknown,

are a thousand times worse

when done in the name of love.

There are those who bully for what they want,

who fight without conscience against us all,

unless someone is brave enough to

STAND UP

and break the cycle.

Sooner

(or later)

the beaten spirit does one of two things:

either it breaks, withers and dies,

or becomes a strong warrior,

becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.

I have lived too much to go back.

Now, looking for new relationships,

I see through the gauzy,

glittery

starry-eyed good times,

and frequently see to the center,

the rigid unyielding core of a person.

I have to to survive.



And so,

I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,

stand tall, strong,

and,

looking him straight in his surprised eyes,

state in a loud,

clear,

strong voice,

“I will not sit down.

I will not shut up.”



I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right.

This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

PASSION AND A GOOD MAN

PASSION AND A GOOD MAN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I want Passion and a good man.

Yes, I know that seems

a contradiction in terms,

but that is what I want.

And yet,

when I think of Passion,

I think of colorful men -

in blue jeans and flannel,

who clean up nicely,

dressing up in Armani suits,

or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,

but still colorful in their passion,

men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,

who have no fear of

tender candle-lit dinners on the beach

under the stars,

the waves crashing nearby,

followed by a night of

exhausting

exhilarating passion.

And yet,

these are the same ones

who seem destined to walk in the morning,

heading out the door,

no questions or explanations.

Flip side

are the good men,

the ones with the eager smiles

and have-to-please-you attitudes,

who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub

would be their pleasure,

and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,

their boyish smiles

and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.

A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,

keeping her safe,

without leaving her in the morning.

But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.

If I ever find him...



This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.

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.

THINKING TIME

THINKING TIME

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016



There are two best times for thinking:

Going for a walk,

and riding the bus.

Both activities make other distractions difficult.



Some of my best thinking,

idea-wise,

have come from both.



I have a path I love to talk.

It goes cross-country,

down dirt roads,

through woods,

past houses,

town homes,

stables full of horses,

parks and little league fields.



Once, walking down the dirt road,

past a moved-in house on acres of land,

just at the start of woods on one side,

a drainage ditch and stable on the other,

I had the feeling of my grandmother,

long gone,

as though waiting for me.

Over the years,

it has felt that others

gone, but not forgotten,

have joined her,

to where I almost feel them saying,

Here she comes, here she comes,

She's coming

as I head out.

I've thought of these family members

long gone,

but not forgotten.

Mom has recently joined this group.

During her memorial,

months after her death,

I couldn't help but think that

my sister and I are the

last two in our birth family.

As the elder,

I can remember when a little easier than she can.

And yet,

at the memorial,

I realize that our uncle,

Mom's only brother

(she had no sisters)

is the last one left from his birth family.

He has no one to remember when with,

at least in the same way Mom could.



Also on walks,

I've thought of the people who live in the town houses

I pass:

an old couple whose daughter

(I'm guessing)

fixes their dinner

around the time for my evening walk;

the couple with the baby in a stroller

and two small dogs

whose antics make the baby

laugh and clap;

the couple who leaves their Christmas tree

up through mid-January

every year.



Bus rides give way to

another kind of thinking.

You get to see people,

wonder about their lives.



One time, coming home from school

in downtown St. Pete,

Matt met me at Williams Park.

He knew I'd take one of two buses,

both disembarking riders

and departing on the same side of the park.

He waited, and when I saw him,

we got on the same bus –

the 52 –

together.

We watched the others on the bus,

from the bus,

pointed people out to each other.

At Central Plaza terminal,

we gasped, then laughed

at one man,

sitting and talking to a woman.

He was wearing gray slippers,

tie-dyed socks,

a purple bathrobe with gold sparkles,

and topped by a red beret,

set at a jaunty angle

atop his head.

The woman,

about his age – late middle aged –

was nondescript next to him.

I want to write them into a story,

I tell Matt,

as he laughs and rolls his eyes.



We all have times when our mind naturally drifts and starts wandering back in time, into the future, or kicking around the present. This poem is about that. I've run and/or walked for years, as well as riding buses; both are great for thinking.

This is part of a growing group of poems tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.

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.

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.

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.

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Surprise me.

Not that you haven’t already.

The day we met,

I unintentionally stepped on feet;

you set me straight.

I expected an explosive barrage of rage;

it was not to be.

I kept my distance,

not knowing what to expect.

Imagine my surprise

when friendship developed.

We’d meet,

our paths crossing,

and always,

always

you offered your friendship,

yourself,

nothing less.

Times, too many to count,

that you picked up the pieces

of my life,

my heart,

and never once asked in return,

can not be ignored

or forgotten.

There came a time

when I thought someone else would do;

I saw you less as I tried

to make it work.

When he left,

shattering my heart into so many pieces,

you were there,

soothing wounds I swore would never heal.

Imagine my surprise.

It seems amazing that

the one who was “only” a friend,

the one who I never meant to hurt

and did

may very well be

the one who could make me the happiest,

there all the time.

Imagine my surprise.



If we're lucky, we all run into people who surprise us in a good way.

This is from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

RUNNING

RUNNING

By Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 2007



Every morning, I run.

I don’t want to.

I want to.

Ambivalence is part of the run.

I accept that.



But first, priorities.



Start the coffee pot.

Turn on the TV.

Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann talking to me. I miss Katie.

Get the newspaper from the driveway.

Put the neighbor’s paper on his porch.

Go back inside.



What’s Al saying? Snow in Denver?

Perfect excuse for not running.

Except there’s no snow falling in Florida.



I find my running shorts, t-shirt. Put them on.

Socks from the dresser.

Back in the kitchen where I fix a cuppa joe.



Sit down at the table.

Matt’s talking to somebody.

Who? Gotta find out.

Coffee and Today.

Put on my socks. No holes in these ones. Yet.

Put on my shoes. Should have another couple of months with this pair.

Sip some coffee.

Tie one shoe.

Sip more coffee.

Tie other shoe.

Sip even more coffee.



Another weather report. Still snow in Denver.

Still none here.

Al, Al, Al. You sure know how to ruin a cup of coffee.



Grab a bottle of water.

Find my running cap.

Take the front door key.



Open. The. Door.



Lock the door.



Shut the door. With me outside.



Head for the sidewalk, already tired.



Why is it I’m always more alert after my run?



During my second semester at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, I had two classes with the same professor, one of which was titled "Narration and Description". One of our assignments was to write a short poem dealing with the body in action. This was in early 2007, less than a year since Katie Couric had left The Today Show. My better-half and I were disappointed when Couric left, but life goes on.

I'd been a runner for a while when I wrote this. And while I've slowed down quite a bit, I still love getting out to walk or run in the morning. Or, rather, I love how I feel when I get back from running. Getting out the front door, however, can occasionally be a challenge!

This poem is part of a collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.