POLITICS

POLITICS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016



I like my morning coffee light

with a sweet roll on the side.

I'd take my whisky sour

but I never want to hide.

There's way too much duplicity

to let the bullshit slide,

Especially with the trash-talkers

trying to take us for a ride.



The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.

FINI

FINI

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



On a rainy night,

when driving is treacherous,

and the wind howls,

making it impossible to warm up and ward off the chill,

he calls.

Our relationship,

if ever the was one

(of all of a week)

is over.

Fini,

as they say.

He has decided

I am much too difficult.

I laugh –

quietly, to myself,

since it hurts.

The reasons he lists for leaving

are

the reasons he listed for first calling:

I’m a difficult free-spirit,

laughing during a crying-jag.

I seldom misrepresent myself;

this becomes a turn-on-and-off.

I try to warn people right away –

this is how I am,

outrageous,

boisterous,

but prone to meditative silences –

so that I can quickly cut away

the dead weight that might leave

with no interest

on my time unwisely invested.

And yet,

with a single call,

I feel the cold hand grip my heart,

its icy fingers sending chills throughout my being.

He has decided to take his leave

at the most inopportune time,

just when I need his arms around me,

his hand caressing my hair,

a warm blanket of kiss on my forehead,

cheeks,

lower,

his love warming me,

his…

But he calls to let me know it’s over.

I’ve been through this enough to know

not to plead;

in the end,

it will make no difference.

And so,

I let him go,

knowing that,

even as I numb myself

against the cold pain,

someone

someday

may be brave and strong enough to stay.



Most of us, at one time or another, have had a relationship that we thought might be the one but that shortly implodes. No matter how long or short that relationship was, it can be painful. But in the end, when the right person comes along, and sticks around, it can be so much sweeter.

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

Truth

TRUTH

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Why do old refrigerators come

in a variety of colors?

That's fine for

little old ladies

with no family.

Any mother, though, knows this truth:

Buy the white one;

it costs less,

and,

besides,

with kids,

the front is always covered with pictures,

made from finger paints,

crayons,

and markers.

Why pay more for an avocado green

you'll ever see?



Written after looking at a refrigerator covered with kids' art. From Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

SUMMER

SUMMER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The days are ablaze with life;

heat shimmering off the sidewalks,

slithering up the outside walls

of the buildings,

giving people a funny, wavy look from

the distance,

as though they dance

while,

really,

they walk.

Children,

out of school,

screeching

happily

through the streets,

down the sidewalks,

careening around the corners,

playing tag,

hide-and-seek,

red rover.

Shouts –

"I'll get Johnny;

meet us for baseball"

fill the air.

Mothers and fathers

taking children

to the zoo,

the park,

wherever,

while the other parent works,

studies,

is otherwise disengaged,

or, maybe, just not there.

Evenings come later, this time of year,

giving rise to more time

for outdoor play,

cookouts,

lazing around.

No hurry to do things before

turning on the lights.

Life is a carnival,

a blast,

easier to move

(no heavy clothes

to weigh one down).

As evening arrives,

people wander home;

maybe a late dinner,

or,

dinner over,

sit outside

in the grass,

on the porch,

wherever,

talking out plans,

futures,

loves,

what-have-you.

Dreams

simply have to drift

from consciousness

into sleep,

as crickets serenade one to sleep,

and stars cover the land

as a giant blanket.

Summer,

everyone can be a child.



Most of us have a favorite season, and each season seems to have its own feel, little nuances that make it different from the other seasons.

This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

TRAIL, EARLY EVENING

TRAIL, EARLY EVENING

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Evening walks are the counter-point to those in the early morning.

Mornings feel fresh;

the day's heat hasn't made the air

too oppressive,

except in August.

But evening walks are better for unwinding,

decompressing from the day.

I follow my usual path,

heading south to the end of the street

then head cross-country.

Going through the park's back entrance,

the sounds and sights of little league games explode nearby.

Cheers, shouts,

the loud tink! tink! of ball on aluminum bats resounds

from adjacent diamonds.

On the other side of the ditch,

the stable's owner exits the bad, heading for the pastures.

Horses standing by gates

stomp and whinny,

toss heads

as they wait their turn to head inside.

I get to the avenue as a car passes,

slows,

then turns into the townhouse community.

On the dirt path,

ditch now on the right,

townhouses beyond,

the light is different.

Sun's rays dappling trees' leaves

between townhouses and ditch.

A light is on in the dining/living room

of one of the townhouses,

one of the few with the blinds open

during the day.

An old couple,

white haired heads touching,

sitting at their dinner table,

watching game shows.

A middle-aged woman –

their daughter, maybe? –

brings their plates,

kisses the top of their heads,

then,

grabbing a mug,

sits beside them.

I head farther down the dirt road.

A woman,

sitting on the porch swing of the fenced-in house on the left,

looks up and waves.

Farther still,

past the house,

the woods' shadows deepen.

On the right,

beyond the ditch,

the community's back wall

separates townhouses from another stable.

A man is exercising a horse.

I haven't seen him riding

for more than a year,

since he finished taking

Saturday morning riding lessons.

Another horse stands in a grazing area

between exercise area and barn.

It looks over,

whinnies,

goes back to grazing.

I turn back,

past woods,

fenced-in yard,

woman still readying on the porch,

past townhouses,

where the older couple and their daughter

laugh over something,

the happy sound wafting through the air.

Cross the street,

now on the same side of the ditch as the stable,

opposite the park.

The owner,

her sister,

and several others

are bringing horses in,

feeding them,

talking over the low sound of a radio,

playing a country-western tune.



There is a path near my house that I frequently use for my walks/runs/bike rides. This poem was written on 4/16/14 after an evening walk that inspired this.

There's a very definite difference in the feel of an evening walk or run compared to doing the same in the morning, as many people will attest to. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.

PAUL

PAUL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



The time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart

or feeling left inside.

I hide

my fears,

knowing depression here

will be misread by those

whose side

did I

come to see. Though I chose

to see my next of kin,

and I

did fly

to be with them, time when

I should be overjoyed,

I sink

within

myself. Beautiful boy,

red hair, blue eyes, smile pure

a glance,

per chance,

his dad's fair looks, for sure,

mom's temperament, both love,

I see

these three

beautiful ones betrothed.

Soul mates, like us, they need

to be

able

to see our love, stable.

Yet, time we spend apart

is bleak.

I'm weak,

as though I have no heart.

And when, at last, I'm home,

I say

I'll stay,

to share love – not alone.

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

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

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.

THE MOVE OF A FRIEND

THE MOVE OF A FRIEND

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1987



Today, a friend of mine

is moving out of state.

We've both known for months about today,

the date marked on two calendars.

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

We met during a critical time in our lives:

she was back in school, a mother of two,

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

Fate had us go to the same park

for a Labor Day picnic.

Friends immediately,

fast, though maybe not too fierce.

We started out together,

once a week.

Then, somehow, it slowed

as other necessary commitments arose.

Once every six months,

we'd bump into each other

or call,

and catch up

as though our last contact was yesterday.

Yesterday,

we went out for an ice cream,

a needed break from packing for her,

a final time together for us both.

It felt a little funny;

I learned a lot from her,

picked up on her cues for the dance.

I hoped she learned, too, from me,

from my subtleties.

I felt betrayed, somehow, by her leaving.

She was the first friend I picked out

without a husband/parent overhead.

This morning,

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

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

A lot has happened.

We've talked of children -

we both had ones with major medicals,

so knew the nuances,

the doctors and problems,

pain in a shared way.

She gave me permission to go to school

with her example,

then moved on to a job she loved

that had nothing to do

with her unfinished schooling.

I watch the new grass coming up,

the delicate diamond glitter of dew on the new green.

I'll miss her,

betrayed or not.

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



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

This comes from my book Poetry Unassigned.

THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

for Dick; book store owner, extraordinaire

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994, 2005



"He died," you say.

The words echo impotently,

as strange and empty

as though you had told me

it rained one day in 1852.

I hear you, I understand,

but somehow, it does not seem real.

Last week, when I stopped by

you mentioned he had been feeling ill for several days,

and would not be down, that rainy afternoon.

I heard him upstairs,

occasionally scrapping a chair on the floor,

or coming down hard when he stood up,

thumping and shuffling around above us.

The weekend before, while we talked in the back room,

he had come in from his office-cubicle,

and, leaving to get you a Coke from next door,

offered to bring me back one.

I showed him my hot-coffee-in-icky-styrofoam,

and thanked him, anyway.

And now, "He died Monday."

Just over 24 hours since I heard him.

Never made it to the procedure to make him better

(but maybe not well),

which, had Wednesday come,

he might have been too weak for.

The past two days,

I have looked at the ceramic porcupine

you gave me from the shop,

as though to reaffirm it (or he) is still here.

This morning, I looked out my kitchen window at

the overcast sky, promising rain,

and noticed birds huddle on the power line

like so many musical notes.

I counted to see how many birds there were

in this melody.

Oooonnneee,

(half hidden behind the neighbor's chimney)

two, three,

(I've never bought into the reincarnation stuff;

I share the Christian belief of

one birth,

one life,

one death,

one afterlife per person)

four, five, six,

(I almost feel, though,

that I can sense your spirit

with these notes

shivering against the impending rain)

seven,

eight,

nine, ten,

(you had a great record collection in

your store -

Big Band,

jazz,

everything)

eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

fifteen,

on the top line,

numbers sixteen and seventeen

one line lower,

and three more -

eighteen, nineteen and twenty -

on a third line at a right angle.

Suddenly,

as if on a quiet count from

a Big Band Beat,

they fly,

bringing your spirit soaring with them.



This is based on a real death. Dick owned a bookstore in Pinellas Park, Florida for the last few years of his life. It was a funky place with new and used books, several shelves in the middle of one room with tons of vinyl records, and a definite feel to it. He also had several comfortable chairs in the first room just inside the front door, along with a coffee urn and a pot of hot water for the selection of herbal teas and cocoa offered free of charge. His office was next to a staircase in a small room; the staircase led to his apartment above the bookstore.

Dick's death came as a shock; he'd been sick for maybe a week, and his significant other kept the store going until his death, then had to make the necessary calls to friends. At his memorial service, held at the bookstore, she chose small knickknacks to pass out to regulars to remember Dick by.

Most of this poem was written shortly after Dick's death, the last 5 lines in 2005. It took me that long to finish it.

This is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.

I WONDER

I WONDER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



If I were to suddenly disappear,

I wonder if anyone would wonder

where I was,

or if I was okay;

if anyone would ask,

“What is she up to these days?”

Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,

and,

if so,

would they really care for an answer,

or would it be a rhetorical question,

similar in consequence and concern as

“Some weather, huh?”

And so,

quietly I begin to cut ties,

sure it doesn’t matter

much

to anyone.

Except,

maybe,

to me.



We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.

FALL AFTERNOON

FALL AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Fall afternoon.

The season's change snuck up on us

during the night,

catching us only

partially

unawares.

"Temperatures should dip tonight,"

the weatherman said

at eleven

last night.

Summer's heat is gone.

We knew it couldn't last;

the sweltering air was getting old,

anyway.

Soon,

we'll be eating stew

and lots of spaghetti,

putting away the

outdoor grill

for another year.

We go for a walk after dinner,

savoring the tart-apple-crunch feel of the air,

making our faces pink

as we smell

the acrid smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney.

Soon,

the leaves will

go into their magic show,

turning red,

orange,

yellow,

before

falling,

brown,

dead,

to be

raked into piles.

We'll put large potatoes

and corn,

wrapped in foil,

near the bottom of the piles,

and then add a little of our own colors

(red,

orange,

yellow),

dancing into the afternoon air,

warming us (in our sweaters)

as it burns the leaves

and makes the potatoes and corn

into something

almost too good to enjoy.

Except we enjoy it,

wolfing down the food.

(Even the children eat the skins -

the icky skins

they usually leave.)

Ah, the fall,

the smells of the smoke,

the foods,

the leaves rotting after the rains,

the settling of the earth,

the settling in of everything;

the sounds of crunching leaves,

the laughs of trick-or-treat,

the settling house;

the feel of the cooling air,

the rough wool sweaters

and cotton flannel shirts.

The sun

finally

sets

(early)

amid the colors,

and we are ready to relax

inside,

preparing for the days ahead.

This was written to evoke memories of a northeastern (U.S.) autumn. This poem is from my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

SURREALITY

SURREALITY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a surreal afternoon,

the lights on the bridge remind me

of strings of pearls,

glistening,

glowing

against the grey velvet sky.

There are few cars ahead of me,

spaced apart,

their taillights like sparking rubies,

following the sensuous curve of the bridge.

Glancing when I can to my right,

the distant headlights on the north bridge

spanning the bay

are like diamonds,

glittering on their moving strands.

The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,

pointing the car into the soft sunset;

the clouds have parted just enough to turn

pale pink

and

peach,

soft as worn flannel,

drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.

Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,

the liquid colors turn,

becoming pale yellow,

pencil-sketched clouds

turning to charcoal.

The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,

then slowly,

gently

lets me drop back to earth.

Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,

swirling skies and all.



I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.

This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

STORM

STORM

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



It's growing dark outside.

I wander out;

the clouds are rolling in,

slowly churning,

climbing

over each other.

The air has a certain feel,

expectant,

ready to charge,

held in suspended motion.

Somewhere,

someone has recently mowed their space;

the scent lightly perfumes the air.

Splat.

The first rain drop hits right on my nose.

I wait, watching the tentative drops splatter on the sidewalk

in front of the house.

Slowly,

I wander back inside,

curl on a chair in the darkening room

and watch as the light-and-water show begins.



Summer tends to be the rainy season in Florida, with the Tampa Bay being called the Lightning Capital of the U.S. This was written after one such storm.

This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.

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.