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 walk.

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.

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.

YBOR AFTERNOON

YBOR AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 1995



Ybor -

even the name evokes memories.



On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,

the air so heavy,

you can almost see the water droplets

suspended in air

in a heavy shrouded mist,

I drive there.

My son and his wife, my friends, live there.

He has called;

“We’re ready when you are.”

I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”

The drive is not long

over battleship grey, shimmering water —

on a dreary day,

the only real color being

the head and tail lights,

the bright red car ahead of me,

the electric blue one next to me.

In half an hour, I’m there,

knocking on the door.

The house appears

deserted,

but in actuality

houses three or more in the dim decay.

The door opens slowly,

then wide.

“You’re here!” she exclaims.

She had no way of knowing I was on my way;

besides no lights,

there is no phone.

There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING

from a house nearby,

blaring reggae music,

as if the noise could shake some color

into the area,

the rain away.

We talk in hushed and raucous tones,

depending on the swinging mood,

then head out to meet up with him.

Turning the corner to the main drag,

we are bombarded by cascading lights

draped across the street as archways,

waterfalling down light polls.

Even if it were not December,

it still looks like Christmas,

lights and hustling noise

bombarding the senses.

We cruise along,

looking at the brightly lit shops,

the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.

We find a parking space,

leave the warm car,

and brave the chill

where we wait

among friends

and crazy,

harmless

strangers

for him to show.

The sky darkens,

deepens,

closing softly as a velvet cape.

When finally he arrives,

we are ready for coffee;

the specialty shop,

close by,

a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,

has a brick wall inside,

café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.

It feels comfortable,

as though no strangers can arrive,

only friends.

We debate on coffee flavors

before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,

with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,

which we greedily consume

at a table by a window,

where we watch the parade of window shoppers

wander by.

Finally,

it is time to leave;

I drop them off at home,

feeling scared, depressed,

empty,

at leaving them in a cold,

unlit house.

And yet,

it is their first place,

their leaping-off point.

And so,

I turn the car toward the interstate,

see the line of tail lights heading into the

grey and grainy misty night

and head for home.



Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).

My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.

Christmas, 2004

Christmas, 2004

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2004



'Twas a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day,

Could have been December, certainly not May.

The air was filled with speckled rain, the sky a gauzy grey

on a misty, moisty morning on a misty, moisty day.



On holidays, I usually try to walk through a nearby park on holidays while the main meal is in the oven. On Christmas 2004, I had to shorten this walk, as it was "a misty, moisty morning." From a new collection, just started, titled Painted Words.

TURN LOOSE MY HEART

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.