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.
Friday, February 28, 2020
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
TRIBUTE
TRIBUTE
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
You're gone.
Almost three months,
and still missed as much as
if it were yesterday.
The children play;
I long so much to tell you
how they fare.
My youngest
has quit asking
to see you,
his surrogate grandma.
How quickly a little one forgets,
puts into subconscious,
no longer talking of "Dor-dor."
You used to laugh when he called you that.
Now he's filled with other people,
Chuckie, Ty-ty, and baby Christina.
You'd laugh at what he calls the baby.
I read something yesterday;
it reminded me of you.
I can picture you reading it,
and telling me,
"And then, he always said..."
the way you'd told a story
a hundred times before.
Some stories you'd tell often;
I'd never let on I'd heard it before,
or at least, heard it that way.
I'll miss you,
and forever curse the
disease that
took you.
I first met Doris while volunteering for a local fire department. She was the main dispatcher, who was a surrogate mom to many of the people passing through. She died of cancer.
This is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.
Monday, February 17, 2020
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.
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.
Friday, February 14, 2020
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.
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.
Thursday, February 13, 2020
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.
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, February 11, 2020
DAUGHTER
DAUGHTER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She stands there,
puffed up,
proud;
knowing she can
do as she wants,
go as she pleases.
Free and easy,
light
and
breezy.
Joyous.
Little girl-child.
Two years old,
and, oh, so wise.
"Bird fly."
"Tree big."
Chortles at the touch
of flowers
on her cheeks;
dancy springy steps
in knee-high grass.
The world is new,
the world is good,
when seen through Erin's eyes.
Two-year-olds are at a magical age; no longer a baby, but not quite a big kid, they're learning to explore a little. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
She stands there,
puffed up,
proud;
knowing she can
do as she wants,
go as she pleases.
Free and easy,
light
and
breezy.
Joyous.
Little girl-child.
Two years old,
and, oh, so wise.
"Bird fly."
"Tree big."
Chortles at the touch
of flowers
on her cheeks;
dancy springy steps
in knee-high grass.
The world is new,
the world is good,
when seen through Erin's eyes.
Two-year-olds are at a magical age; no longer a baby, but not quite a big kid, they're learning to explore a little. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.
Monday, February 10, 2020
CIRCLES
CIRCLES
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, February 6, 2020
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
OLDER LOVE
OLDER LOVE
for Paul
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2001
Come to me in the moonlit night,
your strong, warm hands
touch me,
caressing,
holding me right.
No longer young,
our energy not what it was,
we make up for it in sure, slow love.
Each day, love growing stronger, surer,
more intense,
with less pretense,
than when we were younger.
We know each other's bodies,
trust them,
see the scars and find them
somehow soothing,
comforting,
with a shared history that they reveal.
The only thing we'd change,
given a magic wand,
would be to have met sooner,
giving ourselves more time
to love
touch
hold
kiss......
So, come to me in the moonlit night......
This was written on May 18, 2001 for a loved-one. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
for Paul
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2001
Come to me in the moonlit night,
your strong, warm hands
touch me,
caressing,
holding me right.
No longer young,
our energy not what it was,
we make up for it in sure, slow love.
Each day, love growing stronger, surer,
more intense,
with less pretense,
than when we were younger.
We know each other's bodies,
trust them,
see the scars and find them
somehow soothing,
comforting,
with a shared history that they reveal.
The only thing we'd change,
given a magic wand,
would be to have met sooner,
giving ourselves more time
to love
touch
hold
kiss......
So, come to me in the moonlit night......
This was written on May 18, 2001 for a loved-one. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)