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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2020
Tuesday, October 27, 2020
Peace/Love Rap
Peace/Love Rap
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
They’re all sons-of-bitches,
or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is
the better term for those who hate
and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.
The politicians and too many preachers
act like they’re the only teachers
worthy to be listened to and for us to follow
when all along, their souls are hollow,
left without love that they were brought up with,
so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.
Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,
they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.
You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,
‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,
nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.
There’s people who need, people in pain,
and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.
Get out of yourself and learn the same
love and peace that the great ones taught us,
who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.
They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,
Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.
And if you forget and just give token speech
and tell us the good life is out of reach
and that only those with money can live a good life,
then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife
when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting
when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.
We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:
to control our destinies, be safe all nights,
to learn as much as we possibly can
and have acceptance for our fellow man.
And remember, too, that women are the same;
we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.
Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,
unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’
for comfort in bed and for your meals
if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,
how we think and how we are are all the same,
so get over that tired misogyny game.
Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;
God made us the same, whether you choose
to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,
doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler
that you really want that love and peace that frees us,
from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.
So if you’re gonna talk the talk,
get real and show you can walk the walk.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Live peace. Live love.
Live peace. Live love.
Teach peace. Teach love.
Be peace. Be love.
The end.
From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2014
They’re all sons-of-bitches,
or maybe they’re bastards, who knows which is
the better term for those who hate
and don’t learn about love before it’s too late.
The politicians and too many preachers
act like they’re the only teachers
worthy to be listened to and for us to follow
when all along, their souls are hollow,
left without love that they were brought up with,
so they’ve got nothing good we can say they taught us.
Whether they follow Mohammed, Buddha, or Jesus,
they seem to have forgotten the love from the teachers frees us.
You can’t just talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk,
‘cause if you don’t, when you get caught,
nobody’s gonna want to hear your squawk.
There’s people who need, people in pain,
and if you don’t care, maybe you’re too vain.
Get out of yourself and learn the same
love and peace that the great ones taught us,
who by their blood and sweat went out and bought us.
They paid a price so that their love and peace frees us,
Buddha and Mohammed and our friend Jesus.
And if you forget and just give token speech
and tell us the good life is out of reach
and that only those with money can live a good life,
then be forewarned, we’ll see your strife
when you fall on your face into the trap that you’re setting
when you tell us that rights are only yours for the getting.
We’re all the same people and should have the same rights:
to control our destinies, be safe all nights,
to learn as much as we possibly can
and have acceptance for our fellow man.
And remember, too, that women are the same;
we’re as qualified as men, with a slightly altered name.
Don’t put a woman down for being a woman,
unless you’re a fool. Don’t come to us runnin’
for comfort in bed and for your meals
if you’re too blind to see that we’re alike in how we feel,
how we think and how we are are all the same,
so get over that tired misogyny game.
Race, faith and gender are the same way, too;
God made us the same, whether you choose
to call Him God, Yahweh or Allah,
doesn’t really matter, as long as you holler
that you really want that love and peace that frees us,
from brothers Buddha, Mohammed, Great Spirit, Jesus.
So if you’re gonna talk the talk,
get real and show you can walk the walk.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Learn peace. Learn love.
Live peace. Live love.
Live peace. Live love.
Teach peace. Teach love.
Be peace. Be love.
The end.
From a new (growing) collection tentatively titled Working Class Poems.
Monday, October 26, 2020
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.
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.
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