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.
Friday, March 12, 2021
Monday, March 8, 2021
REJECTION
REJECTION
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The day I dyed my hair blue,
I was asked “why?” more than once.
Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”
Of course, it’s much more complex,
but what it boils down to is this:
Rejection.
Being way different is hard enough,
the biggest fear being that
No One Will Like You.
However,
give someone something they can latch onto:
Dye your hair blue,
wear combat boots with your dress,
and people can immediately give you a reason
you can laugh at.
It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,
it’s the fact that you have blue hair.
At least this way,
you can always pretend
“When the dye wears off,
then they’ll accept me.”
It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways
then things you can’t change.
This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.
"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."
At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.
"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.
Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...
This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The day I dyed my hair blue,
I was asked “why?” more than once.
Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”
Of course, it’s much more complex,
but what it boils down to is this:
Rejection.
Being way different is hard enough,
the biggest fear being that
No One Will Like You.
However,
give someone something they can latch onto:
Dye your hair blue,
wear combat boots with your dress,
and people can immediately give you a reason
you can laugh at.
It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,
it’s the fact that you have blue hair.
At least this way,
you can always pretend
“When the dye wears off,
then they’ll accept me.”
It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways
then things you can’t change.
This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.
"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."
At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.
"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.
Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...
This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Friday, March 5, 2021
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 barn, 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.
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 barn, 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.
Wednesday, March 3, 2021
I WILL NOT BE SILENCED
I WILL NOT BE SILENCED
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I will not be silenced.
You can try to quiet me
in any number of ways,
gently reasoning
through which I hear the
undercurrents of threats
(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”
to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,
people get angry.” You retort,
“Bitch.”),
followed by blatant threats
and strong-arm tactics.
But -
I will not be silenced.
Close my mouth,
my actions will scream.
Shut my eyes;
my soul will see.
Plug my ears;
my heart will hear.
You can not quiet me.
Worse men have tried.
Only justice will tame my shouts;
only peace will calm my rantings;
only true love will settle me
without trying to master.
Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.
But, even a whisper is a sound,
so,
I will not be silenced.
Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”
From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I will not be silenced.
You can try to quiet me
in any number of ways,
gently reasoning
through which I hear the
undercurrents of threats
(“Be a good girl, and I won’t get mad,”
to which I snarl, “Dogs go mad,
people get angry.” You retort,
“Bitch.”),
followed by blatant threats
and strong-arm tactics.
But -
I will not be silenced.
Close my mouth,
my actions will scream.
Shut my eyes;
my soul will see.
Plug my ears;
my heart will hear.
You can not quiet me.
Worse men have tried.
Only justice will tame my shouts;
only peace will calm my rantings;
only true love will settle me
without trying to master.
Only then will my loud voice calm to a whisper.
But, even a whisper is a sound,
so,
I will not be silenced.
Even if it is to say, “Thanks.”
From my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, looking for a publishing home.
Monday, March 1, 2021
DAYS LIKE THIS
DAYS LIKE THIS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Days like this,
I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.
True,
the scenery is mundane,
the colors somewhat mute,
when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,
but the ride is so much safer.
The “down” days, the ride is like this:
you “drag ass”, not able to get up,
not quite having all the gears “mesh”,
but an outer force keeps you going,
moving;
you let it because,
if you stop,
even for a second,
you’ll never move.
Ever.
Again.
Sounds are muted, distorted;
those that are loud enough to come through startle
with their bone-jarring
teeth-gritting noise.
Colors appear darker;
dark green leaves on brown-black trees
emit deep endless shadows
that threaten to drown you,
even as the branches menacingly reach for you.
The huge white clouds appear malicious,
creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.
Night arrives,
threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.
Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,
almost unnerving in their endless progression,
when suddenly,
you feeling yourself
as you come close to drowning
hit bottom,
sink slightly,
then push off against the
bumpy hardness beneath you.
Suddenly - sometimes -
but oh, so surely,
you break through the foggy film into sunshine.
Wonderful sunshine!
There it is!
The sounds! The joyous sounds!
Birds singing, children laughing,
dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging
as the trains roar up the track,
puffing, chugging,
whistles blowing,
wheels turning,
engineers waving at
small children waving back.
Colors!
Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!
Even in the blackest night
and rainiest days,
the neon lights are alive,
dancing,
calling to you,
singing, “Here we are!
And There you are!
Hello!
Hello!”
The smells of roses!
Coffee floating out of open shops,
colorful sounds,
wonderful smells,
laughing sights,
everything’s so “up,
you’ll never come back down.
Yup, there’s something to be said for straight lines.
This was written years ago and is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
Days like this,
I think straight lines are the most wonderful things.
True,
the scenery is mundane,
the colors somewhat mute,
when compared to wild roller coaster ups and downs,
but the ride is so much safer.
The “down” days, the ride is like this:
you “drag ass”, not able to get up,
not quite having all the gears “mesh”,
but an outer force keeps you going,
moving;
you let it because,
if you stop,
even for a second,
you’ll never move.
Ever.
Again.
Sounds are muted, distorted;
those that are loud enough to come through startle
with their bone-jarring
teeth-gritting noise.
Colors appear darker;
dark green leaves on brown-black trees
emit deep endless shadows
that threaten to drown you,
even as the branches menacingly reach for you.
The huge white clouds appear malicious,
creating looming faces which change to suite your mood.
Night arrives,
threatening to envelope you in its thick alive darkness.
Days on end grow dimmer and greyer,
almost unnerving in their endless progression,
when suddenly,
you feeling yourself
as you come close to drowning
hit bottom,
sink slightly,
then push off against the
bumpy hardness beneath you.
Suddenly - sometimes -
but oh, so surely,
you break through the foggy film into sunshine.
Wonderful sunshine!
There it is!
The sounds! The joyous sounds!
Birds singing, children laughing,
dogs barking, railroad crossings clanging
as the trains roar up the track,
puffing, chugging,
whistles blowing,
wheels turning,
engineers waving at
small children waving back.
Colors!
Yes, everywhere magnificent colors!
Even in the blackest night
and rainiest days,
the neon lights are alive,
dancing,
calling to you,
singing, “Here we are!
And There you are!
Hello!
Hello!”
The smells of roses!
Coffee floating out of open shops,
colorful sounds,
wonderful smells,
laughing sights,
everything’s so “up,
you’ll never come back down.
Yup, there’s something to be said for straight lines.
This was written years ago and is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
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