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

GIRL AT ELEVEN

GIRL AT ELEVEN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1987



Jelly-shoes and painted toes,

frizzled hair and freckled nose,

giggles fast and talk sure-fire,

arms and legs that never tire;

runs and skips and leaps galore;

hope it's summer ever more.

Hey, it's great to be eleven;

summer fun's as good as heaven.



This was written during the summer of 1987 and is part of my book Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.

Anyone who has watched a child play, especially outside during the summer, knows how energetic play can be. That is was this poem celebrates.

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, once while married. 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.

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

At A Check-Cashing Place, On A Dreary Day

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2014



Grey, dreary day, first week in January,

I stand, waiting for a pay-day loan.

Ten more minutes, and I can get it.

Rules say that one must wait 24 hours from paying off the last one

before getting another loan.

A radio plays in the background, offering adult-alt-soft rock and occasional chatter.

Paul Simon is singing Graceland,

Ladysmith Black Mambazo laying down the background rhythm.

“I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee,”* he sings.

An old woman,

crippled up from life,

eases into the place, shuffles up to the teller window.

The man with her – son, perhaps? neighbor? – sits down on the cheap office chair to wait.

“I need to borrow $400,” the old woman states in a flat, raspy whisper,

as though saying it much louder and with any kind of intonation

would give the statement a life of its own,

thus making it more than she can bear.

Several more people wander in,

needing money,

needing more until their next pay day.

Graceland ends and the Eagles follow up.

I turn and lean against the window where the teller,

who is helping the old woman,

will help me in – now – five minutes.

I stare out the bank of windows taking up one wall

and part of another.

It is dreary, dark, and will probably rain sometime this afternoon.

If it were up north – New England, say, or mid-west –

snow would be imminent.

The teller glances at me.

“One more minute,” he says in his thick Brooklyn accent.

His voice stands out in the Florida winter,

telling of snow days and shoveling snow

neither of us no longer need to do.



There was a time when I thought that all of this was gone,

when I would never have to come in here again.

Money was there in what seemed to be abundance.

And the it wasn't.



“Okay, you're up,” Brooklyn tells me

as the old woman shuffles off.



*©1986 Words and Music by Paul Simon



There are places where money is tight and pay-day advance businesses and pawn shops abound. Good? Bad? Depends on who you ask. This poem simply tells of one person getting a loan. It is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.

This was first posted on October 20, 2016.

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.

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.

GREY

GREY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



All the color has gone out of my life.

The world seems grey,

dull,

and soundless.

The occasional sound and spot of color

are gaudy,

an affront to the senses.

A downpour of Biblical proportions would suit me fine;

in fact, it would be a pleasant diversion,

appropriate to my mood.

Strange how love thrown away, tossed aside

can make the world seem so grey

that nothing happy feels right.

Even when “love” is verbally stated merely as “friend”,

if love is what is felt,

love is what it is;

when abandoned for temporary fun,

all color leaves,

at least for those scorned.

And so,

I await the rain;

and when it is over,

when I finally rebuild,

I will guard myself

against all grey.

Including love.



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.

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.

Salt Creek, St. Petersburg

Salt Creek, St. Petersburg

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2011



Historical, varied, over-looked Salt Creek.

Saltwater waterway,

used for littering, garbage-dumping for too long.

Once pristine, now muck-filled,

wanting to become once-again – vibrant,

Vital

estuary

life-giving

ebb-and-flow

peaceful waterway.

“Watch out for sharks!”

Crabs, fish, pelicans

displaced by cans, ring-tops, litter,

to be (hopefully) replaced (again) by nature.

Wonder if Native Americans used this

as their water-highway?

The wind and currents steer us.



This was written on 2-10-11 for a Nature Writing class at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, taught by Tom Hallock. It was a fun class, including a kayaking trip on Salt Creek, as well as writing.

When I took the class, a man standing on a bridge above the creek watched us paddling along, and hollared, "Watch out for the sharks!" Got a good laugh from all of us.

How good was the writing? There was even a book (Salt Creak Journal) published with some of the writing and photography, along with a release part.

Professor Hallock's Nature Writing class has moved on to other local waterways to write about.

This poem is part of a growing collection tentatively titled Painted Words.

RUNNING

RUNNING

By Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 2007



Every morning, I run.

I don’t want to.

I want to.

Ambivalence is part of the run.

I accept that.



But first, priorities.



Start the coffee pot.

Turn on the TV.

Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann talking to me. I miss Katie.

Get the newspaper from the driveway.

Put the neighbor’s paper on his porch.

Go back inside.



What’s Al saying? Snow in Denver?

Perfect excuse for not running.

Except there’s no snow falling in Florida.



I find my running shorts, t-shirt. Put them on.

Socks from the dresser.

Back in the kitchen where I fix a cuppa joe.



Sit down at the table.

Matt’s talking to somebody.

Who? Gotta find out.

Coffee and Today.

Put on my socks. No holes in these ones. Yet.

Put on my shoes. Should have another couple of months with this pair.

Sip some coffee.

Tie one shoe.

Sip more coffee.

Tie other shoe.

Sip even more coffee.



Another weather report. Still snow in Denver.

Still none here.

Al, Al, Al. You sure know how to ruin a cup of coffee.



Grab a bottle of water.

Find my running cap.

Take the front door key.



Open. The. Door.



Lock the door.



Shut the door. With me outside.



Head for the sidewalk, already tired.



Why is it I’m always more alert after my run?



During my second semester at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg, I had two classes with the same professor, one of which was titled "Narration and Description". One of our assignments was to write a short poem dealing with the body in action. This was in early 2007, less than a year since Katie Couric had left The Today Show. My better-half and I were disappointed when Couric left, but life goes on.

I'd been a runner for a while when I wrote this. And while I've slowed down quite a bit, I still love getting out to walk or run in the morning. Or, rather, I love how I feel when I get back from running. Getting out the front door, however, can occasionally be a challenge!

This poem is part of a collection tentatively titled Poetry for a Busy Life.

BEACH, AT SUNSET

BEACH, AT SUNSET

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



After a tense week of dealing with the impossible,

I pull myself away

to totally “veg-out” at the beach;

as time

(or fate)

would have it,

I arrive before sunset,

but just barely.

Slowly,

steadily,

the sun begins its descent towards the Gulf.

I keep a watchful eye on it

as I walk towards the water’s edge;

once there,

with sandals in hand,

I wade in, ankle deep,

and, following the shoreline,

watch as the sun edges

closer

toward the horizon.

Nearby,

several screaming sea gulls

swoop and dive,

chasing each other around

before settling

on the beach.

A pelican,

large and awkward,

dives for a fish;

at the last second,

it folds up,

looking as though shot,

then with delicate swiftness,

it snatches a fish,

eats and leaves.

It is then that the sun

slowly

sinks

into the Gulf,

looking as though it, too, has been eaten,

consumed by the water.

The sky above turns a soft peach-and-orange

as the water becomes a steely gray.

Slowly,

I wander away,

refreshed.



This was written after a stressful week. I was driving cab and dropped someone off at home near the beach and decided to go for a walk on the beach. This is part of my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

THE WHISPER

THE WHISPER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



I am loud.

I love vibrant colors -

Pillarbox red, midnight blue,

emerald green, splashy yellow,

in-your-face orange,

and sounds so colorful,

they make your heart dance

like a whirling kite in a

high wind,

bobbing,

dipping -

flutes, wind, laughter.

The down side

is loving rainy days,

where the only color

is gray,

with the neon signs

reflecting off the

wet pavement,

and the wind howls

as it drives the downpour,

gusting across the road,

slapping legs and back.

I am loud,

and love extremes,

usually the intense,

boisterous ones.

And when I met the

man I love,

how did he call to me?

He whispered.



This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares. The book is currently looking for a publisher.

WORDS UNSPOKEN

WORDS UNSPOKEN

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1986



Grandma spoke a lot.

"Marie is doing better today."

"Oh?" I ask into the long-distance line,

static crackling and snapping,

"Was she ill?"

"Just a cold."

Grandma spent the springs with us.

By then, the snow was old.

"I need a change."

Which meant, "I'd love to see you."

She'd buy the kids clothes,

giving them out,

watching the smiles.

"Look, Mom, Granny gave us jelly shoes!

Baseball mitts!" Whatever the

occasion said.

"It's only money," she'd reply,

eyes sparkling.

The look said love.

As relations drifted,

shifted,

changed,

she alone said,

"If you love him, stay.

But if you love him better apart,

go.

It's up to you. Alone."

Meaning, "I'll love you either way."

The last spring,

the last week,

she said,

"You'll love being alone again.

You'll love having your own space;

to see me go."

This after a tense afternoon,

us dancing back and forth,

stomach in knots.

"You'll be glad to be home,"

I replied.

"Trips are nice; so's home."

She smiled;

I did, too.

Air cleared,

we came to a loving,

uneasy,

funny tender

truce.

December,

she began talking trips.

"March'll be here soon," she stated,

the line dancing with distance.

"So will you," I replied.

"How's Marie?"

"Better today."

"See you soon."

"Definitely. In March."

"March."

The phone clicked off and,

for a moment,

I listened to the

thin, faraway sound

on the line.

March came,

along with the mail.

"Your Grandmother wanted you to have this,"

said the note inside the box.

Her wedding ring -

initials inside, a date.

"She always spoke of you with love."

Marie had signed the note.



Written shortly after my grandmother's death in 1986. This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.

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.

I THINK OF YOU

I THINK OF YOU

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



There are nights when sleep is slow to arrive;

and, instead of restlessly waiting,

I think of you.

The reasons are as simple as they are many;

among them:

the way your arms circle me,

protecting me in their strong and tender embrace,

shielding me from the storm outside,

the fear within;

the way your lips lightly touch my hair,

my forehead,

then slowly,

with love and growing passion,

work their way farther,

cleansing away my pain;

the way your large, square hands and fingers caress my hair and face,

then, holding my face between your hands,

gently wipe away tears,

and,

with their touch,

leave a promise of love,

as fresh as a spring rain,

surprising as the first flow

after a hard winter.

Your caring never ceases to amaze me,

and

that is why

I think of you

and am warmed.



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

BLUES DAYS

BLUES DAYS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



What kind of day do I like?

The kind where the weather has the blues:

the wet blues,

slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy blues,

the white cold flurry blues,

grey-sky-overhead blues,

where the colors have a chance to

scream out and soar,

and you get to sit around the

nice, warm, well-lit-house,

snuggled into your warm flannel shirt

and your dry jeans

and warm, dry, fuzzy socks,

your hands wrapped around

a nice hot cup of tea,

warm homemade cookies on a plate

or maybe a toasty, chewy muffin,

brimming with raisins and cranberries,

a lemony scent from

who knows where,

as you listen to a car going by

in the slip-slop-sloppy-sloshy rain,

its wipers going

slick-slick-slick,

back and forth in cadenced rhythm with the rain,

tires singing s-w-o-o-o-o-s-s-h-h with the road.

Hardly any traffic

on the cold wet grey roads

on a cold wet grey day.

Those who do venture out bundle up against the cold.

I feel sorry for them

and exhilarated for them:

Sorry,

since they brave the cold and wet,

the colors muted and laced with grey wet;

Exhilarated,

since they see neon lights

and other colors

dance off the road,

running in strange water-colored art,

then heading home to a place with light and dry.

White wet comes later—and earlier—in the year,

dancing,

swirling

down,

caught in a whirling updraft

before drifting down.

Grey winter skies whispered in cold breathy tones,

"Scarf, hat, mittens!

Boots, coat!"

Trudging home at the end of the day,

slip-sliding down sidewalks

and crossing streets to leap grey encrusted snow,

carrying grocery bags and attaché cases

before

getting home

to warm houses and apartments to

dream away to sunny days.



Written during the 1990s, this is part of my book Poetry, Unassigned, which is currently looking for a publisher. I'd written it after being out and about on a chilly, rainy wintery afternoon.

LIFE, IT SEEMS

LIFE, IT SEEMS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Life,

it seems,

is what happens to you while you’re

waiting for Something Good to happen.

While you’re waiting for

Dinner out with that Special Someone

in a five-star restaurant,

candles on the table,

the scent of roses in the air,

your best clothes on

(and, of course, you LOOK GOOD),

you fix meat loaf and maybe mac and cheese,

and, as it cooks

you

clean the bathroom.

And Life,

it seems,

is what happens while you’re

waiting for something exciting to happen.

While you’re waiting for

the world’s greatest director to “discover” you,

giving you the greatest part in the best movie,

earning you Awards galore,

you throw another load of laundry into the washer,

then do the dishes.

And have you notice that

Life is what happens while you wait

for something of Great Importance to happen.

While you wait to discover the cure for:

AIDS, cancer, and the common cold,

thus ensuring a Nobel Prize

(which, of course, is secondary),

you put out the garbage

and mow the lawn.

Life,

it seems,

is what happens while you

wait for something wonderful to happen.

Unless,

of course,

you plan for it in advance.



Part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

LAUNDRYMAT

LAUNDRYMAT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1994



Amazing how much life you can find

in mundane places.

The brutal death

of a washer and dryer -

stupid pieces of machinery -

suddenly necessitates going out to do

an almost intimate act.

God forbid the shower dies!

But,

clean clothes being so much nicer than filth,

and I'm out of the house with my beloved.

We've traded one outing with another,

been reduced to

watching rocking washers and swirling, colorful dryers

instead of artsy movies,

bags of chips and canned sodas over

popcorn and Milk-Duds.

I stand,

leaning forward on a table for folding laundry,

watching the towels and jeans,

t-shirts and sheets

tumbling, turning in a colorful collage.

Looking beyond,

the glass reflects different scenes,

people framed in metal circles.

What a strange way to watch someone.

After a while,

it's obvious how folks live;

we give ourselves away

in a hundred different ways:

two children playing quietly together,

two others wrestling around,

parents watching,

talking,

etc.

After a while,

nuances emerge.

"Yes, I usually do my laundry Mondays, but..."

It's Sunday night;

school and work tomorrow,

tonight,

whatever.

One machine done;

the others needed

an extra quarter.

Sitting,

I leaf through months old magazines;

"Fight off your kids' summer doldrums";

"Cool salads for hot evenings."

It's late November;

Thanksgiving trimmings will show up here

sometime around Easter.

Finally,

it's finished;

I bundle up the clothes

in plastic garbage bags

and leave for my pseudo-real life.



Most of us can relate to having to go to the laundromat from time to time. If done for any length of time - maybe because one's apartment doesn't have machine hook-ups, or we can't afford to buy the machines at the moment - one sees a pattern, the same people showing up (mostly) on the same days.

This is from my collection titled Poetry Unassigned.

RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP

RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



Sitting here,

on a stool,

in a coffee shop,

watching the rain

snaking down the window,

pouring down,

smacking hard the road,

I feel disconnected,

vaguely alone,

while utterly attuned with all of life.

The dream-like state I’m zoned into

is like an old movie

black-and-white

Casablanca, maybe,

or something of that caliber.

Inside the shop is cocoon warm,

fogging the windows

slightly

which,

along with the rain

slithering down the windows,

makes the passing world appear surreal,

in a wavy

watery way.

A woman attempting to cross the street

carries packages

and a large umbrella;

it resembles a large flower:

ochre and gold in the center,

orange petals radiating to keep one dry,

while the bright green handle

is anchored to her hand.

People,

scurrying up and down the sidewalks

and across the streets,

are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb

over everyday clothes,

while long black, brown and grey trench coats

protect business suits.

A small child pulls loose from a parental hand

long enough to stomp and kick

splashingly

in a puddle.

Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,

mains and alleys,

avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,

trying not to

slip

sloshingly

skid and

slide.

The various shades of grey

are like wet velvet

and water colors dripping off the pages,

streaks sliding down the glass,

dark around the edges,

lighter, soft and warm near the centers.

Slowly,

as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon

deepens into twilight,

bright and deep neon lights flicker

on

off

and finally

solidly

on,

their reflections dancing,

shimmering,

waving,

in the puddles,

pools

and wetness,

sensuous reds,

emerald greens,

passionate purples,

royal blues.

Cars haltingly

stop

and

startingly

inch

then

surge

along the roads,

headlights and taillights leaving long reflections

ahead and behind.

I lean towards the window

by the booth I sit at,

blow a puff of air,

fogging a patchy circle,

quickly drawing a flower

before it fades;

then,

leaning back,

I take a long

warm

drink of steamy cappuccino.

It’s amazing how cocooned

you can feel

on a rainy colorful wet day like this.



I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

REBEL

REBEL

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



“Sit down and shut up,”

he orders with a snarl.



I have been to hell and back,

seen things -

no, experienced them -

that no living being,

human or otherwise,

should know exists.

There are abuses which,

bad enough when done by unknown,

are a thousand times worse

when done in the name of love.

There are those who bully for what they want,

who fight without conscience against us all,

unless someone is brave enough to

STAND UP

and break the cycle.

Sooner

(or later)

the beaten spirit does one of two things:

either it breaks, withers and dies,

or becomes a strong warrior,

becoming one who will fight back against the wrong.

I have lived too much to go back.

Now, looking for new relationships,

I see through the gauzy,

glittery

starry-eyed good times,

and frequently see to the center,

the rigid unyielding core of a person.

I have to to survive.



And so,

I slide from the stool by the restaurant counter,

stand tall, strong,

and,

looking him straight in his surprised eyes,

state in a loud,

clear,

strong voice,

“I will not sit down.

I will not shut up.”



I know I've posted this poem here several times. But many of us, at one time or another, find ourselves having to stand up for what is right. That said, standing up for stupidity is not necessarily right. During this time of pandemic, one step at a time, folks. If it isn't your life at stake, it could be the lives of people you care about. Right is right; stupid isn't right. 'nough said.

This poem is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.

DRESS UPS

DRESS UPS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



She's dressing up in fancy clothes -

satins, silks, and ancient lace,

high heeled shoes with skinny legs,

lipstick on a pouty face.

This child-like game of dressing up -

"I'm Mrs. Butterfield," with made-up voice -

will turn to laughs in later years

(in photos shown to friendly boys).

But now, my little girl and I,

("Mrs. Butterfield" and crony—me)

we're sitting down to lemonade.

(We're pretending that it's tea.)



Many kids love playing dress up, trying on old clothes to help aid in pretending. I wrote when my kids were young and still occasionally dressing up. This is part of my poetry book titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life which is looking for a publishing home.

GRANDMOTHER

GRANDMOTHER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Grandma,

you've gradually aged

without seeming to.

Seventy-six,

but where has

the time gone?

Pictures

of you, holding a baby.

Mom.

Another picture of you,

years later,

another baby.

Great-grandson.

Same love,

but from a distance.

You've seen so much,

loved so much,

passed love on.

You'll always be remembered;

the memories are sweet.



This was written for my grandmother. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publisher.

RAUCOUS CAWING

RAUCOUS CAWING

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The raucous cawing of sea gulls

as they dive and swoop through the cold air

resounds, rebounds off the walls of nearby stores,

half-echoing.

The sounds bouncing back

are covered half the time by the

continuous cries of the gulls

as they chase one another

away from scraps of food

left for various reasons

on the ground.

The air is crisp, cold,

and carries the sound

unmuffled,

so that it feels as

crackly as small shards of icicles,

broken off and crunched.

The grey and white birds

screech and scream

over the dredges of someone’s leftovers,

picking,

plucking,

swooping down to

grab small pieces of breakfast

while the sun glints and glitters

off nearby panes of glass,

from which sound bounces,

tossing back the raucous cawing of the gulls.



I wrote this while watching sea gulls diving around a dumpster in a parking log. It's part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

In Absentia, For Mom

In Absentia

for Mom

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2016



I used to write for my mother.

It was something that connected us,

first as Mother/daughter,

later as writers,

then as...

well, I'm not sure how to describe our relationship.

Relationships can be confusing, complicated.



As a child, I knew writing was important.

It was something Mom did.

As a 1950s mom,

when women weren't supposed to work

if they were married to a middle-class man

she found her Bachelor's in English

from St. Lawrence University where she met my father

to be a luxury:

Enough to make her think

while wanting to be a stay-at-home mom.

Even as I write that, I wonder:

Did she want to be a stay-at-home mom,

or did she,

like so many other women of her generation and class,

wish for more, but do what was expected?

I can still see Mom at her desk,

tucked into a corner of our narrow galley kitchen,

typing out stories on her manual typewriter,

building up her finger muscles as she built up imaginary lives.

While she cooked dinner and puttered around the kitchen in the late afternoon,

I'd type out short stories, too.

They usually lasted two or three paragraphs,

barely covering a page of type.

Having to buy her own typewriter ribbons and paper,

having a child typing away,

using these resources,

I now realize was an act of love.



Later, after my parents' divorce,

I mourned not seeing my father more,

relating more to him than Mom.

But I still wrote.



After moving out on my own,

I'd show Mom my stories,

my poetry,

hoping for her approval.

We were never as close as Dad and I were.

“Why can't you be more like your sister?”

was a common reframe.

My sister, the good one.

But even that's not fair,

to either of us.

Mom and I spoke less,

until she moved.

Slowly, I started sending her my stories,

my poetry,

hoping for her approval.

Slowly, it came.

“This one's good,” she'd say

after reading my latest offering.



After Dad's death,

mourned by step-mom,

me,

and mom,

Mom and I spoke more.

I sent her more writings,

trying for at least once a week.

Every day,

I'd go for a walk,

then write a poem about what I saw.

These I'd send her

sometime during the week.

“Oh, Robin, I love your writing!” she'd tell me.

I loved the praise,

and kept the writing coming.

It gave me a reason to keep writing

while trying for my first sale.



Mom passed in November,

almost two years ago.

No parent left between my sister and me and eternity.

I mourn not having someone older to “remember when.”

My uncle,

Mom's older (only) brother,

knows that better than I.



And now I write.

For Mom.

In absentia.

I picture her reading over my shoulder.

Hi, Mom.

(August 19, 2016)



Most of us have very imperfect relationships with our parents. Unless our parents were really horrible, but simply people trying to muddle through life, as most of us do, most of us don't really fully appreciate our parents until they're gone. That's part of where this was written from. This from a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother

ARTISTIC TIME

ARTISTIC TIME

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



No matter what anyone says,

men have it easier being artists than women -

especially those with outside work.

Men work,

come home,

take up pen and paper,

whatever their talent dictates.

Women,

on the other hand,

work,

come home,

deal with the housework,

the laundry,

the children,

the cleaning up after the pets,

dealing with the whims of their men,

their men’s needs,

(screw their own needs),

fix dinner,

do the dishes,

screw their men,

then,

if we are very lucky,

we may be able to fit in

a couple of minutes of

writing,

painting,

creating

between

cleaning the bathroom

and sleep.

What is amazing

is not that we can create well,

but that we have time to create. Period.



While driving cab, I discovered that several of my male co-workers wrote, painted, in general, created. They mentioned being thankful that their wives took care of "the house stuff", leaving them (the men) with a few hours to create. Hence, this poem. Anyone who has done double-duty - work and housework - while trying to do triple-duty by adding creativity will understand.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.

RAINY NIGHT

RAINY NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Rainy night.

I’d planned to stay home,

sealed against the cold drenching.

As luck would have it,

an old friend changed the night

with his call,

steering me into the downpour.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs someone to listen,

a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.

Traveling

to pick him up,

I wonder if he wants so much to go out

as to have someone who cares,

knowing someone will brave the rain.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs a hero,

a warm friendly face.

On the way there,

I tense as the car tries to slide.

The road is slick

and doesn’t give much traction.

Up ahead,

a light turns red,

sending long fingers of light

reflecting toward me.

I slow up,

trying not to skid,

begin to lose, then steadily stop.

Rivers of rain

snake down my windshield

as the wipers swoosh back and forth.

This is a long light,

prone to give new meaning to the term

“light year.”

He’s given that to me, our private joke.

As I wait,

I look around.

Lights reflecting everywhere:

red and green stoplights,

neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,

apartment and store windows

all bouncing off the pavements,

shimmering,

swimming in the puddles

and wet.

Light change,

I ease forward.

The car slides,

then catches as I ease off.

A block,

then another,

a third,

and then,

on the fourth (and two lights later)

is the brownstone that surrounds him.

The third floor is his;

high enough for a view,

but not too high.

This evening,

we’ll sit in the window,

watch the view,

talk,

and maybe more.

We decide I’ll stay the night;

no sense going home

in the driving rain.

In the morning,

I head home before work.

The dry daylight

is a different world.



Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2018



I



For years,

my ex and I lived for the weekends.

Unemployed for months,

living in the house next door

to his parents,

a house they'd inherited,

he'd finally found work,

bringing in a weekly paycheck –

pittance, though it was –

when combined with

food stamps and

no rent,

it paid the bills, if just barely.

Friday,

after work,

we'd gather the kids,

pile into the car,

and go to the nearest Albertson's,

a farther drive than

the Winn Dixie,

but newer and cleaner.

After the weekly shopping,

reminiscent of going to the A&P

as a child

with my parents on Fridays,

we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's

for dinner,

always a treat.

Burgers, fries and sodas,

a big deal for the kids,

and no cooking or clean up,

a big deal for me.

Every week,

we'd see the same families,

kids in tow,

having Friday fast food dinners,

feeling comfortable enough

for some conversations.

“How was your week?”

“Great, and yours?”

When one family's boys spent too much time

in the rest room,

Mom'd tell the youngest,

“Go tell your brothers

to quit homesteading

if they want to eat.”

We all laughed at that.

Now, years later,

if someone takes too long,

the family code is that

they're homesteading.

We'd watch the sky

across the street

darken in the winter,

stay light in the summer

as we ate.

Then, finished,

we'd tell the other two or three families

we'd see them

the next week.

Gradually,

kids grew, jobs and hours changed,

Albertsons built a new, closer store

that took us closer

to other fast food places.

I wonder about the homesteaders.



II



His parents split,

and the rental became

his mom's home.

She lived with us for a month or so;

you relegated her,

in her own house,

to the utility room.

Finally,

I told her to come inside.

You lost a job,

found another,

lost it,

found another.

In desperation,

I found and took a job

with a future,

and, after a contentious weekend,

moved us out of your mom's house.

She mourned,

wanting us back.

But six people in a 2-bedroom place

was rough.

The rent in the new place

took a third of our income,

then went up more.

I lost my job,

in part because

you were too proud to do

“women's work,”

laundry,

dishes,

cleaning

while I worked full time

and you stayed home,

watching TV and the kids.

A job

revolving around

physical work

required more than three hours of sleep a night,

and catching up on weekends.

You then took a job,

while I stayed home.



III



Three moves later,

you leave to find work out of state,

leaving me to care for four kids.

I find work

while going to school full time.

We move,

and you come back.

You promised to change,

and found a job

you loved

(security in a topless bar).

You spent weekends at

the flea market,

and took a job there,

working with a friend,

running errands while he ran the booth,

helping him sell radios and such.

The security job failed,

and the flea market was your main job,

paid $100 a week.

Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –

his first –

making almost as much

as you on weekends.

Finally, the stress of

work,

kids,

not enough money,

too much rent,

and other nonsense too its toll.

We had to move again.



IV



Every place we looked,

they'd rent to me,

even with four kids and a dog.

But you'd somehow jinx the deal.

Finally, you checked with a rental place.

“Sorry, you don't make enough,”

the man told you.

Our income was $20 a month shy

of 1/3 the rent,

which meant they wouldn't

rent to you.

The next day,

I took off from both jobs and school,

went to the rental agency

and fast-talked the same man

into handing me keys

to two houses.

“Take your pick,” he told me.

I picked one,

paid the rent and deposit,

and had us in the next day.

You lost,

found,

lost,

found

several dead-end jobs,

finally finding one you loved

only when I'd

asked you to leave.

With your own place to rent –

a cheap efficiency –

you made do.

I took a job driving cab,

took a few days off

when you died –

the job had no health insurance,

which meant you neglected your health –

then worked hard,

long,

12-hour days.

Met another driver

who knew how to treat a lady.

He'd nursed his late wife,

a waitress in several diners,

when her cancer showed up,

was cured,

then came back.

A man who'll care for

a dying wife

is a real man.

We married eight years after her death,

three years after my divorce,

and your death.

We both worked,

then had to quit

when our eyesight

started to fail.

I cared for him

as he'd cared for her

during his final years.



V



Working class life

is so much harder than

life for the rich.

The hours are long,

the pay is crap,

the rents are high,

the little bit of Obamacare

is being pulled away

by the obscenely rich,

making health care hard to come by.

It's the working poor's work

that has built up the rich,

built on our backs,

giving them their life

as they pull aways ours.

Someday –

probably soon –

the revolution will knock

the crap out of those rich who don't care.

Be forewarned.



This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.

EVEN IN DESOLATION

EVEN IN DESOLATION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Even in desolation,

I know there’s life.

In the dust bowl of my emotions,

where all my tears have burned

the flowering vegetation off

and made a mockery of joy,

is the whoosh of wind

blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing

in the dusty

gritty storm.

My entire being feels picked clean

like the skeletal remains of

a buffalo left to die in the desert;

the sensation is wholly complete,

leaving me completely disconnected.

My withered spirit craves

water,

food,

colors of the spectrum.

And yet,

even in desolation,

I know that there is life.



This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.

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.

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 me 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.

Morning Walk, Misty Day

Morning Walk, Misty Day

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2014



Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,

beginning of the new year,

the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.

There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies

and there's a slight chill to the air.

Any other day, I'd think cold,

but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,

it really isn't bad cold.

Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,

long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,

turquoise shoes getting muddy

on the damp dirt path.

Somewhere nearby is a

rhythmic thump-thump-thump

of heavy equipment.

Finally spot city trucks,

working in the mist to

spruce up the park –

horse trails,

little league baseball fields,

life in a small town.

Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,

all various shades of brown,

held up by green grass,

capped by grey skies.

Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,

horses outside in the fields,

breakfasting on hay and water

in the mist

while the two women who work the stable,

one, the owner, the other, a friend,

muck out stalls,

dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile

to be carted off later,

then replacing it with fresh woodchips,

putting fresh oats and water in each stall

before bringing the horses, now wet,

back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.

A radio in the tack room plays a country station;

Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist

like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.

To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,

looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.

The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.



Just before crossing the wet street,

I hit the large button that switches on

the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.

The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,

though lightly, mistily so.

In one of the townhouses that backs against

the drainage ditch next to the road

the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree

show through the partially open curtains.First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.

Who am I to say what's right,

what's wrong

in other people's lives?

Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.

A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,

temporarily making a flash of color.

Finally,

I turn back,

pass the twinkling Christmas lights,

hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,

see the barn, horses being brought inside,

the country DJ saying rain, all day,

hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,

before unlocking the front door,

seeing two sleeping cats

and grab a cup of coffee.



Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.