WHAT USE, LOVE?
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
If ever I needed a shoulder to lean on,
it would have been your’s.
And if ever I needed arms to hold me,
or someone to love,
it would have been you.
However,
much as I love you,
and much as I feel I need you,
if loss of freedom is the price,
what use is love?
This is in my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Monday, May 31, 2021
Wednesday, May 26, 2021
THE JOURNEY
THE JOURNEY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
It seems funny,
in a strange funky way,
seeing you head out the door
- again -
to go traveling.
You,
dependent on me for so long,
have developed a restless streak,
taken care of by the constant movement of your van.
You come by your nature honestly,
Viking blood on one side,
Blackfoot on the other,
restless spirits on both sides.
(My side coming to mind
with many souls
braving the seas
to find peace, adventure and a common middle ground.)
As those who went before you,
you search out what is real
to give meaning to life’s journey.
And so,
while the path you blaze may not be mine,
I wish you well,
peace,
while enjoying the highlights you care to share,
trying not to worry about what you censor,
even as I censor from those who went before me.
This was written for my oldest son, who seemed to have an adventurous side. This is in my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
It seems funny,
in a strange funky way,
seeing you head out the door
- again -
to go traveling.
You,
dependent on me for so long,
have developed a restless streak,
taken care of by the constant movement of your van.
You come by your nature honestly,
Viking blood on one side,
Blackfoot on the other,
restless spirits on both sides.
(My side coming to mind
with many souls
braving the seas
to find peace, adventure and a common middle ground.)
As those who went before you,
you search out what is real
to give meaning to life’s journey.
And so,
while the path you blaze may not be mine,
I wish you well,
peace,
while enjoying the highlights you care to share,
trying not to worry about what you censor,
even as I censor from those who went before me.
This was written for my oldest son, who seemed to have an adventurous side. This is in my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
Friday, May 21, 2021
What a Laugh
WHAT A LAUGH
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
What a laugh.
We’ve broken up,
come apart,
and yet
there you stand in my living room.
I’m not sure what,
exactly,
you wanted.
Do you know?
Maybe to see how I was doing,
or to make sure you’d made the right choice.
You spotted what I’d written
in the days and weeks before the break,
when I knew it was inevitable,
but not knowing exactly when.
“You’re bitter,” you stated,
“and the rest is wrong.”
No, I was not the one who was wrong,
or bitter,
just trying to survive a broken heart.
I was doing better
before I saw you,
and yet,
there you stand in my living room.
I give you the cold shoulder,
keeping my wary distance;
no, not bitter,
but afraid that any closeness or emotion
will open up the hope,
the caring,
only to be crushed
when you walk out the door.
So,
I’ll keep my distance,
put up the walls,
and if that makes me a bitter bitch,
so be it.
I call it survival.
What a laugh.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
What a laugh.
We’ve broken up,
come apart,
and yet
there you stand in my living room.
I’m not sure what,
exactly,
you wanted.
Do you know?
Maybe to see how I was doing,
or to make sure you’d made the right choice.
You spotted what I’d written
in the days and weeks before the break,
when I knew it was inevitable,
but not knowing exactly when.
“You’re bitter,” you stated,
“and the rest is wrong.”
No, I was not the one who was wrong,
or bitter,
just trying to survive a broken heart.
I was doing better
before I saw you,
and yet,
there you stand in my living room.
I give you the cold shoulder,
keeping my wary distance;
no, not bitter,
but afraid that any closeness or emotion
will open up the hope,
the caring,
only to be crushed
when you walk out the door.
So,
I’ll keep my distance,
put up the walls,
and if that makes me a bitter bitch,
so be it.
I call it survival.
What a laugh.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.
Wednesday, May 19, 2021
THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU
THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
people without jobs who want to work
who need to work
who strive to work
who’ve given up trying to work
within a system that strives to keep them down
while saying “no more safety net”
while letting children go hungry
while giving themselves humungous raises
and building more bombs and guns
to keep the underclass under them
but
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
the child who cries herself to sleep after a day
of abuse and neglect
while the child lovingly corrected cries
after being removed from home
and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,
who questions what he sees,
who questions the system,
who questions the questions,
who questions why,
and when and where and what and who
but
The revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses
don’t buy into what their
children and grandchildren will breath,
drink or eat in the years to come,
who feel that money is
more important than air,
more important that water,
more important than the future,
more important than anything else
including the fact that
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
Instead,
it revolves around those brave enough
to take on the system,
who strive to prove that justice for some
should be justice for all
and help to make that possible;
around those who see a need and try to
honestly and with courage
and passion
and compassion
try to solve it,
around those who see those
whom life has dealt harshly with
and who still struggle to stand up and fight
and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,
around those who see the hunger
and strive to feed;
who see the abuse
and try to end it;
who see the hurt
and try to heal it;
and then, only then,
if you have the courage
to instigate this revolution,
then and only then will
the revolution involve and revolve around you.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
people without jobs who want to work
who need to work
who strive to work
who’ve given up trying to work
within a system that strives to keep them down
while saying “no more safety net”
while letting children go hungry
while giving themselves humungous raises
and building more bombs and guns
to keep the underclass under them
but
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
the child who cries herself to sleep after a day
of abuse and neglect
while the child lovingly corrected cries
after being removed from home
and the child who hears “justice” but sees “injustice”,
who questions what he sees,
who questions the system,
who questions the questions,
who questions why,
and when and where and what and who
but
The revolution will not revolve around you.
It revolves around
those who’ll fight those whose ideas of profits and losses
don’t buy into what their
children and grandchildren will breath,
drink or eat in the years to come,
who feel that money is
more important than air,
more important that water,
more important than the future,
more important than anything else
including the fact that
The Revolution will not revolve around you.
Instead,
it revolves around those brave enough
to take on the system,
who strive to prove that justice for some
should be justice for all
and help to make that possible;
around those who see a need and try to
honestly and with courage
and passion
and compassion
try to solve it,
around those who see those
whom life has dealt harshly with
and who still struggle to stand up and fight
and who help them with a hand “up” not “out”,
around those who see the hunger
and strive to feed;
who see the abuse
and try to end it;
who see the hurt
and try to heal it;
and then, only then,
if you have the courage
to instigate this revolution,
then and only then will
the revolution involve and revolve around you.
This was written during the mid-1990s and is part of my book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is looking for a publishing home.
Saturday, May 15, 2021
NIGHT SONGS
NIGHT SONGS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Night always comes as a surprise;
after a long day and lingering twilight,
the sun suddenly,
in a matter of seconds,
is eaten by the large fish beyond the
ridge of hills.
(My mother used to come to tuck me in,
playing games to ease a four-year-old's transition to sleep.
Our favorite was with her at the end of the bed,
where she'd hold the blanket, and,
with a sharp flicking hand motion,
snap the blanket into the air,
up,
up,
up,
until gravity would call the blanket down
onto my slight frame.
It usually fell across my face
(I knew it would!);
I'd shriek my delight
and ask for it again.)
Now night falls like that,
blanketing the earth with its stars and crescent-moons,
guiding us into our seas of sleep.
I'd noticed, years ago, how fast those last few minutes before night-fall seem to go. Pay attention, some time. Twilights may take a while, but those last couple of minutes before the sun disappears behind the horizon seem exceptionally fast. This was written during the 1980s and is part of the collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
Wednesday, May 12, 2021
Storm
STORM
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
It's growing dark outside.
I wander out;
the clouds are rolling in,
slowly churning,
climbing
over each other.
The air has a certain feel,
expectant,
ready to charge,
held in suspended motion.
Somewhere,
someone has recently mowed their space;
the scent lightly perfumes the air.
Splat.
The first rain drop hits right on my nose.
I wait, watching the tentative drops splatter on the sidewalk
in front of the house.
Slowly,
I wander back inside,
curl on a chair in the darkening room
and watch as the light-and-water show begins.
Summer tends to be the rainy season in Florida, with the Tampa Bay being called the Lightning Capital of the U.S. This was written after one such storm.
This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
It's growing dark outside.
I wander out;
the clouds are rolling in,
slowly churning,
climbing
over each other.
The air has a certain feel,
expectant,
ready to charge,
held in suspended motion.
Somewhere,
someone has recently mowed their space;
the scent lightly perfumes the air.
Splat.
The first rain drop hits right on my nose.
I wait, watching the tentative drops splatter on the sidewalk
in front of the house.
Slowly,
I wander back inside,
curl on a chair in the darkening room
and watch as the light-and-water show begins.
Summer tends to be the rainy season in Florida, with the Tampa Bay being called the Lightning Capital of the U.S. This was written after one such storm.
This is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
Saturday, May 8, 2021
GIFT
GIFT
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
There's a breeze outside.
I know,
because my wind chimes
are dancing.
They were a
Christmas present
from a friend who
finds me hard to shop for.
He's right, of course.
I'm, at times,
a fragmented,
puzzling person,
who likes a
little
of a lot of things,
but not quite enough
to spend a lot
on one particular thing.
But there are the chimes.
They dance and twirl,
singing musically
their tinkling,
swirling song.
First,
we hung them out back.
But no one heard their
delicate music there.
In front was nice,
until,
on a very windy day,
they nearly
beaned the mailman.
So now,
they sing outside the
kitchen window,
where I spend my time
and hear them
enough to really
enjoy their sound.
This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
There's a breeze outside.
I know,
because my wind chimes
are dancing.
They were a
Christmas present
from a friend who
finds me hard to shop for.
He's right, of course.
I'm, at times,
a fragmented,
puzzling person,
who likes a
little
of a lot of things,
but not quite enough
to spend a lot
on one particular thing.
But there are the chimes.
They dance and twirl,
singing musically
their tinkling,
swirling song.
First,
we hung them out back.
But no one heard their
delicate music there.
In front was nice,
until,
on a very windy day,
they nearly
beaned the mailman.
So now,
they sing outside the
kitchen window,
where I spend my time
and hear them
enough to really
enjoy their sound.
This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
Saturday, May 1, 2021
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
HOP, SKIP AND JUMP
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Running fast and feeling free,
skip and hop, this child of three.
Trampolining on the bed
(hope he doesn't hit his head!).
Full of fun, full of joy,
full of giggles is my boy.
Wind blown hair back in the breeze,
no more blue left on jeans' knees.
I think he'll take a nap today.
(I'm tired out from all his play!)
Is there anyone or anything as full of energy as a three-year-old? It's when they're not full of energy that people start to worry.
This was written when my youngest was a rambunctious 3-year-old, and is part of Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publisher.
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