DRIVING HOME ON A RAINY DAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
Driving home from a four hour trip,
the gray sky opens up
and delivers the deluge it has been promising
all afternoon.
Wouldn't be so bad
if it hadn't started
shortly before crossing the bridge.
It's not the driving that depresses me
so much as all the gray:
the steel girders,
the pavement,
the choppy gray water beneath even that,
as well as the sky with its varying shades of gray.
Even the profusion of white, gray and beige cars
lend to the somber mood.
The only color around me
is the electric blue car ahead of me,
seeming garishly out of place.
Finally reaching land,
I search out my gray exit
with its darker gray and black trees.
Finding it amidst the rain,
I turn, then,
slowly heading home.
This was written during a time when I had family in another part of Florida. Once a week, I'd take time off for a visit, then head home. One dreary winter afternoon, the skies opened up, letting loose the rains it had been promising most of the day.
This is part of my book titled Poetry Unassigned, which is looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, June 29, 2021
Monday, June 28, 2021
PASSION AND A GOOD MAN
PASSION AND A GOOD MAN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I want Passion and a good man.
Yes, I know that seems
a contradiction in terms,
but that is what I want.
And yet,
when I think of Passion,
I think of colorful men -
in blue jeans and flannel,
who clean up nicely,
dressing up in Armani suits,
or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,
but still colorful in their passion,
men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,
who have no fear of
tender candle-lit dinners on the beach
under the stars,
the waves crashing nearby,
followed by a night of
exhausting
exhilarating passion.
And yet,
these are the same ones
who seem destined to walk in the morning,
heading out the door,
no questions or explanations.
Flip side
are the good men,
the ones with the eager smiles
and have-to-please-you attitudes,
who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub
would be their pleasure,
and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,
their boyish smiles
and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.
A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,
keeping her safe,
without leaving her in the morning.
But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.
If I ever find him...
This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1995
I want Passion and a good man.
Yes, I know that seems
a contradiction in terms,
but that is what I want.
And yet,
when I think of Passion,
I think of colorful men -
in blue jeans and flannel,
who clean up nicely,
dressing up in Armani suits,
or brightly good shirts and suede jackets,
but still colorful in their passion,
men who are the male equivalent of a “wild woman”,
who have no fear of
tender candle-lit dinners on the beach
under the stars,
the waves crashing nearby,
followed by a night of
exhausting
exhilarating passion.
And yet,
these are the same ones
who seem destined to walk in the morning,
heading out the door,
no questions or explanations.
Flip side
are the good men,
the ones with the eager smiles
and have-to-please-you attitudes,
who tell you what giving you an hour-long back rub
would be their pleasure,
and that they wouldn’t try “anything else”,
their boyish smiles
and clean-cut demeanor too good to be true.
A woman knows she can trust him to Do Right,
keeping her safe,
without leaving her in the morning.
But what I really want is Passion and a Good Man.
If I ever find him...
This is part of my book of poetry Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publisher.
I wrote this poem while driving cab for a living. One of my male co-workers once asked me and another female driver what women wanted in a man. This was the answer, in a light-hearted way. Of course, there's more, but it was a start.
Thursday, June 24, 2021
CIRCLES
CIRCLES
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1996
There’s something funny,
ironic almost,
the thought of another Democratic convention
in Chicago.
This
on the heels
(by two years)
of the 25th anniversary concert in Woodstock.
Funny how one generation’s defining moments
have a way of becoming another’s rallying cry.
I watch,
amused,
as my son makes plans
first to attend a concert,
and then a counter-convention,
thinking how my friends and I dealt with both.
He and his friends have definite plans
of what to accomplish:
Feed the poor and homeless,
help heal the hurt.
They ask me to “please come to Chicago.”
Maybe,
just maybe,
I will.
This was written over the summer of 1996, when the Democratic Convention was set to be held in Chicago. Many of us of a certain age could remember the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, as well as the original Woodstock festival.
This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, currently looking for a publishing home.
Friday, June 11, 2021
ELENA, 1985
ELENA, 1985
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
© Robin Shwedo, 1985
Labor Day weekend,
the storm danced off shore,
debating whether to hit for a final vacation.
The week before,
she had slowly waltzed up the Gulf,
figuring on landing in Louisiana;
maybe the thought of some good food seemed tempting.
Then,
Friday night,
we all sat up,
glued to the t.v.,
watching as reports came in.
The storm veered east,
coming closer to the coast.
At 2:30 in the morning,
the evacuations began.
I call a nearby police department,
seeing if a friend's family is safe.
At the moment, she's my sister;
they'd ever give out info on a mere friend.
Their neighborhood's evacuated to a school;
all safe.
I finish the night
with the TV on,
playing game
after
game
of cards with my son
to pass the time.
Saturday,
the storm stalls,
churning up the water,
gathering strength.
The TV shows people boarding up;
the interview in the street,
the water cutting off access
into and out of the county.
Sunday,
everyone runs out of everything,
and rushes the grocery stores.
No one has any bread;
it has all sold out hours before.
Instead,
we make due
with English muffins.
We wait in line forty-five minutes;
ten checkouts open,
and still the wait.
People leave the line
for the free coffee
in white styrofoam,
bringing back steaming liquid
for those who've saved their places.
People who have never met
talk like old home week,
laughing over the
most ridiculous things.
Leaving the store,
we discover that
the hurricane has tired of the sun coast,
and, turning,
hurries
on its
original course,
and heads for
good ol' Creole cooking.
In 1985, Hurricane Elena sat off the Florida coast for several days before turning and heading for Louisiana. This is part of my poetry collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
THOUGHTS
THOUGHTS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
We're about to have a storm.
The rumbling clouds
that spent the afternoon
homesteading on the horizon
are finally rushing in,
as if to make
a sneak attack.
I go out on the back porch
outside the dining room door;
the cement is still warm on my bare feet,
while the brisk breeze cools me.
Un-asked-for comes the thought,
If ice cream had feelings,
would this be what it's like
to be a huge scoop on vanilla
on a still warm piece of apple pie?
The first tentative drops of rain
plop onto the cement,
and I wander inside
to wait out the storm.
This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
We're about to have a storm.
The rumbling clouds
that spent the afternoon
homesteading on the horizon
are finally rushing in,
as if to make
a sneak attack.
I go out on the back porch
outside the dining room door;
the cement is still warm on my bare feet,
while the brisk breeze cools me.
Un-asked-for comes the thought,
If ice cream had feelings,
would this be what it's like
to be a huge scoop on vanilla
on a still warm piece of apple pie?
The first tentative drops of rain
plop onto the cement,
and I wander inside
to wait out the storm.
This is part of Love, Feelings, and the Seasons of Life, looking for a permanent home.
Monday, June 7, 2021
SUMMER DAY
SUMMER DAY
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1985
Walkin',
talkin',
fast paced boppin'.
Runnin',
funnin',
lyin' 'round sunnin'.
Hoppin',
boppin',
sandals cloppin'.
Skippin',
trippin',
ice cream drippin'.
Summer
songs
all day long.
This describes the easiness of summer, especially when seen through a child's eyes.
This is from my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.
Thursday, June 3, 2021
WINTER
WINTER
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1986
Winter has unofficially arrived.
The calendar says it won't be here for yet a month.
Still,
here outside my window,
is the first
unsullied
virgin snow.
Here and there,
little specks of mica and sparkles glisten
on the cold, white velvet.
A flash of color on the edge of the woods;
the resident cardinal, who lives in the tree near the kitchen window,
swoops out and lights onto the lowest branch of his tree.
I must remember to buy him some suet and seeds today.
Later, I trek outside,
watching my smoky breath rise in the clear air.
I take a deep breath, purging my lungs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks;
his voice carries and echoes slightly.
A brown, withered leaf clings to a nearby tree,
as though, afraid of the last long plunge to earth,
it held tight in its death grip.
The snow fluffs and dazzles as I shuffle-kick my feet through it.
Later, I sit before my large picture window,
fire roaring, a hot cup of tea warming hands and mouth,
knowing that,
when winter has gone on too long
(longer than it should,
even for the children),
the packed snow will crunch as we walk;
that which is on the steep barn roof will slide off
with its deafening roar,
scaring birds into flight;
the trees will creak and groan under its weight.
But, for the moment,
I will relish the warmth within,
reflecting on the glittering beauty without.
Since today is the first day of winter, I thought this would be the best time to post this poem. It is part of my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, which is looking for a publishing home.
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