Where's the Sense, Lord?
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1988
Where's the sense, Lord?
The news is on:
Tornadoes have devastated a town,
killing adults, old people, children, babies.
An avalanche in Colorado has buried a section of road,
leaving people wondering if their cars are to be their tombs.
And then, a child, 12, missing since Friday
when she got off the school bus.
It's Monday now.
The police suspect foul play.
Where's the sense, Lord?
This was a group of poem/prayers written while I was trying to finish up at St. Petersburg (Florida) College during the mid- to late- 1980s. Most of the poem/prayers were written in the main campus's cafeteria over cups of coffee.
There was several TVs around the divided cafeteria, frequently with the news on. This was written after seeing several depressing news stories.
This is from the Prayers from an Average Person section of Poetry Unassigned, currently looking for a publishing home.
Tuesday, August 31, 2021
Monday, August 30, 2021
Walking Early December Florida Morning
Walking Early December Florida Morning
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2013
Walking, early December Florida morning,
coolness trying to descend from northern climes,
I had wanted to still be running.
Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.
Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades
as a country road,
dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.
A chain-link fence separates the house's property
from the dirt road in front,
the woods next to it on either side.
The road continues past the woods.
One can only go the full length –
a total of four blocks –
if on foot or horseback,
as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.
This early December Florida morning,
a small flock of birds –
six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –
stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.
A gated townhouse community is beyond.
Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.
As I walk, the flock of birds moves.
Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.
White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.
Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,
walking, spreading apart to let me through.
One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.
He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,
like an aging denison
in a bathing suit in Boca,
skinny legs sticking out,
dusky rose feet and backwards knees,
carrying a plump white-clad body,
topped with a funny bathing cap.
The denison would call back home,
New York, probably,
saying on crackling long-distance lines
to an equally aging sister,
“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”
The sister, mink-coated denison,
or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,
will say,
“Maybe next year, honey.
No, really, I don't mind the cold.”
The wood stork denison passes,
reconnects with the flock
just as the flock takes flight.
This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2013
Walking, early December Florida morning,
coolness trying to descend from northern climes,
I had wanted to still be running.
Life happens. Maybe soon, the running will resume.
Going cross country, down a dirt path that masquerades
as a country road,
dead-ending – but not – at someone's driveway.
A chain-link fence separates the house's property
from the dirt road in front,
the woods next to it on either side.
The road continues past the woods.
One can only go the full length –
a total of four blocks –
if on foot or horseback,
as the four red diamond-shaped signs blocking the path will attest.
This early December Florida morning,
a small flock of birds –
six wood storks, a snowy egret, a grey egret –
stand at the edge of the drainage ditch that runs alongside the dirt road.
A gated townhouse community is beyond.
Townhouses, ditch, dirt road, woods-house and property-woods.
As I walk, the flock of birds moves.
Grey egret walks away, eye on something in the ditch.
White egret runs, spreads wings, takes flight.
Only the wood storks remain somewhat together,
walking, spreading apart to let me through.
One brave one walks to my left, between fence and me.
He – she? – walks somewhat ahead,
like an aging denison
in a bathing suit in Boca,
skinny legs sticking out,
dusky rose feet and backwards knees,
carrying a plump white-clad body,
topped with a funny bathing cap.
The denison would call back home,
New York, probably,
saying on crackling long-distance lines
to an equally aging sister,
“Come down and visit. Boca is so nice, this time of year.”
The sister, mink-coated denison,
or maybe, if she's an animal lover, dressed in faux fur,
will say,
“Maybe next year, honey.
No, really, I don't mind the cold.”
The wood stork denison passes,
reconnects with the flock
just as the flock takes flight.
This was written the last week of December, 2013 after a morning walk. It is one of the poems in a growing collection titled Poetry for My Mother.
Friday, August 27, 2021
THINKING TIME
THINKING TIME
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
There are two best times for thinking:
Going for a walk,
and riding the bus.
Both activities make other distractions difficult.
Some of my best thinking,
idea-wise,
have come from both.
I have a path I love to walk.
It goes cross-country,
down dirt roads,
through woods,
past houses,
town homes,
stables full of horses,
parks and little league fields.
Once, walking down the dirt road,
past a moved-in house on acres of land,
just at the start of woods on one side,
a drainage ditch and stable on the other,
I had the feeling of my grandmother,
long gone,
as though waiting for me.
Over the years,
it has felt that others
gone, but not forgotten,
have joined her,
to where I almost feel them saying,
Here she comes, here she comes,
She's coming
as I head out.
I've thought of these family members
long gone,
but not forgotten.
Mom has recently joined this group.
During her memorial,
months after her death,
I couldn't help but think that
my sister and I are the
last two in our birth family.
As the elder,
I can remember when a little easier than she can.
And yet,
at the memorial,
I realize that our uncle,
Mom's only brother
(she had no sisters)
is the last one left from his birth family.
He has no one to remember when with,
at least in the same way Mom could.
Also on walks,
I've thought of the people who live in the town houses
I pass:
an old couple whose daughter
(I'm guessing)
fixes their dinner
around the time for my evening walk;
the couple with the baby in a stroller
and two small dogs
whose antics make the baby
laugh and clap;
the couple who leaves their Christmas tree
up through mid-January
every year.
Bus rides give way to
another kind of thinking.
You get to see people,
wonder about their lives.
One time, coming home from school
in downtown St. Pete,
Matt met me at Williams Park.
He knew I'd take one of two buses,
both disembarking riders
and departing on the same side of the park.
He waited, and when I saw him,
we got on the same bus –
the 52 –
together.
We watched the others on the bus,
from the bus,
pointed people out to each other.
At Central Plaza terminal,
we gasped, then laughed
at one man,
sitting and talking to a woman.
He was wearing gray slippers,
tie-dyed socks,
a purple bathrobe with gold sparkles,
and topped by a red beret,
set at a jaunty angle
atop his head.
The woman,
about his age – late middle aged –
was nondescript next to him.
I want to write them into a story,
I tell Matt,
as he laughs and rolls his eyes.
We all have times when our mind naturally drifts and starts wandering back in time, into the future, or kicking around the present. This poem is about that. I've run and/or walked for years, as well as riding buses; both are great for thinking.
This is part of a growing group of poems tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2016
There are two best times for thinking:
Going for a walk,
and riding the bus.
Both activities make other distractions difficult.
Some of my best thinking,
idea-wise,
have come from both.
I have a path I love to walk.
It goes cross-country,
down dirt roads,
through woods,
past houses,
town homes,
stables full of horses,
parks and little league fields.
Once, walking down the dirt road,
past a moved-in house on acres of land,
just at the start of woods on one side,
a drainage ditch and stable on the other,
I had the feeling of my grandmother,
long gone,
as though waiting for me.
Over the years,
it has felt that others
gone, but not forgotten,
have joined her,
to where I almost feel them saying,
Here she comes, here she comes,
She's coming
as I head out.
I've thought of these family members
long gone,
but not forgotten.
Mom has recently joined this group.
During her memorial,
months after her death,
I couldn't help but think that
my sister and I are the
last two in our birth family.
As the elder,
I can remember when a little easier than she can.
And yet,
at the memorial,
I realize that our uncle,
Mom's only brother
(she had no sisters)
is the last one left from his birth family.
He has no one to remember when with,
at least in the same way Mom could.
Also on walks,
I've thought of the people who live in the town houses
I pass:
an old couple whose daughter
(I'm guessing)
fixes their dinner
around the time for my evening walk;
the couple with the baby in a stroller
and two small dogs
whose antics make the baby
laugh and clap;
the couple who leaves their Christmas tree
up through mid-January
every year.
Bus rides give way to
another kind of thinking.
You get to see people,
wonder about their lives.
One time, coming home from school
in downtown St. Pete,
Matt met me at Williams Park.
He knew I'd take one of two buses,
both disembarking riders
and departing on the same side of the park.
He waited, and when I saw him,
we got on the same bus –
the 52 –
together.
We watched the others on the bus,
from the bus,
pointed people out to each other.
At Central Plaza terminal,
we gasped, then laughed
at one man,
sitting and talking to a woman.
He was wearing gray slippers,
tie-dyed socks,
a purple bathrobe with gold sparkles,
and topped by a red beret,
set at a jaunty angle
atop his head.
The woman,
about his age – late middle aged –
was nondescript next to him.
I want to write them into a story,
I tell Matt,
as he laughs and rolls his eyes.
We all have times when our mind naturally drifts and starts wandering back in time, into the future, or kicking around the present. This poem is about that. I've run and/or walked for years, as well as riding buses; both are great for thinking.
This is part of a growing group of poems tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.
Thursday, August 26, 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.
Monday, August 23, 2021
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.
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.
Friday, August 20, 2021
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2021
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.
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.
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